My nine-year-old son brought a shivering Golden Retriever puppy home from the edge of our gated community's perimeter fence.
I refused to obey their decree. The next morning, before sunrise, I left Ethan and the puppy sleeping in my bed, their breaths a comfort in the hushed house. I pulled on my thickest coat and walked the two miles down the enclave’s winding dirt access road, past the locked security gate, to the public road beyond.
The chilly autumn wind bit at my ears. I knew Deputy Miller often patrolled this stretch.
Just as the sun began to paint the distant Catskill peaks with orange, a patrol car crested the hill. Deputy Miller, a familiar, weathered face, pulled to a stop.
He rolled down his window, steam curling from his coffee cup. “Morning, Caleb. Everything alright? Never seen you outside the gates this early.”
“Deputy,” I said, my voice rough. “I need some information. The official records from the October 2022 accident. The one that claimed Julian Finch’s life in the ravine.”
Miller nodded slowly. He tapped a few keys on his vehicle computer, the screen glowing blue in the dim light. The sound of the police radio crackled softly between us.
His brow furrowed as he scrolled. “Funny,” he mused. “Says here… no state traffic collision report was ever finalized for that incident, Caleb.”
My breath hitched. “What do you mean, ‘not finalized’?”
“It indicates a community-exemption waiver was presented,” he explained, pointing at a line of text on his screen. “Granted to the Covenant’s private corporate entity. Marcus Driscoll signed on behalf of the family.”
My stomach clenched. Marcus. Of course.
But then, a detail on the screen caught my eye, small and almost hidden. The deputy scrolled down further, perhaps searching for an explanation.
Beneath Marcus’s name was another. A signature line for “Sarah Finch, Guardian.” And a date: October 26, 2022.
A cold wave washed over me, colder than the morning air. My wife, Sarah, had been admitted to the ICU on October 22, 2022, four days before that date. She had been unconscious, clinging to life, until she passed away a week later.
“That signature,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “That’s my wife’s. But she was in a coma then. This document… it’s forged.”
Deputy Miller looked up, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. His expression tightened, the casual morning air gone. He closed his laptop with a quiet click.
“That’s… that’s a serious accusation, Caleb.” He pushed a hand through his thinning hair. “If you have evidence, you need to bring it forward. But from what I see here, everything was handled internally.”
He eyed the sealed gate behind me. “I can’t get involved in commune business without a formal complaint, or if there’s a clear indication of a crime.”
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