Sterling, who had been aggressively tapping his foot, suddenly went very still. He stepped away from the triage desk, his eyes darting down to the plastic evidence bin sitting on the chair.
“Wait,” Sterling said smoothly, forcing a tight, nervous smile. “The basement? That’s impossible. The basement is completely locked. Only maintenance has access.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Barnes said, rubbing his exhausted eyes. “I need to get a statement from the mother. Watch this bin for me, Miller. I’m going back to pediatric holding.”
Barnes walked down the hallway, leaving the clear plastic bin sitting on the chair between me and Sterling.
The insurance adjuster turned to his boss. “Mr. Sterling, if the fire started in the basement… that falls under building maintenance. That’s owner liability. That completely voids the tenant-fault clause.”
“Shut up, Gary,” Sterling hissed under his breath. He was sweating now. The confident, arrogant swagger he’d carried in the parking lot was rapidly evaporating.
I looked down at the plastic bin. It was filled with standard fire debris—melted plastic alarm casings, charred pieces of drywall, a ruined fire extinguisher. But sitting right on top of the pile was something heavy.
It was a massive, industrial-grade iron padlock.
It was scorched black, covered in thick grey ash, and the heavy steel shackle had been cut clean through by a firefighter’s bolt cutters. Attached to the shackle were three heavy links of a thick steel chain.
I frowned, stepping closer to the bin. Why would a heavy padlock and chain be in the hallway debris?
I played the layout of the fourth floor over in my head. The stairwell was in the center. The boy’s apartment was at the end of the hall. Right next to the boy’s apartment was the secondary emergency fire escape door—the metal door that led to the exterior iron stairs.
If the main stairwell was filled with smoke, the boy should have just opened the hallway fire door and carried his sister down the exterior stairs. He shouldn’t have been trapped on his own balcony. He shouldn’t have had to hang his sister over a forty-foot drop.
Unless the fire escape door wouldn’t open.
Unless someone had chained it shut.
I looked up. Sterling was staring directly at the padlock. His jaw was clenched tight, a vein pulsing rapidly in his temple. He knew exactly what that lock was. He knew exactly where it had come from.
Landlords in the city’s rougher districts hated the exterior fire escapes. They were constant maintenance nightmares, and teenagers often used them to sneak onto the roofs. It was highly illegal to block them, a massive fire code violation, but landlords did it all the time to save a few bucks on security.
Sterling didn’t just own a building that caught on fire. He had actively trapped that family inside it.
“I’m going to get a coffee,” the insurance adjuster muttered, looking uncomfortable with Sterling’s sudden silence. He scurried away toward the cafeteria.
As soon as the adjuster was out of sight, Sterling moved.
He didn’t look at me. He pretended to pull out his phone to check a text message, taking a casual, sweeping step toward the plastic evidence bin. He kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning complete disinterest, but his left hand dropped down to his side.
I stayed perfectly still, watching his reflection in the dark glass of the triage window.
Sterling’s fingers brushed the top of the bin. He glanced down the hallway to make sure Captain Barnes wasn’t coming back. Then, with a sudden, practiced sleight of hand, he reached into the open bin, grabbed the heavy iron padlock, and slipped it seamlessly into the deep, tailored pocket of his suit coat.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his lapels. The heavy lump in his right pocket pulled the expensive fabric out of shape, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Well,” Sterling announced loudly to the empty room, turning on his heel. “Clearly, this investigation is going to take some time. I have other properties to manage. Tell the fire marshal I’ll expect his full report by Monday morning.”
He started walking briskly toward the automatic sliding doors that led out to the parking lot. He was leaving. He was walking out of the hospital with the sole piece of physical evidence that proved he was responsible for nearly burning two children alive.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t warn him.
I simply stepped away from the triage desk, ignoring the burning pain in my bandaged hands, and walked directly into his path.
As Sterling reached the exit, the motion sensor triggered. The glass doors hissed open, letting in a blast of hot summer air. But before Sterling could take a single step outside, I planted my boots firmly on the rubber floor mat, directly in the center of the doorway, blocking his exit entirely.
Sterling stopped short, his expensive leather shoes squeaking against the linoleum.