Page 28 of The Cost of Silence

“Ma’am, you can’t go past this line,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the bruise on her face.

“This is my building,” Isabella replies. “My apartment. I just want to know if it’s… still there.”

He shakes his head, sympathy crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Fire marshal hasn’t cleared the top floors yet. All I can tell you is the blaze is out, and they’re assessing structural damage.”

“Can you at least tell me if…” Her voice wobbles. She swallows it down and tries again. “If the right side of the corridor is worse than the left?”

The cop hesitates. I step in, letting my presence fill the space, dropping my tone into the register that usually gets answers. “Her unit,” I say. “4C. Anything you can share would be appreciated.”

He looks at me differently now, sizing me up. The expensive watch, the tailored suit, the way I do not fidget or blink.

“You family?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say smoothly, not giving Isabella time to react. “She stays with me.”

Isabella glances up at me sharply. I ignore it.

The cop sighs. “Look, off the record… the fire started in 4C. Spread along the hallway. 4B is pretty bad. 4A caught more smoke than flames, but water can ruin as much as fire. Walls are soaked. Ceiling’s down in places. You’re probably looking at months before anyone’s allowed back up there.”

Isabella takes that in like a punch she has to stand up under. Her back stays straight, but her fingers curl around the strap of her bag so tight her knuckles go white.

“Thank you,” she manages.

He nods, steps back, his attention already pulled toward a firefighter waving him over.

We stand there for a moment, the cold cutting through her thin sweater, through my shirt, through everything. The building looms above us, familiar and ruined, a home turned crime scene.

“This can’t be an accident,” I say quietly. “Not after last night.”

Isabella doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the blackened windows, gaze glassy.

“Hey.” I angle myself toward her. “Breathe.”

“I am,” she says, but it sounds like a lie.

Her shoulders start to shake. Just a little, barely perceptible. Most people wouldn’t notice. I do.

“All my stuff is in there,” she whispers. “My notes, my computer backups, my father’s photo, his watch, the blanket my mom crocheted when I went to college… everything.”

There it is. The crack in the armor.

Guilt tastes like metal on my tongue. I think of the call I sent out last night, the orders given, and the man dragged to the warehouse. If I had pushed harder earlier, if I hadn’t used her as bait for even half a second, would this have happened?

Probably. Maybe. I hate both answers equally.

“Things can be replaced,” I say, knowing as I say it that it’s the wrong thing.

Her head snaps toward me, eyes bright, furious. “No, they can’t. You can buy new furniture, but you can’t replace the way a couch smells like your life. You can’t reprint the pages of a notebook you filled with thoughts at two in the morning. You can’t buy back a watch your dad wore every day for ten years.”

The lump in her throat finally wins. Her voice cracks on the last word.

Fuck.

Without thinking, I reach for her. My hand closes around her forearm first, warm through the wool. Then I tug, gentle but firm, and she steps into me because there’s nowhere else to go.

She stiffens at first, like she doesn’t know what to do with the contact. Neither do I, if I’m honest. It’s been years since I’ve held anyone like this without expecting sex or a favor in return.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. My hand slides to the back of her head, fingers threading lightly into her hair, palm cradling her skull so she doesn’t have to hold her own weight for a second. “You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re allowed to be wrecked.”