My house.
The one Daniel had tried to take.
Mara immediately ordered a security team.
But by the time we arrived, smoke was already rising above the trees.
My home was on fire.
I stood beyond the police line watching flames consume forty years of my life.
Arthur’s books.
Our photographs.
Daniel’s childhood drawings.
The dining table where we ate Christmas dinner.
The bedroom where I had held my husband’s hand while he slept.
Gone.
Daniel stood beside me.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered, “This is because of me.”
“No.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“Daniel.”
He looked at me.
“Martin did this.”
Tears rolled down his face.
“And I helped him get close.”
I took his hand.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But I took it.
Then a firefighter approached.
“Mrs.
Vance?”
“Yes?”
“We found something.”
He carried a metal box.
Blackened.
Heavy.
Fireproof.
Arthur’s old document safe.
Inside was a single envelope.
My name was written across it.
