Chapter 6: The Reckoning

I went to open the door.

My legs felt like lead as I crossed the living room. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever was waiting on the other side.

Outside stood three property staff and two uniformed security guards—five people crowded at our door.

They looked serious—clipboard in hand, radios crackling. I’d never seen so many official faces gathered at a single apartment door before. The hallway smelled faintly of cologne and fried onions, but all I could smell was trouble.

Leading them was the property manager, a slick-looking middle-aged man.

He wore a shiny blue blazer and a name badge clipped to his chest, eyes scanning the room behind me as if sizing up the entire family.

He poked his head in and asked, "The third parking spot from the left of Building A downstairs—is that yours? It’s registered to unit 503."

He pronounced our unit number slowly and clearly, pen poised over his notepad, like he’d practiced this speech a hundred times.

I said yes.

My voice cracked a bit, but I stood my ground. "Yeah, that’s ours."

My parents heard the commotion and came over. My uncle and aunt kept eating as if nothing had happened.

My mom wiped her hands on her apron and came to stand beside me, worry etched on her face. Dad followed, moving more slowly. Uncle and aunt didn’t even look up from their plates, as if door-to-door fire inquiries were part of the evening’s entertainment.

"That’s our parking spot. What’s going on?" my dad asked.

Dad’s tone was firm but polite, the kind of voice he used when calling about a missing Amazon package.

The property manager replied, "There was a vehicle fire just now. The gas tank of the car parked in your spot exploded and caught fire. The fire is out, but we need the owner to confirm the damage."

His words hung in the air, heavy and cold. My mom’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide with shock.

My parents were shocked.

"What? Our car caught fire? How could that happen? Our car is brand new—it can’t just burst into flames!"

Mom’s voice was high, panic already rising. Dad put an arm around her, trying to steady them both. My own pulse thudded in my ears.

The property manager said, "It looks like it was ignited by firecrackers. We have a video of the burning car and are checking the surveillance footage for suspects."

The mention of firecrackers was like a lightning bolt. Everyone’s eyes flew to the end of the table where Mikey sat, suddenly very interested in his mashed potatoes.

The moment firecrackers were mentioned, my parents turned to look at my little cousin.

You could have heard a pin drop. The air was electric with unspoken accusations. My dad’s jaw tightened, my mom’s lips pressed thin.

This time, uncle and aunt couldn’t stay calm—they put down their forks.

It was the first time all night they’d stopped eating. Uncle’s face paled, and Aunt’s eyes darted between Mikey and the trash can.

My mom asked tentatively, "Mikey, did you set off firecrackers at your cousin’s parking spot?"

Her voice trembled, trying to be gentle, as if she were coaxing a confession from a scared puppy.

Aunt slammed the table and snapped, "Linda, don’t you dare accuse us! Our Mikey is the best—he’s never naughty. You have no proof, so how can you blame him? You owe him an apology!"

Aunt’s voice was shrill, her cheeks red with fury. It was always the same script: deny, deflect, demand an apology. My mom shrank back, shocked by the sudden outburst.