Chapter 10 - The Garage Door
West stopped when the officer stepped outside. One box had NORTHSHORE printed on a shipping label; the other was wrapped in plain brown tape.
"Celia asked me to pick up personal property," he said.
"That's my garage," I answered. "And those are records belonging to Nora, Wren's mother."
The officer separated us before either of us raised our voices. West claimed the boxes contained business files. I didn't touch them. Detective Park was called, and West eventually left without taking anything while ownership and access were sorted out.
The garage was full of things I had ignored for years: camping chairs, Nora's old bicycle, Wren's first sled. In the corner, beneath a tarp, stood a small filing cabinet with its lock broken.
"I never knew it was here," I told Park.
She photographed it and documented the contents. Among the folders were property estimates, drafts of the same consent papers Becca had rejected, and several bank receipts. I recognized Elaine's handwriting beside one entry: WESTāADVANCE.
"Could these be connected to the property?" I asked.
"Possibly," Park said. "We'll follow the records rather than guess."
Then my phone rang. It was the home's shared-photo service, telling me a member had removed images from the family album. Elaine had been careful about the hallway recordings, but she apparently forgot that our tablet automatically backed up videos from her phone when it was connected to the house Wi-Fi.
I logged in and found a forty-nine-second clip from the morning Wren was hurt.
It began with Celia holding the pot across the kitchen island. Elaine's voice said, "Make sure he sees her like this."
Celia replied, "Scream for Daddy."
Then the pot moved, and Wren screamed.
I handed the tablet to Park. She watched in silence.
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"This changes the case," she said.
Then the doorbell camera alerted me: Celia had returned to the house, carrying a suitcase and a set of keys.
