Chapter 15 - Fire in the Carriage House
We froze in the attic. Another sharp crash rang out, followed by the distinct smell of burning kerosene drifting up through the attic ventilator.
"Stay here," Travis commanded, abandoning the documents and sprinting toward the stairs with terrifying speed.
"Travis, wait!" I cried out, grabbing a heavy iron fireplace poker from the corner and racing right behind him.
We burst through the back kitchen door into the chilly June night air. The carriage house—sitting fifty yards away at the edge of the property line—was already illuminated by a flickering, angry orange glow licking up its wooden side panels. Thick black smoke billowed from the shattered lower windows.
"Call 911! Now!" Travis shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted across the lawn toward the burning structure.
I dialed emergency services with trembling fingers, screaming our address into the phone while running across the damp grass.
When I reached the carriage house, Travis had already grabbed the heavy garden hose from the side wall, turning the valve wide open and spraying a high-pressure stream of water directly against the base of the front door where the flames were eating through the wood.
Through the broken side window, a shadowy figure scrambled out into the overgrown bushes, leaping over the back fence into the dark woods beyond.
"Hey! Stop right there!" Travis yelled, dropping the hose and chasing the intruder toward the tree line, but the person vanished into the pitch-black shadows like a ghost.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second as red and blue lights began flashing through the suburban trees.
Within minutes, two fire engines and a police cruiser roared up our driveway, firefighters jumping into action with axes and chemical extinguishers.
By the time the fire was fully contained, the front porch of the carriage house was charred black, and the interior smelled of smoke, burnt wood, and cheap lighter fluid.
A soot-covered police detective walked over to Travis and me, flicking open a small notebook.
"Looks like arson," the detective said bluntly. "Someone smashed the window, tossed a Molotov cocktail inside, and fled. Was there any active dispute over this building?"
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Travis pulled the typewritten document from his jacket pocket—the one we had found in the attic ten minutes before the fire started—and handed it to the officer.
"There was," Travis said coldly. "And whoever just burned this building down was trying to trigger a technicality in this exact deed."
