“What about Beatrice?” Liam asked.

“She is not talking,” Holt said, looking back at the building. “But she does not need to. We found the gasoline cans in the trunk of Darrow’s car, along with the financial ledgers they tried to burn.”

“Will it be enough?” I asked.

“More than enough,” Holt said, giving me a small, reassuring nod. “The arson charge alone carries a heavy sentence. With the attempted murder of Officer Davis, you, and her own daughter, she will not see the outside of a cell again.”

We watched as the police cruisers drove away, their sirens silent but their lights still painting the night sky.

The weeks that followed were a blur of legal meetings, depositions, and quiet recovery.

Our coastal city, usually so bright and bustling, felt different now, stripped of the illusions that had kept us blind for so long.

Liam and I spent our mornings sitting on our terrace, watching the gray fog roll off the ocean.

We did not talk about Beatrice, or the trial, or the money.

We just held hands, listening to the waves crash against the rocks below.