CHAPTER TWO: THE COURIER’S FIRST STOP
The responding firefighter photographed the blackened post and tested the grass for lingering heat.
A police officer took Ethan’s account and watched Rachel’s recording without offering a dramatic conclusion.
Martin claimed the envelope had contained a private dispute about event paperwork.
When asked why he burned something addressed to Ethan, he said he had panicked.
The officer recorded the admission and told Martin not to approach Ethan’s property.
Ethan thought an arrest would have been satisfying for roughly thirty seconds.
After that, he would still need to know what had been in the envelope.
By noon, Rachel was sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of tea.
She worked as a night-shift emergency dispatcher, which made her unusually patient about timelines.
She had written down the courier’s arrival at 9:26 in the morning.
“He drove a cream-colored delivery van,” she said.
“There was no company logo on the side.”
“Was the license plate visible?”
“Partly.”
She turned her phone so he could see the image.
The photograph showed Martin leaning toward the driver’s window.
An envelope protruded between them.
“I didn’t take that to spy,” Rachel added.
“I was photographing the lilacs for my sister.”
“You can photograph whatever grows in your yard.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
The attempt at humor failed to lift Ethan’s mood.
He was thirty-eight and taught physics at a community college fifteen miles away.
He knew enough about eclipse viewing to worry when people used casual language around protective equipment.
He also knew enough about legal arguments to understand that a partial eclipse never made it safe to look directly at the sun without properly verified protection.
Martin had ordered thousands of viewers through an event supply company called Daybreak Outfitters.
Ethan had seen the boxes stacked behind a booth during Thursday’s volunteer orientation.
The packaging looked professional.
That alone proved nothing.
His phone rang.
The caller introduced herself as Priya Nair, quality director for Solstice Optical.
“Mr. Cole, did our packet reach you this morning?”
Ethan sat upright.
“Someone intercepted it and burned it.”
There was a pause.
“Burned it?”
“I’m serious.”
“We sent a signed notice by private courier because your registration lists you as the event’s educational safety contact.”
“What did the notice say?”
Priya took an audible breath.
“We need you to stop distributing the eclipse viewers bearing our name.”
Rachel set down her cup.
Ethan pressed the phone closer.
“Why?”
“The shipment your organizer showed us in his purchase documentation does not match the shipment currently being promoted online.”
“Are the glasses unsafe?”
“We cannot verify the optical filters in the products being distributed.”
“Our company did not manufacture the units in the photographs we received yesterday.”
“The design copies our earlier packaging, but several details do not match our production records.”
Ethan looked toward Martin’s house through the kitchen window.
“Who sent you those photographs?”
“A volunteer who asked us not to identify her without permission.”
“Can you send me the notice electronically?”
“Yes, and I am also notifying the organizer, the venue, and the county consumer protection office.”
Ethan gave her his email address.
When the message arrived, it included images of two different pairs of viewers.
Both used the same blue crescent logo.
Only one set belonged to a documented order from Solstice Optical.
The other displayed the company name in slightly wider lettering.
The warning did not say every counterfeit pair would cause injury.
It said no one should use unverified viewers to look at the sun.
That distinction mattered to Ethan.
He refused to replace evidence with panic, however justified his anger.
Priya remained on the line.
“We have already asked Martin Hayes to suspend distribution.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you had approved everything.”
Ethan felt his stomach tighten.
“I haven’t approved a single box.”
“Then I need that statement in writing.”
After the call, Rachel walked to the window.
A colorful banner hung across Martin’s garage.
It advertised the festival’s sold-out premium viewing session.
Beneath the banner sat a folding table stacked with cardboard cartons.
A teenage boy arrived on a bicycle, and Martin handed him one of the cartons.
“He’s still distributing them,” Rachel said.
Ethan picked up his keys.
“First I need to find out who received those cartons.”
Rachel stopped him at the door.
“And before that, you need to tell the people who are supposed to oversee Saturday.”
She was right.
The question was whether anyone would listen before money, reputation, and pride made the answer impossible.
