“She won’t stop,” he says. “And she won’t negotiate. She sees you and the baby as leverage. Not family.”
My throat tightens.
“Then why help us?”
Marco looks down at the wooden porch for a moment.
For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks tired.
Because I grew up being what she made people into.
Then he lifts his eyes to mine.
“And I don’t want your daughter to grow up that way.”
Something in his voice finally breaks through the wall of fear wrapped around my chest.
“She burned part of the town,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“And Saint—”
“Saint will survive,” Marco says firmly.
There’s no hesitation in his voice.
“He’s not the kind of man this ends badly for.”
I look down at my baby again, brushing my thumb gently across her cheek.
“She smiled at him today.”
Marco’s mouth twitches slightly.
“That was it for him, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Completely.”
22
The Mother
They always think fire is rage.
It isn’t.
Fire is clarity.
I sit in my apartment overlooking the city, the lights of the skyline stretching endlessly beyond the glass walls. My espresso sits untouched beside me as the television replays the news footage.
Flames.
Fire trucks.
A frightened reporter standing in front of a ruined building in some forgettable little town.
