“The policy was approved on a Tuesday,” Sarah said. “The fire happened on Friday.”

My hand went to my collarbone, where my own skin still throbbed on humid Miami days.

“How did it start?” I asked.

“An electrical fault, supposedly,” Sarah said. “In the back storage room where the extra stock was kept.”

She turned another page in the folder.

It was a copy of a fire marshal’s report from Hillsborough County.

“But it wasn’t an accident,” Sarah said. “I went back to the shop late that night to grab my ledger.”

She stopped, her fingers trembling against the edge of the paper.

“I smelled gasoline,” she whispered. “And then the back wall just exploded.”

The diner around us seemed to fade into a dull hum.

“Was he there?” I asked.

“He was standing near the alley exit,” Sarah said. “I saw his silhouette through the smoke.”

She gripped her coffee mug with both hands.

“He didn’t run to help me,” she said. “He closed the metal door and locked it from the outside.”

Marisol wrote a quick note in her pad, her pen scratching loudly.