“It’s gonna be okay,” she says, but she clearly doesn’t sound convinced.
“Is it?” I look at Queenie, so small and fragile in that bed. “People died, Marley. People who were in that home because they needed care, because their families trusted Sunset Manor to keep them safe. And they died because Derek wanted to hurtme.”
“We’ll prove it. We’ll make sure everyone knows the truth.”
“And in the meantime?” I gesture at the television. “My business is fucked. My reputation is destroyed. The club is under scrutiny. And Q-Queenie…” my voice breaks.
“Queenie is alive,” Marley says firmly. “You saved her. Everything else, we’ll figure out. Together.”
Together.
The word wraps around my broken pieces and holds them firm.
I lean into her, letting my head rest on her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around me. We stay like this, tangled together in the plastic chair, while the machines beep and hiss and the world outside spirals into chaos.
But in this moment, in this room, with Marley’s arms around me and Queenie’s hand in mine, I let myself believe her.
We’ll figure it out.
Together.
The sun rises outside the hospital window, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that feel obscene in their beauty.
How can the world look so peaceful when everything is falling to shit?
My phone buzzes. Ghost must have brought it back at some point, and I see texts flooding in. From business partners demanding explanations. From reporters asking for statements. From numbers I don’t recognize, probably more press.
I silence it and set it face down on the table.
Marley’s asleep in the chair beside me, her head tilted at an angle that’s going to give her one hell of a neck ache. She refusedto leave, even when visiting hours ended, even when the nurses gave her pointed looks. She just curled up in that uncomfortable chair and stayed.
For me.
Despite everything I’ve put her through, all the lies and complications, she stayed.
The door opens, and Sin walks in with Victoria. Behind them is a woman in a police captain’s uniform.
Maria Moretti.
Her hair is streaked with gray, pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
She looks at me, then at Queenie, then at Marley sleeping beside me.
“Mr. Blackwell,” she says quietly. “Or should I call you Nitro?”
“Right now, I don’t care what you call me.” My voice is still rough from smoke inhalation. “Can you help us?”
She pulls up a chair, sitting across from me with the posture of someone used to commanding rooms. “Sin filled me in on the basics. Derek Fletcher, your girlfriend’s ex, potentially set the fire after discovering your dual identity?”
“That’s what we think. Ghost has digital evidence of Fletcher digging into my background, but—”
“But digital evidence alone won’t get us far in court,” she finishes. “Especially not against someone who appears to be covering his tracks carefully.”
“So, what do we do?”
Maria’s expression hardens. “We investigate properly. I’ve already put a team on the fire. My best arson investigator is going through the scene as we speak. If this was deliberate, we’ll find evidence. Accelerants leave traces. Security footage, witness statements, and financial records, we’ll build a case.”
“The media is already convinced I did it.”
