Tears were sliding down her cheeks now. She didn't wipe them away.
"She was eight years old. Eight." Rebecca's hands curled into fists. "First day of third grade. First crush. First heartbreak. Graduation. College. Maybe children of her own someday. She had all of that ahead of her." Her voice broke. "And she burned to death in a building that should have been condemned years ago."
"I know." My own eyes were burning. "I know, Rebecca. And I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry the system failed her. Failed you."
"I spent years trying to do it the right way." Her voice was raw. "I filed lawsuits. Wrote letters. Showed up at city council meetings. Begged anyone who would listen." She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Nobody listened. The landlord who killed my daughter keeps collecting rent. The inspector who signed off on that building got promoted. The system that murdered Emma shrugged and moved on."
"Let me tell her story." A careful step toward her. "Let me write about Emma. Let the world know who she was and what was taken from her."
"It's too late for that."
"It's not." I reached out. Slowly. "It's never too late to tell the truth."
Rebecca looked at me. For a moment, something softened behind her eyes.
Then it hardened. Something cold and resolved sliding into place.
"And Garrett Stone gets to be happy." Flat. "Gets to fall in love. Gets to build a future while Emma has no future at all."
She turned and walked toward the door. Calm. Unhurried. Like we'd just finished a conversation about the weather.
"Rebecca." I started after her. "Rebecca, where are you going?"
She didn't answer. Didn't look back. Just stepped through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind her.
I heard the click of a lock. Then another.
I ran to the door. Grabbed the handle. Shook it hard.
Nothing. She'd reinforced it somehow. Locks that shouldn't be there.
"Rebecca!" Pounding on the glass. "Let me out!"
Through the window, I watched her walk toward the stairwell. That same measured pace. That same eerie calm.
And then I noticed the floor.
The carpet was dark. Wet. Glistening under the fluorescent lights in a way it shouldn't be. A trail of liquid running the length of the corridor, pooling near the walls.
The smell hit a second later. Seeping through the cracks around the door.
Chemical. Sharp. Accelerant.
She'd prepared everything. Before she even came to find me.
Rebecca reached the stairwell door. Paused. Turned back to look at me through the glass.
For a moment, I saw the woman she used to be. Before grief remade her. A mother who loved her daughter. A woman who might have been my friend, in another life.
"I'm sorry." Quiet enough that I read her lips more than heard the words.
She pulled something from her pocket.
A matchbook.
"Rebecca, don't?—"
She struck the match. Held it for a moment. The small flame dancing between her fingers.
