Nothing. But I could feel her on the other side of the door. That awareness I'd never been able to explain, the way I always knew when she was in a room, even before I saw her.
"I'm not leaving until you talk to me."
A long pause. So long, I started to wonder if I'd imagined her presence.
Then, footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. The scrape of a deadbolt.
The door opened.
She looked shattered. Eyes swollen from days of crying. Cheeks streaked. Hair tangled.
This wasn't pulling away. This was falling apart.
"Garrett—" Her voice cracked. Barely there. "I can't—I'm not?—"
Two steps forward, and she was in my arms.
She collapsed against me like her bones had given up. A sound tore from her throat that broke something in my chest.
I kicked the door shut behind us.
Didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just held her while she shook and sobbed and fell apart in ways she'd never let me see before.
Her tears soaked through my shirt. Her hands fisted in the fabric like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
I tightened my arms and let her break.
The apartment was dark. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Like she'd been in the darkness for days.
Eventually, the sobs quieted. Her breathing steadied. She sagged against me, exhausted.
I guided her to the couch. She curled into my side, head on my chest, one hand still fisted in my shirt.
We sat in the dark.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I went silent. I just—I couldn't?—"
"It's okay."
"It's not okay." She pulled back just enough to look at me. Eyes wrecked, but something burned underneath. "I found something. The arsonist."
I waited.
"It's Rebecca Marsh."
The name hit like a physical blow.
"Emma's mother."
Emma.
The child I couldn't reach. The weight I'd carried for seven years. Her name in the crackle of every fire. In the silence after every call.
"She was Crane's partner," Sloane said. "Not just his accomplice. They were together. He went to prison to protect her." Her voice was thin. The journalist holding steady by a thread. "After Emma died, she tried to get justice. Lawsuit. Letters. All of it. Nobody listened. She assaulted the inspector who signed off on Emma's building. Went to prison herself."
I stared at the dark ceiling. Emma Marsh's mother. The woman who buried her daughter alone while the system that killed her shrugged and moved on. The woman who'd been setting fires for almost a year while the city scrambled to catch a ghost.
"She got out eleven months ago," Sloane said. "Right when the fires started."
