THE FIRE

CLAIRE ANDERSON 

The library is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones and makes you forget the world outside exists. I'm hunched over a stack of textbooks, trying to focus on the reading for my Introduction to Legal Studies seminar, but my mind keeps drifting back to the rumors I heard in the cafeteria. Billionaire. Dangerous. Ruined careers. Disappeared students. I shake my head, forcing myself to read the same sentence for the fifth time, but the words blur together into meaningless shapes. I can't concentrate. I can't think about anything except the grey-eyed stranger who's somehow become the center of my world.

My phone buzzes against the table, the vibration loud in the silence. I glance at the screen—unknown number. My heart lurches, and for a moment, I'm convinced it's him. Xavier. Calling me. But then I see the area code, and I realize it's not a personal number. It's the fire department. My blood runs cold.

I answer with trembling fingers, my voice barely above a whisper. "Hello?"

"Ms. Anderson?" The voice on the other end is gruff, businesslike. "This is the New York City Fire Department. I'm calling to inform you that there's been a fire at your grandmother's eatery. The building is severely damaged. You need to come down here as soon as possible."

The world tilts. The library, the textbooks, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights—all of it fades into a distant blur. "Is she okay?" I hear myself ask, and my voice sounds like it's coming from someone else. "Is my grandmother okay?"

"She's being treated by paramedics. She's conscious, but she's in shock. You should come now."

I'm already on my feet, shoving my books into my bag, my hands shaking so badly I drop my phone twice before I manage to get it into my pocket. I run through the library, past startled students and a librarian who calls after me, but I don't stop. I don't stop until I'm outside, the cold air hitting my face, and I'm running toward the street, desperately trying to flag down a cab.

The drive is a blur. I don't remember getting into the cab. I don't remember giving the driver the address. All I remember is the sound of my own heartbeat, loud and frantic in my ears, and the image of my grandmother's face—weathered, kind, the only family I have left. I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the tears that are already threatening to spill over.

When the cab pulls up to the scene, I can smell the smoke before I see the flames. It's acrid and thick, coating my throat and making my eyes water. The eatery is barely recognizable—blackened walls, collapsed roof, flames still licking at the remaining structure. Firefighters swarm around the building, their hoses spraying water that hisses and steams on contact. The heat is intense, even from a distance, and I feel my legs buckle beneath me.

And then I see her. Emily. She's standing near the ambulance, wrapped in a firefighter's coat that's too big for her, her grey hair loose and wild, her face streaked with soot and tears. She's staring at the ruins of her life's work, her expression hollow and broken.

I run to her. I throw my arms around her, holding her as tightly as I can, and I feel her frail body shake with sobs. "I'm here," I whisper. "I'm here, Grandma. I'm here."

Emily clings to me, her fingers digging into my arms like I'm the only thing keeping her upright. "It's gone," she says, her voice cracking. "It's all gone. Everything I worked for. Everything I built."

I pull back, cupping her face in my hands. "You're alive," I say, and my voice is fierce, desperate. "That's all that matters. We can rebuild. We'll figure it out. But you're alive. You're safe."

She shakes her head, her eyes wild and frightened. "I smelled gasoline," she whispers, and the words are so quiet I almost miss them. "Before the fire started. I smelled gasoline."

The world tilts again. Gasoline. That's not an accident. That's arson. My mind races, trying to process what she's saying, trying to understand who would do this, why anyone would want to destroy her livelihood. "Are you sure?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Emily's grip on my arm tightens, and I see something in her eyes that I've never seen before—fear. Deep, primal fear. "Don't dig, Claire," she says, and her voice is shaking. "Don't dig. Please. I know what it looks like. I know what it smells like. But please—don't go looking for answers. Some things are better left buried."

I blink at her, confused. "What are you talking about? Someone did this to you. Someone hurt you. We have to find out who."

"No." Her voice is sharp, almost desperate. "We don't. We don't do anything. We let this go, Claire. We pick up the pieces and we move on." She looks at me, her eyes pleading. "I've seen what happens when ordinary people go up against men like this. It doesn't end well. I've seen it before. I saw it happen to your grandfather."

My breath catches in my throat. My grandfather. I've never known the full story of what happened to him—only that he died young, and Emily never talked about it. "What do you mean?" I ask. "What happened to him?"

Emily shakes her head, her gaze sliding away from mine. "Not now. Not here. But please, child. Promise me you won't go looking for answers."

I don't respond. I can't. Because even as she's begging me to let it go, my mind is racing with questions I don't have answers to. Who would do this? Why would anyone want to hurt my grandmother? And what does any of this have to do with my grandfather? The fire crackles behind me, the heat washing over my skin, and I feel the world tilting further out of control.

The paramedics approach, gently pulling Emily away from me to check her vitals. I stand there, frozen, watching them work, and I feel like I'm watching my life fall apart in slow motion. The eatery is gone. Emily is broken. And I have no idea who did this or why.

But I know one thing for certain: the fire that destroyed my grandmother's livelihood wasn't an accident. And whoever did it is still out there.

Emily is taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and I ride beside her, holding her hand the entire way. She's silent, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. I don't know if she's asleep or just lost in her own thoughts. I don't know if she'll ever tell me the truth about what happened to my grandfather.

When we arrive at the hospital, I'm pushed aside as they wheel her into the emergency room. I stand in the hallway, my arms wrapped around myself, and I feel the tears streaming down my face. I've never felt so alone. I've never felt so helpless.

The hours blur together. Tests, doctors, waiting rooms, endless corridors that all look the same. They tell me she's stable, that she'll be okay, but the relief is short-lived. The bills are already piling up. The fire has destroyed everything. I don't know how we're going to survive this.

I sit beside her bed, watching her sleep, and I feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. The fire. The bills. The mystery of who did this. The secret my grandmother is hiding. I don't know where to start. I don't know who to trust.

But I know I can't give up. Not yet. Not while she's still breathing.