My voice was calmer than my hands.

“I have to,” she said.

She splashed more rubbing alcohol onto the corner of the large mahogany desk.

The fire licked the polished wood.

It crawled quickly toward the leather-bound books on the nearby shelves.

“The boy shouldn’t be here,” Celeste said, glancing at Ethan.

Ethan’s hand gripped my apron so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Why are you burning Eleanor’s files?” I asked.

“Because they prove what I did,” she said.

She did not look remorseful.

Her eyes were fixed on the burning stack of papers.

The smoke was starting to sting my eyes.

I coughed, covering Ethan’s nose and mouth with my sleeve.

“She knew,” Celeste muttered.

“Eleanor knew who I was before she died.”

She kicked a burning piece of paper toward the heavy velvet curtains.

The fabric caught immediately.

A column of fire rushed up toward the high ceiling.

The light in the room turned a violent, flickering red.

The phone on the desk stopped ringing.

Then, the high-pitched shriek of the smoke detector began.

It pierced through the quiet of the estate.