Rosa Bellamy's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Rosa stood outside the weathered center the next morning, the toy still in her pocket. The scorched junction box, the child's toy, the burned tables — she had the proof now. But proof of what was worthless without proof of who. Someone had unlocked this sealed building and let families inside. She needed that name. Without it, her report would read like the ravings of a bitter old woman, and no inspector would sign it. She opened her binder and studied the doors. The front bolt had been picked. The rear held a padlock. She walked the side of the building, running her hand along the salt-stained stucco. The boarded windows were nailed shut. Whoever came here used a key or a code, and keys left records. Rosa pressed her face to the glass beside the doors. A small gray box hung inside the entry wall. A keypad. She had missed it in the smoke and rush yesterday. People punched codes to enter, and modern locks kept logs of every code and every hour. She could not reach it. The doors had swung shut and locked again behind her the day before. She dug out her phone and searched for the locksmith who worked the entrance for free. She found no number. So she waited, the way she had waited nine mornings already. By noon he came, canvas bag over his shoulder, bifocals fogged in the sea air. Teddy set the bag down without a word and looked at the doors, then at her. "You want back in," he said. It was not a question. "There's a keypad inside. It keeps a log." She tapped the glass. "Every code, every entry. I need to read it." Teddy crouched at the bolt. His scarred hands worked the picks, quick as before. The lock gave. "Reading it is your business," he said. "Opening it is mine." Inside, Rosa pried the gray box open with a screwdriver from Teddy's bag. A small screen blinked. She scrolled through the entry log with a shaking finger. Dozens of entries. The same code, over and over, week after week. Beside the code sat a name, printed by whoever had programmed it. She read it twice. The name belonged to the building's property manager — the same office that had told her the center stood locked and empty. Rosa wrote the name in her binder, pressing hard. Her accusations had a source now. Her report had a target. She could file it, and someone would have to answer. Teddy watched her close the binder. "You look like you got what you came for." "I got worse," she said. The person hiding the danger was the one paid to prevent it. And that person would learn her name the moment the report landed.