Chapter Seven – The Secret
Claire didn't clean the door.
She couldn't bring herself to touch the word carved into the wood. It felt alive somehow, as though if she traced the letters they would bleed into her skin.
REMEMBER.
She called in sick again. The lie tasted sour, but the woman on the phone didn't question her. No one ever did.
Instead, Claire put on her coat and left the apartment for the first time since the night before. The hallway felt hostile, every shadow stretched and sharp. She locked her door and stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, half-expecting to hear footsteps behind her.
Nothing.
She walked without a destination at first, the cold air biting at her cheeks, grounding her. Eventually, her feet carried her somewhere she hadn't meant to go.
The old neighborhood.
The house wasn't there anymore. It had been torn down years ago, replaced with a narrow lot and a chain-link fence. Still, Claire stood staring, seeing flames where there was only empty space.
She remembered the police asking questions. Remembered the neighbors whispering. Remembered being told she was lucky to be alive.
Lucky.
At the public library nearby, she sat hunched over a terminal, hands trembling as she typed. Fire reports. Missing persons. Archived articles.
Daniel H——: presumed deceased. Body not recovered.
Presumed.
Her breath caught. All these years, she'd believed the story she'd been given—that the fire took him. That there was nothing left to find.
But what if there was?
What if someone else knew the truth