I don't sleep after Samuel disappears.
How could I? A ten year old ghost just told me about a mass murder disguised as an accident, about children burning alive while someone stood by and watched. About twenty years of silence and covered-up truth.
I sit at the table until sunrise, my notebook open in front of me, pages filled with questions and theories. My coffee has gone cold three times, and I've refilled the cup each time without really tasting it. The rain outside has stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective under the early morning light.
My mind won't stop working. That's always been my problem, or my gift, depending on how you look at it. Once I latch onto a case, once I see the threads of something that doesn't add up, I can't let it go. It's what made me a good detective. It's also what drove my wife crazy sometimes, the way I'd disappear into case files and theories, forgetting to eat or sleep or exist in the normal world.
I stare at Samuel's name written at the top of the page. Samuel Harding. Dead twenty years. Witnessed someone spreading accelerant before a fire that killed six people. Four children, two adults.
But here's what bothers me: if someone wanted to burn down the orphanage, why do it when children were sleeping inside? Why not wait until the building was empty? Unless...
Unless the children were the target.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to follow the logic. If you wanted to destroy evidence of something, you'd burn the building. But if you wanted to eliminate witnesses, you'd burn the building with them inside.
What were those children witnesses to?
I flip back through my notes to the section about disappearing children and unofficial adoptions. Samuel mentioned rumors among the kids. Stories that were dismissed as childish imagination or exaggeration.
But what if they weren't stories?
I open my laptop and start searching again, this time with more specific parameters. Missing children reports from the tri-state area, 2000 to 2005. Kids who were in the foster system or living in group homes. Children who might have passed through Mercy Heights.
The results make me feel sick. Dozens of cases. Faces staring back at me from the screen. Each one a life interrupted, a family destroyed, a question that never got answered.
I cross-reference the names with news articles about Mercy Heights, looking for any connection. It's tedious work, made harder by the fact that many records from that era aren't fully digitized. But after two hours, I find something.
Three children who stayed at Mercy Heights were later reported missing by their adoptive families. Three separate cases, spread out over four years. All three families claimed the children ran away. All three investigations went cold.
That's not normal. That's a pattern.
I write down the names: Jessica Rourke, age 8. Timothy Delgado, age 10. Maya Henderson, age 7.
Three kids, three failed adoptions, three unsolved disappearances. And all of them passed through Mercy Heights before they vanished.
My phone buzzes. It's already nine AM. I've been up all night without realizing it. The text is from Torres.
"You good? You seem off lately. Coffee today?"
I stare at the message. This is my opening. This is how I bring him into this case without revealing my source.
I text back: "Yeah, let's talk. I've been looking into something. Old cold case. Might need your help."
Three dots appear immediately. Torres is typing.
"Color me intrigued. Noon at Marino's?"
"See you there."
I close the laptop and stretch. My back aches from sitting in the same position for hours. I need a shower, food, and probably sleep. But my mind is too wired, too full of theories and connections and questions that need answers.
I force myself to go through the motions of a normal morning. Shower, shave, clean clothes. I make eggs and toast and actually eat them, knowing I'll need energy for the conversation ahead. Torres is going to have questions. I need to be ready with answers that don't involve the words "a ghost told me."
By eleven thirty, I'm walking to Marino's, a Italian restaurant that serves the best coffee in the neighborhood. Torres and I started meeting here after the diner got too crowded with other cops. This place is quieter, more private. Better for the kind of conversations where you don't want other detectives overhearing.
Torres is already there, sitting at a corner booth with a cup of espresso in front of him. He sees me and waves me over, his expression curious.
"Crowe. You look like you haven't slept."
"Because I haven't." I slide into the booth across from him. "Been researching."
"Researching what?"
A waitress appears before I can answer. I order coffee and tell her we'll need a few minutes for food. Once she's gone, I lean forward and lower my voice.
"You remember the Mercy Heights fire? The orphanage that burned down about twenty years ago?"
Torres's eyebrows go up. "Yeah, vaguely. That was before my time in the department, but I've heard about it. Six fatalities, right? Electrical fire?"
"That's the official story."
"And you don't buy it?"
I pull out my notebook and open it to the pages I've been working on. "I've been digging into the case. Started as just curiosity, something to occupy my time. But the more I look, the more things don't add up."
Torres picks up his espresso and sips it, studying me over the rim of the cup. "What kind of things?"
"For starters, three children who lived at Mercy Heights were later reported missing after supposedly being adopted. Three separate cases over four years. All three families claimed the kids ran away. All three investigations went cold."
"That's concerning, but not necessarily connected to the fire."
