Page 88 of Captive Ruin

“Uh… about seven-thirty.”

He writes it down. “And did you lock up?”

“No. Sierra was still in there.”

“I was doing some paperwork,” Sierra adds.

He checks his notebook. “Sierra Collins? You called this in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any idea what might have caused this?”

Sierra glances at me, and I give her a subtle nod. “I think I heard someone leaving just before the fire started.”

Barrett nods, his expression giving away nothing. “Miss Anderson, I’ll be straight with you. The burn pattern suggests this wasn’t accidental. We’re treating it as suspicious pending investigation.”

It’s no surprise, but the confirmation is another blow. Art galleries don’t burn by themselves. “I understand.”

“We’ll need you both to make a formal statement. In the meantime”—he hands me a card—“if you think of anything, anyone who might have reason to do this, you can reach me here.”

Should I mention Serranto now? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. It’s not just that I have no evidence. It’s the finger in the box, and what that might mean for Van Wyk.

And fuck… what that might mean for me. I’m implicated. I’m complicit in whatever crime he committed. Jesus Christ, I hadn’t really considered that before. I should’ve called the cops the second I saw it.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking.

Barrett turns back to Sierra. “Ma’am, you’ve been cleared by the EMTs. There is no need for either of you to remain. You’re both free to go.”

The men give us a nod and walk away, leaving us alone.

“Gosh, it’s almost midnight,” Sierra says, looking at her phone.

“You should go home and get some rest.”

“Will you be all right?” she asks. “Is there someone you can stay with?”

He’s probably waiting for me back in my apartment. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

She gives me a sad look and then her second hug of the day, this one with far less excitement than the first. “I’m so sorry, Ammy.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “So am I.”

It’s past midnight when the Uber drops me back at my apartment block.

My clothing stinks of smoke. All I want is a shower and bed.

Part of me hopes he’s not there. Part of me hopes he is. I want goddamn answers. Whatever happened tonight, he’s connected one way or another.

I take the elevator up to my apartment, walking to my door with brisk steps, anticipating seeing him. I want to scream at him. And damn it, I want to cry on his shoulder. God, I don’t know what I want.

But what if he blames me for this? What if he’s not involved, and he’s angry that I’ve lost his friends’ artwork?

Maybe I don’t want to see him after all.

I just feel drained.

I reach my door, key in hand, and pause. There are noises coming from the other side. He is here, and he’s not being quiet about it either. It sounds like he’s rearranging the goddamn furniture.