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“I know exactly what I'm talking about. I set the damn fire.”

The room seems to tilt.

“You what?”

“It was supposed to solve a few problems. Insurance money, debts. Then Chavez started poking around, asking questions. Wouldn't let it go even after the investigation was closed.”

Torch lost everything trying to prove someone had started that fire.

And the man responsible is standing in front of me.

“What about the body they found?” I ask.

His silence lasts a fraction too long.

“Someone died,” I whisper.

“Someone did. Just wasn't the man they thought.”

A sick feeling spreads through me.

There was a body. An obituary. A funeral I found records of while searching for my father.

But there was also unidentified blood from the scene, and a DNA result that linked it to me.

“Elliot Rolland,” I say quietly.

His head lifts.

“What?”

“That was the man's name. The one they said died in the fire.”

He doesn't move.

Then, slowly, he asks, “Who's your mother?”

I hesitate.

“Teresa.”

“Teresa what?”

“Compton.”

He goes completely still.

His gaze moves over my face.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He mutters a curse.

I stare back at him, a terrible possibility taking shape.

“Why?”