"Surprised you do. Young reporter, first big story. I was just another arsonist to you."
"You were never just another arsonist." Neutral. Measured. "You had a pattern. A purpose. Buildings owned by negligent landlords. People who let their tenants live in death traps."
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise. Satisfaction, like I'd finally said the thing he'd been waiting a decade to hear.
"Purpose," he repeated. "That's a generous word. The DA called it domestic terrorism."
"The DA didn't live in those buildings."
Crane studied me. The fluorescent lights hummed, turning his skin the color of old paper.
"So why are you here now? It's been ten years. I'm not news anymore."
I leaned forward. "Someone's copying your methods. Same accelerant signature. Same target profile." A beat. "Either you taught someone, or you had a partner you never named."
Silence stretched between us.
"I worked alone." Crane's voice was flat. Final. "Didn't cut a deal. Didn't give anyone up. Because there was no one to give."
"Your accelerant mix. Your timing patterns. That level of precision doesn't come from court transcripts, Mr. Crane."
His expression didn't change. That was the tell. Not a reaction, but the complete absence of one. The careful blankness of a man who'd rehearsed this moment.
"People learn all kinds of things," he said evenly. "I didn't invent fire."
"No. But you perfected a very specific method of using it. And now someone else is using that same method to target the same type of properties." I held his gaze. "You know who it is."
Nothing. Just those sharp, watchful eyes.
I switched tactics. "The inspectors who were supposed to flag violations, the landlords who paid them to look the other way. That system hasn't changed. It's gotten worse."
"I know." Two words. Flat. The voice of a man who'd been proven right and wished he hadn't been.
"People have died, Mr. Crane. In buildings that should have been condemned. Children have?—"
"I know." Harder this time. His hands had gone flat on the table, fingers pressing into the metal. The first crack. Small, but real.
I waited. Let the silence do the work.
Crane's jaw shifted. He looked past me. At the wall. At nothing.
"Hypothetically," he said, "if someone continued my work, they would have had better reasons than mine. I burned buildings because I was angry. Righteous anger, sure. A system that lets people die for profit deserves to burn." No apology in it. "But anger runs out eventually. You either move on, or you burn yourself up with it."
"And this person?"
"This person, hypothetically…" Something moved behind his eyes. Quick. Buried. "They wouldn't be burning out of anger. They'd be burning out of something that doesn't run out."
"What doesn't run out?"
He looked at me. Through me.
"You're the investigative journalist, Ms. Harper. Figure it out."
"Give me somewhere to start."
"I just did."
The wall came down. I could feel it—the shutters closing. Crane signaled the guard with a lift of his chin. Stood slowly, chains clinking.
