Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Flames

The teenagers standing near the outdoor bar immediately scrambled away, creating a wide, empty circle.

Standing alone in the center was our Uncle Richard, holding a half-empty glass of scotch.

He looked completely out of place in his expensive tailored suit, standing in a sea of swimsuits and damp towels.

“Dave, have you lost your mind?” Uncle Richard asked, offering a forced, nervous chuckle.

“You're traumatizing these kids with some crazy conspiracy theory.”

My father didn't laugh, and his grip on the charred police file tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“I found the security tapes from the neighbor's house last week, Richard,” my father said, his voice deadly calm.

Uncle Richard’s smile instantly vanished.

“I saw your car parked down the block at two in the morning, right before the flames started,” my father continued.

My mind raced back to that terrifying night, piecing together fragments of memory I had buried for a decade.

I remembered waking up to the smell of smoke.

I remembered running into the hallway and seeing a tall, dark silhouette standing outside the guest room.

I had always assumed it was a firefighter, a trick of the smoke, or a nightmare induced by the trauma.

“You locked them in,” my father accused, stepping away from the table.

“Your company was going bankrupt, and you needed a cut of the life insurance and the estate money to save yourself.”

Uncle Richard sighed loudly, swirling the ice in his glass.

“Dave, you've been drinking, you're making a scene at the girls' birthday,” he said smoothly, trying to walk toward the exit gate.

“Nobody leaves!” my father roared, grabbing a heavy metal fire poker from the outdoor fire pit.

The party erupted into chaos.

Teenagers screamed, scrambling toward the sides of the house, trying to find a way out.

Uncle Richard realized his path was blocked by a dozen panicked high schoolers and my furious father.

He dropped his glass of scotch onto the stones.

“I always told you that you were too smart for your own good, Dave,” Uncle Richard muttered, his voice losing all its warmth.

He reached inside the breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket.

When his hand emerged, the sunlight glinted off the dark metal of a handgun.

He didn't aim it at my father.

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He aimed it directly at Chloe.

“Back off, Dave, or the perfect twin dies today.”