“Are you sure?” I ask, even though something inside me already knows.
“Yes, ma’am. The fire department confirmed it. There was a highly flammable propellant used—likely sprayed across multiple surfaces. That’s why the building went up so fast.” He glances at Neve, then back at me. “You two are lucky you made it out when you did.”
My mouth is dry. My fingers twitch against the blanket.
“Someone did this on purpose?” I ask.
“That’s what it looks like.”
I can’t stop thinking about the man on the fire escape. The one who told me we were safe. The one who’s been outside the bakery, standing just out of reach. Watching me. Was he trying to help me… or just making sure we were inside when it started?
Neve sits up a little. “Wait, are you saying we were supposed to die in there?”
The officer’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer directly. “That building was targeted. And whoever did it knew what they were doing.”
My stomach flips.
I nod slowly, heart pounding harder now. “So what happens next?”
“We’ll start with any surveillance footage nearby. Nearby neighbors. Traffic cams. We’ll need a list of anyone you think might’ve had a reason to hurt you—or the business.”
I nod again, but my mind’s already gone somewhere else. To a black shirt, with a faded logo. To the way he didn’t blink when he looked at me.
My ears start to ring.
The officer’s still talking. Neve answers him, her voice more awake now, sharper, but the words don’t reach me. They’re underwater. Filtered through static.
My skin’s cold again. Not from the room. Not from fear. From something else. Something deeper, sliding under my ribs and sinking.
I blink hard, and that’s when I see it—my phone. On the table next to my bed. I must’ve grabbed it in the fire. Carried it through the smoke. Down the fire escape. In the jump. It’s warm and grimy and cracked, but it lights up when I press the side button.
No missed calls. No new texts.
I open the thread and type out:
Are you okay? Where are you?
Delivered.
But not read.
I stare at it. My thumb hovering. I send another.
Damian, please. Say something.
Delivered.
Still no read receipt.
My heart pounds harder, faster. It’s been hours. He’d answer. He always answers. Even when he’s mad. Even when he’s holding back. Even when he’s protecting something and pretending he isn’t.
I glance up. Neve’s still talking to the cop, giving him our names, the bakery’s info, something about the fire alarm.
Her phone buzzes on her lap.
She picks it up, types fast. Gets another reply. Her expression doesn’t change, but her fingers move—smooth, familiar. She’s in an actual conversation.
I lean toward her, just enough.
