Rosa Bellamy's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Rosa Bellamy planted herself at the community center doors for the ninth morning straight, sure that whatever hid behind them would kill someone the day it opened. Thirty years as a fire marshal had taught her the smell of trouble, and this weathered building reeked of it. Salt stains crawled up the stucco. The double doors stayed locked. She pressed her reading glasses up her nose and opened her binder to the page she had marked in red: no posted occupancy limit, no visible exit signage through the glass. A man in a hard hat tried to slip past her. She stepped into his path. "Sir. Who inspected this building?" He shrugged and kept walking. He did not have the key either. Nobody did. The contractor was gone. The owner would not return her calls. Rosa had counted a padlock on the rear door and boarded windows on the side. A building sealed that tight, she thought, was a building hiding something. She knew what she suspected. Old coastal centers like this ran their wiring behind the walls. Damp air ate insulation. One frayed line near dry timber, one crowd on opening day, and she would be reading names off a list. But she had never gotten past the front doors. A broad-shouldered old man set a canvas bag down beside her boots. He wore a work apron and thick bifocals, and his knuckles were laced with old scars. He crouched at the lock without asking her a thing. "You've been out here a week," he said. "Figured I'd save you the trouble." "You can't just open it. This isn't your property." "I fix locks. Free. Been doing it longer than you've been retired." His scarred hands moved fast, faster than she expected. Two picks, a quarter turn. The bolt gave. Rosa stared at him. "You're Teddy." People had mentioned the locksmith who worked the entrance for nothing. She had not believed anyone would help her. "Teddy Pruitt." He pushed the door. "After you, Marshal." The air inside hit her first. Hot, plastic, wrong. She walked the main hall with her binder open. Then she saw it. A junction box on the far wall, its cover missing, wires blackened at the ends. Below it sat a stack of folding tables and dry cardboard. Scorch marks fanned up the wall. "It already burned," she said. "Small. Someone put it out and walked away." Teddy went quiet. Rosa pulled a child's toy from the debris. A pale sand dollar figure, its round face smudged with soot. The center was not empty. Someone had been using it. Children had been inside a building she was told stood locked and unfinished. She closed the binder. The hazard was real, and it was worse than a plan on paper. Now she had to find out who kept letting people in.