Two police officers walked up the steps, their boots clicking on the wet stone terrace.

One of them, a silver-haired sergeant, began speaking to Alexander.

“Mr. Hawthorne, what happened inside?” the sergeant asked, pulling out a small notepad.

“The study went up in seconds,” Alexander said, his voice hard as iron. “The security doors locked from the outside.”

“An electrical short?” the officer asked, writing down the details.

“No,” Alexander said, his eyes turning toward Celeste. “It wasn’t an accident.”

I watched Celeste from beneath the edge of my blanket.

She walked over to our group, her face suddenly shifting into a mask of deep concern.

“Oh, thank goodness you are both safe,” Celeste said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

“It was absolutely terrifying watching the smoke rise from the gardens.”

“You were in the gardens?” I asked, my voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

I pulled the mask down slightly to look her in the eye.

“I was taking a walk,” Celeste replied, her smile not reaching her cold eyes.

“The fresh air helps me sleep.”

“You were near the south wing,” I said, staring at her wet shoes.