My mother had kept the note because she thought it was a teenager’s complaint about irresponsible adults.
Now she looked at me with an expression I had not seen since Daniel’s funeral.
“Please don’t let this become the only thing you remember about him,” she said.
I promised I would not.
Then my phone rang.
The caller was Vivian.
I answered on speaker so my mother could hear.
Vivian did not bother with a greeting.
“Your house was an unfortunate mistake,” she said.
“You threw rocks through my window.”
“You should never have opened that box.”
I told her that I knew Daniel had warned the committee.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Then I heard another voice in the room with her.
It was a man telling her to hang up.
Vivian ignored him.
“Your brother was trying to stop something worse than an accident,” she whispered.
The line went dead.

Chapter Six: The Arena

I returned to Westbridge before sunset and drove past the old arena.
The building stood behind a chain fence, its curved roof stained by twenty-eight winters.
A demolition notice had been attached to the gate.
Work was scheduled to begin in five days.
The timing made my stomach tighten.
I called Owen from the car.
He arrived twenty minutes later with a flashlight and a set of keys.
He said the building belonged to a local redevelopment company, but he still had access to the maintenance entrance because his shop stored equipment there.
I asked whether we could look inside.
He shook his head.
“Not without the owner agreeing.”
Then he pointed toward a truck parked behind the building.
“Somebody’s already working tonight.”

A pair of men carried wooden panels through the loading bay.
They were not wearing demolition helmets or company uniforms.
One of them noticed us and spoke into a phone.
Within minutes Vivian’s silver sedan appeared at the far end of the road.
She parked sideways across the entrance and got out.
Her hair was loose, and she wore the same yellow raincoat she had worn at my house.
“Go home, Mara,” she called.
I remained beside Owen’s truck.
“What happened to the children at the north entrance?”
Vivian stopped walking.
“Who told you about that?”
“My brother left a note.”
She pressed one hand against the side of her car.
Then she looked toward the loading bay.
“Those men are not supposed to be here,” she said.
For the first time, her fear seemed directed at someone other than me.