“Marco questioned me today. At the scene. In front of everyone.” I press my forehead against my knees. “He asked if there was any connection between the two fires. If anyone’s following me. If someone might want to hurt me.”
Jake’s quiet for a moment. “What did you tell him?”
“That I don’t know. Because I don’t.” I lift my head. “I went to work. The building burned. I went to get Tommy’s book.The building burned. I’m not doing anything except existing, and somehow that’s enough to make me the internet’s favorite disaster meme.”
“People are idiots.”
“People are right to be suspicious. Two fires, Jake. Same woman at both. That’s not normal.”
“It’s also not your fault.”
“Tell that to the comment section.”
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. Another share. Another stranger with opinions about my life.
Jake picks it up before I can. “I’m confiscating this. You’re done reading comments tonight.”
“Jake—”
“Nope. You’ve hit your daily limit of strangers calling you cursed.” He stands up, pocketing my phone. “Come downstairs. I made dinner. You need to eat something that isn’t anxiety.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t care. You’re eating anyway.” He heads toward the door. “Five minutes. If you’re not downstairs, I’m sending Tommy up here, and you know he’ll guilt-trip you into coming down.”
He’s not wrong. Tommy’s gotten outstanding at the sad eyes routine.
I drag myself off the bed and follow Jake downstairs.
Tommy is at the kitchen table with his dragon book, reading out loud to Rex the dinosaur. He looks up when I walk in and beams.
“Mama! Uncle Jake made spaghetti!”
“I see that.” I ruffle his hair and sit down beside him. “How was your day, baby?”
“Good! Mrs. Cott let me do my show-and-tell early because of the fire. Everyone thought my dragon book was cool.” He turns the page. “And Marcus’s mom called to make sure we’re okay. And Sophie texted Uncle Jake. And—”
“The whole town knows,” Jake finishes, setting plates in front of us. “Welcome to Millbrook Falls, where your business is everyone’s business.”
“Great.” I pick up my fork without any real intention of eating. “Can’t wait for tomorrow’s gossip cycle.”
We eat in relative silence. Tommy chatters about school, dragons, and whether firefighters have pet dalmatians. Jake tries to keep the conversation light, steering clear of anything fire related.
I push spaghetti around my plate and try not to think about the internet comments still multiplying without me there to read them.
My phone—currently in Jake’s pocket—buzzes.
“That’s the fifth call in ten minutes,” Jake says, checking the screen. “It’s Dorothy Williams.”
Dorothy.
The thought hits me like ice water.
Dorothy was supposed to be at the library today. She told me at lunch on Sunday. Tuesday afternoon, reading to kids in the children’s section.
But she wasn’t there when the fire started. I didn’t see her in the crowd during the evacuation. Didn’t see her talking to paramedics or giving statements to the police.
She wasn’t there.
