Chapter 11 - The Inspection
The environmental inspector arrived at 7:38 a.m. with Northline's property manager, a police officer requested because of the previous night's disturbance, and a face that said he had seen stranger Saturdays.
I stayed on the sidewalk until the officer confirmed Tyler was not inside.
Jenna had taken the kids to her sister's house before dawn.
Dad had left with us.
Mom was in the kitchen when we entered.
She wore a bathrobe and righteous fury.
"I do not consent to strangers searching my home."
I looked at her.
"You emailed the buyer claiming toxic contamination. They are here to inspect the claim."
"I was protecting them."
"From me?"
"From what you drag in on those boots."
The inspector glanced down at my shoes.
I was wearing sneakers.
"Ma'am," he said, "I'm going to take surface samples in the areas identified in your email."
Mom folded her arms.
"You'll see."
She had listed my former bedroom, the laundry area, the garage, and the basement.
The first three showed nothing unusual.
No industrial residues.
No dangerous pH readings.
No evidence of chemical storage.
In the basement, the inspector stopped near the utility sink.
"What's that?"
A five-gallon jug sat behind the water heater.
Industrial sanitation label.
My company's label.
My stomach dropped.
Mom whispered, "See?"
The officer looked at me.
"Is that yours?"
"No."
The inspector crouched without touching it.
"Seal looks broken."
I moved closer.
The lot code was visible.
I knew our coding system.
"That batch never shipped," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
"How do you know?"
"It was a training lot. We use blue caps for training stock. It never leaves the facility."
The officer's eyes narrowed.
"Could someone remove it?"
"Only by stealing it."
Then I remembered Tyler at 5:12 Friday morning.
Trying to open my locker.
Maybe the locker had never been the goal.
The contractor corridor passed the training room.
I called Denise.
She answered on the second ring.
"Tell me you didn't go back to the house alone."
"I'm with police. Check training inventory for batch 4C-17."
Keyboard clicks.
Then silence.
"Claire."
"What?"
"One five-gallon jug is missing. We discovered it during morning count twenty minutes ago. Security is pulling footage now."
I put her on speaker.
Mom sat down hard on the basement steps.
The officer said, "Please preserve that footage."
Denise replied, "Already am."
The inspector backed away from the jug.
"I'm not opening this in a residence. If the contents are what the label says, it needs professional handling. But one sealed or partially opened container does not establish building contamination. We'll sample the surrounding surfaces."
Northline's manager, Soren Pike, had been quiet until then.
He was a lean man in his fifties with paint on one boot and zero interest in our family history.
"How long for preliminary results?"
"Portable readings now. Lab confirmation later."
Twenty minutes later, the basement surfaces were normal.
The only chemical present was inside the stolen container.
Soren looked at me.
"We're still closing if title clears."
Mom shot to her feet.
"You can't buy this house!"
"Actually," Soren said, "that's what contracts are for."
She turned on me.
"You would sell your parents' home to a stranger?"
"You mean the home you forged my signature to steal?"
Her face hardened.
"Everything I did was for this family."
"No. Everything you did was to keep me trapped inside it."
The officer's radio crackled.
He listened.
Then he looked toward the basement door.
"Ms. Dalton, we located your brother."
"Where?"
"At your workplace."
My pulse spiked.
"Why is he there again?"
The officer's expression told me before his words did.
"Security says he's in the employee parking lot with a gas can."
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