Through the haze, I saw Helen.

She was kneeling on the concrete floor beside a metal trash bin.

A small fire was burning inside the bin, fed by folders and thick, leather-bound ledger books.

Her expensive wool coat was stained with ash, and her hair, usually perfectly coifed, clung to her damp forehead in messy strands.

She held a half-empty can of lighter fluid in one hand and a box of matches in the other.

“Get back!” Helen screamed, her voice hoarse from the smoke. “Keep away from me!”

“Drop the lighter fluid, Helen,” Miller said, drawing her weapon but keeping it pointed at the floor. “It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” Helen sobbed, her fingers trembling as she tried to strike another match. “This is my house. I made this place.”

“My mother made this place,” I said, stepping into the smoky room.

Helen looked up at me, her eyes filled with a pure, venomous hatred.

“Your mother was weak,” Helen spat. “She cared about the people, the community, the useless projects. She didn’t understand power.”

“She understood legacy,” I said, looking at the burning papers. “And yours is gone.”