Chapter 6: Photographs of Incendiary Rigging

Marcus’s detailed breakdown of the arson mechanisms confirmed the chilling precision of Nia’s plan. The sub-basement, specifically behind the main circuit breaker – that was the critical spot. It was late afternoon now; the fire was scheduled for sometime tonight. I had to act fast.

Infiltrating the historic building during off-hours was a risk, but it was the only way to get the irrefutable physical proof I needed. Police wouldn’t act on a “prophetic timeline” alone. I needed pictures.

I drove to the historic district, my heart pounding against my ribs. The building, a grand old structure of red brick and ornate limestone, loomed against the twilight sky. Construction barriers were up, but I knew the back alleys, the hidden service entrances. My work in preservation had taught me all the secret ways into these old bones.

Using a rusty master key I’d “borrowed” years ago for a forgotten project, I slipped through a side service door into a dark, dusty corridor. The building was eerily silent, filled with the ghost of bygone commerce. Every creak of the old floorboards echoed around me.

I navigated the dim hallways, guided by my memory of the building’s layout and the haunting images from the mirror. Down a flight of stone stairs, through a boiler room, and then I found it: the sub-basement.

The air was heavy, damp, and smelled of old earth and something acrid. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows. In the far corner, just as Marcus had described, was the main circuit breaker panel. It was an old, industrial-grade metal box, buzzing softly.

My flashlight beam cut through the gloom. I saw what Marcus had warned me about. Tucked behind the heavy panel, partially obscured by old wiring, were several small, clear plastic containers. They were filled with a viscous, yellowish liquid. Chemical accelerants.

My stomach twisted. This was it. The direct, undeniable proof.

I pulled out my phone, setting it to high-resolution photo mode. My hands were shaking, but I forced them steady. I took multiple shots from different angles, zooming in on the containers, on the frayed insulation Marcus had mentioned, on the timing device subtly wired into a less critical circuit that would allow the fire to slowly escalate.

The containers matched the vague, distorted images I’d seen in the mirror vision. The way the light caught the liquid, the slight sheen on the plastic. The placement was identical. They were designed to spread the fire quickly and intensely, making it appear like a catastrophic electrical failure.

I also noticed a small, digital timer discreetly attached to a secondary power line, hidden beneath a tangle of old, inactive cables. It wasn’t counting down to zero, but to a specific time later tonight. An ignition trigger, carefully concealed.

Every click of my phone’s camera felt like a blow against Nia’s conspiracy. This wasn’t just a ghost story; it was a crime scene in the making. I had the photographic evidence, concrete and timestamped. The incendiary rigging was real, and it was ready.