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The entrance hall greeted her with cathedral darkness, broken only by thin ribbons of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. Kaitlin fumbled for the light switch, but nothing happened when she flipped it.

An acrid smell reached her—smoke.

Heart hammering against her ribs, Kaitlin pulled out her phone and switched on its flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness as she moved toward the basement stairs, the smell growing stronger with each step.

“Hello?” she called out. Her voice was swallowed by the cavernous space. “Is anyone here?”

Only silence answered, broken only by a distant crackling. Fire.

Kaitlin descended the stone steps, one hand trailing the cold wall for balance. The smell intensified, smoke tinged with chemicals. At the bottom of the stairs, she saw it: orange light flickering beneath the records room door, tendrils of smoke seeping through the gap.

For one frozen moment, she considered turning back, calling for help. But by the time anyone arrived, the records would be destroyed, evidence gone, her mother’s history reduced to ash. Without thinking further, she ran to the supply closet where Amy had shown her the emergency equipment. Her fingers closed around the fire extinguisher just as a crash sounded from inside the records room.

Someone was in there.

This wasn’t an accident, it was deliberate. Someone was destroying evidence. Destroying history. Destroying her chance at answers.

Kaitlin dialed 911 with shaking fingers, speaking quickly to the dispatcher. “There’s a fire at Widow’s Point Mansion, in the basement. I’m going to try to contain it, but I think someone’s inside. Please hurry.”

The operator’s voice faded as she set down the phone, hefting the extinguisher in both hands. When she tried the door handle, it was hot to the touch. She wrapped her hand in her sleeve and turned it, pushing the door open.

A wall of smoke hit her, burning her eyes and throat. Through watering vision, she saw flames licking at a pile of documents on the floor, climbing toward the shelves of irreplaceable records. And beyond the flames, a dark figure moved.

“Stop!” she shouted, voice raw in the smoke-filled air.

The figure turned, just a silhouette against the flames, then bolted for the small ground-level window that was partially open. Before Kaitlin could react, they’d squeezed through the opening and disappeared into the night.

Coughing, eyes streaming, she aimed the extinguisher at the base of the flames. White foam hissed against fire, tamping down the blaze but not extinguishing it completely. The heat was intense. Sweat ran down her face as she worked methodically from one flaming pile to the next.

The records room was in deliberate chaos—drawers pulled open, files scattered across the floor. Someone had doused the documents with an accelerate; she could smell it even through the smoke. They had wanted nothing left.

Minutes stretched like hours as Kaitlin fought the flames. Her lungs burned, each breath more painful than the last, but she kept going until the last visible flame was smothered beneath foam. Only then did she sink to her knees, overcome by coughing that wracked her entire body.

The distant wail of sirens penetrated her consciousness. Help was coming, but the damage was done. Her vision began to darken at the edges, the smoke-filled room to swim before her eyes. The last thing she remembered was the beam of flashlights cutting through the haze, and rough hands lifting her from the floor.

Antiseptic. The sharp, clinical smell cut through the lingering scent of smoke in her nostrils. Kaitlin blinked against harsh fluorescent lights, her throat raw as sandpaper.

“Good, you’re awake,” a gentle voice said. “Try not to talk too much.”

A woman in her thirties with Amy’s dark hair but softer features leaned over her, checking the oxygen mask fitted over Kaitlin’s face.

“I’m Kelsey MacCormack,” she said, adjusting something on the monitor beside the exam table. “Amy’s sister. You’re at the island clinic. You’ve got some damage from smoke inhalation, but you’re going to be fine.”

Kaitlin tried to speak but managed only a painful rasp. Kelsey touched her arm.

“Easy. Your throat needs time to heal.”

The small room was sparse but clean: examination table, medical cabinet, a sink in the corner. Through the half-open blinds, Kaitlin could see it was still dark outside.

“If you were on the mainland, they’d probably keep you overnight for observation,” Kelsey continued. “But we don’t have those facilities here. The ferry’s stopped running for the night, and I don’t think you need helicopter evacuation to Portland.” She removed the oxygen mask carefully. “How’s your breathing now?”

“Better,” Kaitlin managed, the word scraping her throat. “Water?”

Kelsey handed her a small paper cup. “Small sips. Your throat’s pretty irritated.”

The door opened and Amy burst in, her face tight with worry. “Kaitlin! Thank God.” Behind her, Matt stood in the doorway, still in his sheriff’s uniform, tension etched in every line of his face.

“She’s going to be fine,” Kelsey assured them both. “But she needs rest and shouldn’t be alone tonight. Someone should monitor her breathing.”