When the fire trucks screamed down Maplewood Lane that night, I was already awake. Insomnia is a curse of age, but sometimes it lets you see things others miss. Through the lens of my new 4K bird-watching camera—mounted to face the backyard feeders—I saw the first flickers of flame lick across the side of the Johnsons’ house.
It was past midnight. The sky glowed orange, and within minutes, neighbors poured into the street in pajamas and slippers, their faces painted by the flames. People said it was tragic.
“Such a young couple,” they whispered. “Just starting out.”
I’d always thought there was something performative about Tyler and Madison Johnson. He was too charming, too polished for a man who claimed to manage “property investments,” and she smiled with the brittle tension of someone rehearsing empathy.
They’d moved in six months ago, driving a brand-new black Tahoe and installing a hot tub before the boxes were even unpacked. By morning, the Johnsons were being comforted in blankets by the fire chief. Their house was a smoldering skeleton.
The fire department ruled it “suspicious but undetermined.” The Johnsons sobbed on local TV, talking about losing “everything.” Within days, a GoFundMe page popped up, and money poured in—ten thousand, then twenty, then thirty. The town rallied around them. At 11:42 p.m.—before the flames—Tyler had walked from the side door to the shed, carrying a red gas can.
He wasn’t running; he was calm, almost methodical. Then he’d gone out of view for five minutes. When he returned, the can was empty.
Two minutes later, the first flame appeared near the same spot. I didn’t say anything. Not yet.
People like Tyler are careful; they talk to make you doubt your own memory. And besides, I had proof—the camera had recorded everything in perfect night vision. Three days later, an insurance investigator knocked on my door.
Slim man, khaki jacket, clipboard. The Johnsons were right behind him, their faces arranged into polite curiosity. “Mrs.
Grant,” the investigator said, “we’re checking with neighbors about any observations the night of the fire.”
Tyler smirked. “Don’t bother, Eleanor,” he said smoothly. “She’s old and was probably asleep.”
I smiled back.
“It’s true my eyes are poor,” I replied, my voice steady. “But my new 4K bird-watching camera has perfect night vision.”
And just like that—the smirk vanished. The silence that followed my words could have cut glass.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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