Chapter 7 - The Yellow Folder

The search of our home happened that afternoon. Watching strangers put evidence markers on the carpet where Elena had folded laundry yesterday made me feel like a guest in my own life.

Park found the hidden folder exactly where Elena said it would be. She opened it on a clean table while a technician photographed each sheet. There were invoices for roof repairs never performed, payroll records listing aides who didn't exist, and bank transfers ending at an account controlled by a nonprofit called Harbor Light Care.

“That name sounds kind,” I muttered.

“That's usually the idea,” Park said.

Elena had marked every doubtful entry in green pencil. Her notes were precise and surprisingly gentle: CHECK RECEIPT. ASK FOR SECOND SIGNATURE. VERIFY RESIDENT CONSENT.

At the back was a page with a name written in red: KYLE MERCER.

The file suggested that after the fire, Kyle had approved county payments to Alma's nonprofit, even though the contracts required independent oversight. It was the kind of fraud that moved slowly enough to become invisible.

Park wouldn't tell me whether Kyle was a suspect. She only said that his truck had been found empty behind a tire shop.

I went downstairs for water and saw our neighbor, Mrs. Collins, waiting outside the tape. Her face was pale.

“I heard yelling yesterday,” she said. “I thought it was another argument.”

I didn't know which hurt more: another or argument.

Mrs. Collins handed Park a thumb drive. Her doorbell camera faced our front steps. The recording showed Alma arriving at 10:16 with the long wooden stick wrapped in a bedsheet. At 10:29, Kyle Mercer entered our house carrying a canvas tool bag. He left nine minutes later without it.

Elena had told me there was a man with a county badge. I had pictured a visitor from another day. He was there minutes before the attack.

Park checked the timestamps again. “You were at work until eleven thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Elena called you at ten thirty-four.”

I checked my missed calls. There it was. One call. I'd been in a meeting and sent a quick text: Can't talk. Ask Mom.

May you like

Billionaire’s Wife Kicked a Waitress in Front of 300 Elites—One Slap Exp...

The billionaire’s wife tried to kick a waitress in the face in front of 300 wealthy guests. But seconds later, she whispered three...

My Mother Grabbed My Wife by the Hair Over Cold Soup—But What My Father...

My mother grabbed my wife by the hair over a bowl of cold soup. And the most shameful part? For one terrible second, I almost defe...

My Parents Kicked My 6-Year-Old Daughter and Me Out on Christmas—Then I...

My mother kicked my six-year-old daughter out of Christmas dinner, never realizing I was the only reason she still had a house to...

I read the words until they blurred.

Park touched the back of my chair. “Noah. We need to find what was inside that tool bag.”