Chapter 6 - FIRE ON HAWTHORNE LANEWe were six minutes from my house when the smoke became visible.
Black.
Thick.
Rising above the trees.
“No,” Abigail whispered.
I pressed harder on the accelerator.
Two fire engines were already blocking Hawthorne Lane when we arrived.
Flames crawled through the upstairs windows of my home.
My home.
The place where I raised Abigail after her father died.
The kitchen where she did homework.
The staircase where we measured her height every birthday.
The dining room where I told her I had been promoted.
The attic.
The boxes.
Firefighters stopped me at the curb.
“Ma’am, you cannot go inside.”
“My attic contains evidence in an active criminal investigation.”
“You still cannot go inside.”
Abigail stood beside me, shaking.
“Mom, the book.”
I knew.
Someone had moved quickly.
Too quickly.
Nicholas had told us about the book less than forty minutes earlier.
Only five people were in that conference room.
Nicholas.
His attorney.
Rachel.
Abigail.
Me.
Plus courthouse security.
How could Patricia know?
Unless Nicholas had planned it.
I called Marcus.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
By then, firefighters had controlled most of the flames.
Initial signs suggested the fire started upstairs.
Near the attic stairs.
Arson investigators found evidence of accelerant.
Someone had broken a rear basement window.
Nothing downstairs appeared stolen.
Whoever entered my house had gone directly to the attic.
“They knew,” Abigail said.
Rachel stood beside us.
“Yes.”
“But how?”
Marcus was already thinking about the courthouse meeting.
“Nicholas’s attorney?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I’ve known him professionally for years. He wouldn’t risk his license for something like this.”
“Then Nicholas?”
“He’s in custody.”
“He could have arranged it ahead of time,” I said.
Marcus nodded.
“Possible.”
The firefighters carried several blackened storage bins outside.
Abigail knelt beside one.
Inside were old clothes.
Photographs.
College notebooks.
Then a firefighter emerged carrying a scorched cardboard box.
Abigail gasped.
“That’s mine.”
The top had burned away.
Inside were water-damaged books.
Jane Austen.
Louisa May Alcott.
A cookbook.
A leather-bound poetry collection.
No Secret Garden.
Abigail dug through the box.
“It’s gone.”
A firefighter said, “Ma’am, some contents may still be inside.”
But Abigail shook her head.
“I packed it right here.”
Someone had taken it before setting the fire.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No voice.
Just a photograph.
The Secret Garden.
Green cloth cover.
Gold lettering.
Resting on a polished wooden table.
Beneath it was a message.
STOP NOW AND YOUR DAUGHTER LIVES.
Abigail read it over my shoulder.
She stopped breathing.
Marcus immediately took the phone.
“Don’t respond.”
I stared at the photograph.
Something felt wrong.
“Zoom in.”
Marcus enlarged the image.
The table beneath the book had a distinctive carved edge.
Abigail recognized it first.
“That’s Patricia’s library.”
Marcus looked at her.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He began calling the search team.
But Rachel stopped him.
“Patricia knows police searched the estate. Why send a photo that identifies the location?”
Because she wanted us to rush there.
A trap.
Or distraction.
Marcus sent units anyway.
The Ferguson estate was searched again.
The library was empty.
No book.
No Patricia.
She had disappeared.
Her attorneys claimed they did not know where she was.
Her phone was off.
Her vehicle remained at the estate.
Security footage showed her leaving in a different car shortly after Nicholas’s arrest.
The driver could not be identified.
The FBI issued an alert.
Then forensic technicians examined the photograph metadata.
Most of it had been stripped.
But not all.
The picture had been taken six months earlier.
Not today.
Patricia had photographed the book long before Abigail escaped.
“That means she had it?” Abigail asked.
Rachel shook her head.
“Or she had access to it temporarily.”
Abigail frowned.
“If she had the book, why was she searching for it?”
Good question.
We returned to my damaged home after investigators cleared the first floor.
The attic remained unsafe.
I stood in the kitchen surrounded by water damage and smoke.
Abigail found our old family photo near the refrigerator.
The glass had cracked.
She removed the picture.
Her father stood on one side.
I stood on the other.
Eight-year-old Abigail smiled between us.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“Your house.”
I turned to her.
“This is wood and drywall.”
“Your memories.”
“My memories are standing next to me.”
She cried.
So did I.
Then she said something strange.
“Dad hated The Secret Garden.”
I almost smiled.
“Your father hated every book that didn’t involve military history.”
“No.”
She looked at the photograph.
“I mean, when I was a kid. He used to tease me because I read it constantly.”
“True.”
“And Mr. Ferguson knew that.”
“Charles?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Dad told him.”
My mind stopped.
My husband Daniel Gardner had known Charles Ferguson years before Abigail married Nicholas.
Not well.
At least I didn’t think so.
They had served on a veterans charity board together.
Daniel died when Abigail was twelve.
I had almost forgotten the connection.
Abigail looked at me.
“What if Mr. Ferguson didn’t give me that particular book by accident?”
Rachel, standing behind us, heard the question.
“Was the book new?”
“No. Old. First edition.”
“Did Charles say anything when he gave it to you?”
Abigail closed her eyes.
“He said…”
She struggled.
“Something about fathers leaving doors for daughters.”
My heart skipped.
“What exactly?”
“I don’t remember.”
I moved toward the old desk in my study.
Most drawers had been soaked.
Inside one was a metal box containing Daniel’s papers.
Letters.
Military records.
Photographs.
Old charity documents.
We began going through everything.
Two hours later, Abigail found a photograph.
Daniel Gardner and Charles Ferguson standing beside each other at a charity golf tournament.
Written on the back in Daniel’s handwriting:
CHARLES – GOOD MAN IN A BAD HOUSE.
I read it twice.
Rachel looked over my shoulder.
“Your husband suspected something.”
“Maybe.”
We found another envelope.
Inside was a letter Daniel had written to me but never mailed.
Rebecca,
If anything ever happens to me, be careful around the Fergusons. Charles is trying to correct some things his family got involved in. I don’t know details, and he won’t put them in writing. But he asked me something strange last week.
He asked whether I thought Abigail would grow into someone who protects people even when it costs her.
I told him yes.
He said, “Good. Then maybe one day she’ll know what to do with a garden.”
The room went silent.
A garden.
Not a book.
A clue.
Rachel whispered, “Charles planned this years ago.”
Abigail stared at her father’s handwriting.
“But why me?”
“Because he didn’t trust his sons,” I said.
“And maybe he didn’t trust his wife.”
Daniel had written the letter months before his death.
Charles Ferguson survived another seven years.
For years, he had been waiting.
Preparing.
Then Abigail married Nicholas.
And Charles gave her the book shortly before he died.
The ledger wasn’t simply hidden inside it.
The book itself was part of a map.
But Patricia had photographed it.
Which meant she had probably searched it.
If the ledger were inside, she would have found it.
So the clue had to be somewhere else.
We needed the actual book.
Then Marcus called.
His team had located Patricia’s missing driver.
The man was found at Charlotte Douglas International Airport trying to board a flight to Panama.
He agreed to cooperate.
And he told investigators where Patricia Ferguson had gone.
She was not leaving the country.
She was heading north.
To a property the Ferguson family had owned for nearly eighty years.
An estate outside Asheville.
The property had a name.
Rosewood Gardens.
Abigail stared at me.
“A garden.”
Rachel was already reaching for her phone.
But before anyone could act, another message appeared on mine.
This time, no photograph.
Just an address.
Rosewood Gardens.
May you like
And one sentence.
COME ALONE, COLONEL, OR ABIGAIL’S SECRETS BURN WITH THE BOOK.
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