"Maybe not. But then there's this." I slide the notebook toward him, showing him the article about Elena Morse. "Three months after the fire, a former employee raised questions about the investigation. Said there were inconsistencies. She was dismissed."
Torres reads the article carefully, his cop brain already working through the implications. "Elena Morse. You talk to her?"
"Not yet. I wanted to run this by you first. See if you thought it was worth pursuing."
He leans back in the booth, thinking. "Okay, I'll bite. What's your theory?"
This is the tricky part. I need to give him enough to get him interested without revealing my source. I choose my words carefully.
"I think something was going on at Mercy Heights. Something bad. I think children were disappearing, either being sold or being abused or both. And I think when someone got too close to discovering the truth, the orphanage burned down to destroy the evidence."
"That's a hell of an accusation, Crowe. You have any actual evidence, or is this just gut instinct?"
"Right now? It's theory based on pattern recognition. But that's why I need your help. I need access to the original investigation files. I need to know what the fire marshal found, what the police reports say, who was interviewed."
Torres is quiet for a long moment. The waitress brings my coffee, and we both order sandwiches without really paying attention to what we're choosing. Once she's gone again, Torres speaks.
"Let me ask you something. Why this case? Why now?"
It's the question I knew was coming. I wrap my hands around my coffee cup and think about how to answer.
"Because I need something to focus on," I say finally. "Something that matters. I've been sitting in my apartment for months, drowning in grief and guilt. I need to feel useful again. And this case... there's something here, Torres. I can feel it."
It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.
Torres nods slowly. "Okay. I get that. And honestly, I'm glad to see you engaged with something again. But you need to understand, if we're going to dig into this, we do it right. No cowboy shit. No obsessing over theories without evidence. We follow the facts wherever they lead."
"Agreed."
"And if it turns out the original investigation was solid, if the fire really was just an accident, you let it go. You don't spiral into conspiracy theories because you want there to be a mystery to solve."
"I can do that."
He studies me for another moment, then sighs. "Alright. I'll pull the case files. See what we've got on record. But Crowe, I'm doing this because I trust your instincts. Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
Our food arrives, and we eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Torres asks, "So where do you want to start? Besides the case files?"
I flip through my notebook to the list of names I've compiled. "I want to interview the key players. Dr. Halloway, if he's still alive. Sister Miriam. And definitely Elena Morse, the employee who raised questions."
"That's a lot of people who might not want to talk about a twenty year old tragedy."
"Which is exactly why I want to talk to them. People who have nothing to hide don't get defensive when you ask questions."
Torres grins. "There's the detective I remember. Okay, I'll help you track them down. But we need to be smart about how we approach this. We're not officially reopening the case, not yet. We're just asking questions about an old fire."
"Understood."
We spend the next hour planning our approach. Torres will pull the official files and run background checks on the key personnel. I'll start with the public records, tracking down current addresses and contact information. We'll divide up the interviews once we know who's still alive and willing to talk.
By the time we leave Marino's, I feel more energized than I have in months. This is what I was meant to do. Not sitting alone in my apartment, not waiting for ghosts to appear. But this: following leads, building cases, finding truth.
Torres claps me on the shoulder as we part ways outside the restaurant. "Good to have you back, partner."
"I'm not officially back."
"Yeah, but you will be. I can see it in your eyes. You've got that look again."
After he leaves, I walk back to my apartment, my mind already racing ahead to the next steps. I need to find Elena Morse. She's the wild card, the person who questioned the official narrative. If anyone can give me insight into what was really happening at Mercy Heights, it's her.
Back home, I dive back into research. Elena Morse, former employee of Mercy Heights Home for Children. I search through social media, public records, anything that might give me a current location.
It takes three hours, but I finally find her. She's living in a suburb about forty minutes outside the city. According to her LinkedIn profile, she works as a social worker now, specializing in child welfare cases.
Of course she does. Once you see that kind of darkness, you either run from it or you spend the rest of your life trying to fight it.
I find what looks like a personal email address through a professional directory. I spend twenty minutes crafting a message, trying to strike the right balance between professional and approachable.
"Ms. Morse, my name is Ethan Crowe. I'm a former police detective currently looking into the 2005 fire at Mercy Heights Home for Children. I came across an article where you raised concerns about the investigation, and I was hoping you might be willing to speak with me about your experiences there. I understand this may be difficult to discuss, but I believe there are questions about that night that deserve answers. If you're willing to talk, please let me know a time and place that works for you."
I read it over three times, then hit send before I can second-guess myself.
