For illustrative purposes only
That evening, I returned to his house alone.
The basement door stood at the end of the hallway.
A place we’d never been allowed to enter.
Ever.
I descended the steps.
The air smelled of dust and old wood.
Near the back wall stood an antique cabinet.
My hands trembled.
I opened the upper-right drawer.
Inside was a thick folder.
Dozens of documents.
Letters.
Photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
And right on top…
A report.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
The blood drained from my face.
I stumbled backward.
“No…”
My voice cracked.
“No… this can’t be true.”
According to the report, the fire had not been caused by a kitchen explosion.
The investigation had discovered faulty wiring throughout the cottage.
The electrical system was dangerously outdated.
Several repair requests had been filed years earlier.
But the owner of the property had refused to pay for the repairs.
I kept reading.
Then I saw the owner’s name.
Robert Hayes.
My grandfather.
I nearly collapsed.
The note was right.
Grandpa had owned the cottage.
The repairs had never been completed.
And my parents had died there.
Tears blurred my vision.
Had Grandpa’s negligence killed them?
Had he hidden the truth from us?
For hours I sat alone in the basement, surrounded by documents.
