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Luke
As I eat my breakfast at the firehouse, I glance at a local obituary for the man who died in the last fire the arsonist started. As I read the obituary in its entirety, I get sick to my stomach.
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you saw a ghost,” the guy sitting next to me lets me know.
“Did you read this?” I ask him, passing the paper his way.
“What? The ad for tuna from a fast-food place? I don’t trust it either,” he responds.
“No. Read the obituaries,” I tell him.
My colleague reads the obituary and gets a dreamy look on his face, too.
“The community respects this man as a hero. He has a wife, three kids, five grandchildren, and an impressive military career. He even helps at the local Soup Kitchen,” I sigh.
“It can’t ever happen to someone who deserves it,” my friend acknowledges my pain.
Throughout the years, I learned to manage accidents without getting myself too caught up in emotions. However, this hit me. This didn't have to happen.
We continue to eat in silence until Isaac walks into the room with urgency.
“What’s up?” I inquire.
“We need to go. We got a new tip about the last fire that killed the war hero,” he announces.
I get up immediately, but I can’t help but question the tips we get.
When we arrive at the location of the fire, it still smells like smoke. I also don’t see anything different that may provide a clue. However, clearly, the clue got to the police, too. Four police officers beat us to the location.
“So what do we want to find here, exactly?” I ask Isaac.
“I honestly don’t know. Someone called to say that we need to check the area again,” he informs me.
“Let’s separate and look around, but I doubt we find anything,” I sigh.
After looking under the wreckage and in the crevices, I hear Isaac call me from the near front yard.
“I found something!” he screams.
I approach him, and now he looks like he saw a ghost.
“What can possibly shock you after all these years on the force?” I question him.
I look over his shoulder and see the item on the floor: a blackened identification card. The name on the ID reads “Emma Martin.”
We both don’t know what to say and avoid picking up the ID.
“It can’t be,” Isaac whispers.
“I sure hope not,” I agree.
“What do we do?” Isaac asks me.
“What do you mean?” I ask him. I don’t understand why he has any confusion about the matter.
“Do we hide it?’ Isaac throws it out there.
“Collect it. As evidence, we need to report it,” I command sternly.
