Chapter 18 - The Night I Didn’t Follow the Truck
Insurance investigators arrived Monday.
Police returned Tuesday.
By Wednesday, everyone had questions and nobody had answers.
I moved salvaged tools into Luke’s garage.
He complained that my equipment was taking up space reserved for important things.
“What important things?”
“My kayak.”
“You haven’t used that kayak in four years.”
“I’m preserving its possibilities.”
Dad brought folding tables.
Rachel’s café became my temporary office before opening hours.
People offered help.
That was uncomfortable.
I was good at giving help.
Receiving it made me feel exposed.
The café owner whose tables I had built offered storage.
My employer loaned me a work trailer.
A church customer sent me three hundred dollars even though I tried to return it.
A woman whose bench I repaired posted pictures of my work online and wrote that she trusted me.
Within days, the story changed.
Not completely.
But enough.
The same Facebook page that had once called me dangerous now posted:
LOCAL WOODWORKER’S SHOP DESTROYED IN SUSPECTED ARSON.
The comments were kinder.
I distrusted them almost as much.
Public opinion was weather too.
Friday evening, Luke and I were loading a damaged cabinet into his truck when he froze.
“What?”
He pointed across the street.
Dark pickup.
White oval sticker.
One dim headlight.
The truck rolled slowly past the workshop.
My entire body reacted.
“Mason.”
Luke dropped his side of the cabinet.
“Call the detective.”
The pickup accelerated.
I grabbed my keys.
For three seconds, I stood beside my truck.
I could follow.
Get the plate.
Confirm the driver.
Do something.
Then I remembered the porch.
The woman by the stairs.
My boss’s office.
Rachel studying my hands.
I put the keys back in my pocket.
Luke already had his phone out.
We gave police the direction.
Twenty minutes later, an officer called.
They had stopped the truck nine miles away.
Driver: Mason Clarke.
He claimed he was visiting a friend.
Police photographed the vehicle.
The dim headlight matched.
The sticker matched.
Still not proof of arson.
But inside the truck, according to the detective, officers saw a red plastic fuel container in plain view.
That gave them enough questions to keep asking.
The next morning, police executed a search warrant.
I did not know details immediately.
By afternoon, the detective called.
“We found clothing consistent with the video.”
My heart pounded.
“Anything else?”
“A receipt.”
“For what?”
“Gasoline.”
Purchased at 1:31 a.m. the morning of the fire.
Cash.
Security footage from the station showed Mason.
I sat down.
The detective continued.
“We’re not done.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means don’t discuss this publicly.”
“I won’t.”
Mason was arrested Sunday.
Arson.
Burglary.
Criminal damage.
Other charges would depend on the investigation.
Facebook exploded.
This time, strangers wanted me to celebrate.
Some demanded revenge.
Some wrote that they hoped Mason “got what was coming.”
I turned off the phone.
Rachel found me behind the café.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I smiled weakly.
“I thought I’d feel better.”
“Because he got arrested?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I feel sick.”
She sat beside me.
“He burned your workshop.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t.”
I rubbed my hands together.
“I keep thinking about how close I was to following that truck.”
Rachel said nothing.
“If I had chased him and he crashed, or we fought, or I ended up arrested…”
“You didn’t.”
“I know.”
“That matters.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t because I was scared of losing everything.”
“Maybe at first.”
“What does that mean?”
She rested her elbows on her knees.
“I think there’s a difference between not hurting someone because you’re afraid of punishment and not hurting them because you don’t want to become that person.”
I considered that.
“Which do you think I did?”
Rachel looked at me.
“Both.”
Fair.
Then she leaned over and kissed me.
It was brief.
Soft.
No dramatic music.
No audience.
When she pulled away, I stared at her.
“What was that?”
“A kiss.”
“I recognized the category.”
She smiled.
“It wasn’t a reward.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“It was because I wanted to.”
That mattered too.
My phone rang.
The detective.
I answered.
May you like
His next sentence erased Rachel’s smile.
“Mason says Ben paid him.”
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