The rest of the afternoon is spent compiling more information. I create a timeline of events leading up to the fire, noting any anomalies or unexplained incidents. I make a list of every person mentioned in the news articles, cross-referencing them with public records to see who's still alive and where they might be.
The work is familiar, comforting. This is what I'm good at. Taking scattered pieces of information and finding the pattern underneath. Seeing the connections that others miss.
As evening approaches, I realize I'm actually hungry. I make a real dinner for the first time in weeks, pasta with vegetables and chicken. I set two places at the table again, wondering if Samuel will appear.
He does, right as I'm finishing my meal.
One moment the chair is empty, the next he's sitting there, looking at me with those old, sad eyes.
"You're investigating," he says. It's not a question.
"Yeah. I spent the day researching, and I brought in a partner. Another detective. Someone I trust."
Samuel's expression tightens. "You didn't tell him about me."
"No. I told him I found inconsistencies in the case that made me suspicious. He's pulling the official investigation files."
"Will he believe you? When you tell him it wasn't an accident?"
"If I can show him evidence, yes. Torres is a good cop. He follows the facts. But that's why I need more from you, Samuel. I need details. Names, dates, anything specific you can remember."
Samuel nods and launches into more details about the night of the fire. He describes the layout of the building, where he was sleeping, which rooms were occupied. He tells me about the staff members who were on duty that night, the ones who died and the ones who survived.
I take notes furiously, filling page after page. The more he talks, the more I realize how much he actually saw, how much he knows. He might have been just a kid, but he was observant. Intelligent. The kind of child who noticed things adults overlooked.
"There's something else," Samuel says after a while. "Something I didn't mention before because I wasn't sure if it mattered."
"Everything matters. Tell me."
"About a week before the fire, I heard Dr. Halloway arguing with someone in his office. I was supposed to be in bed, but I'd snuck downstairs to get a book from the library. Their voices were loud, angry. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard Dr. Halloway say something about 'loose ends' and 'too risky to continue.'"
My pen stops moving. "Did you see who he was arguing with?"
"No. But it was a man. Older, deep voice. He said something like 'we've come too far to stop now' and 'the clients are paying premium.'"
Clients. Paying premium.
Jesus Christ.
"Samuel, I need you to think carefully. Did you ever see strangers visiting the orphanage? People who weren't staff or social workers?"
He thinks for a moment, then nods. "Sometimes. Usually late at night. I'd hear cars pulling up, see lights from the windows. Dr. Halloway would meet them at the door, and they'd go into his office. Sometimes they'd look at us kids during the day, like they were shopping or something."
My stomach churns. This is worse than I thought. This isn't just about abuse or neglect. This is about trafficking. Selling children to "clients" who paid premium prices.
"Did any children leave with these visitors?"
"Sometimes. Dr. Halloway would say they were being adopted, and we'd have a little party for them. But..." Samuel's voice drops. "They were always the quiet ones. The kids who didn't have family visiting. The ones nobody would miss."
I have to stop writing because my hands are shaking with rage. These monsters weren't just running an orphanage. They were running a shopping catalog for pedophiles and traffickers. And when someone got too close to discovering it, they burned the evidence. Including the children.
"Samuel, this is important. The man you saw spreading the accelerant. Could it have been one of these visitors?"
He closes his eyes, concentrating. "Maybe. I only saw him for a second, and it was dark. But he moved like he knew the building. Like he'd been there before."
So either staff or a frequent visitor. Someone who had access, who knew the layout, who had reason to want the place destroyed.
We talk for another hour, Samuel giving me every detail he can remember. Names of other children who were there. Staff members who seemed uncomfortable or acted strangely. Anything that might help me build a case.
When he finally fades, exhausted from the effort of remembering, I sit alone at the table with pages and pages of notes. The picture is becoming clearer, and it's uglier than I imagined.
Mercy Heights wasn't just an orphanage. It was a front for child trafficking. And the fire wasn't about destroying evidence of abuse. It was about eliminating witnesses.
Six people died that night. But how many children disappeared before the fire? How many were sold to "clients" and never seen again?
I need to find Elena Morse. She worked there. She saw something. That's why she questioned the investigation afterward.
My email pings, and I nearly fall out of my chair grabbing my laptop.
It's from Elena Morse.
"Mr. Crowe, I wondered when someone would finally start asking the right questions. I've been waiting twenty years for this. We need to talk, but not over email and not on the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow at 2 PM? There's a coffee shop called Brenda's on Maple Street in Riverside. Come alone. I'll explain everything."
I read the message three times, my heart pounding.
She's been waiting twenty years.
She knows something.
Tomorrow, I'm going to find out what.