PART 3

By sunrise, I was in a cheap hotel near the airport with a borrowed sweatshirt, a plastic pharmacy bag of toiletries, and a police report number written on the back of a business card.

I did not sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw orange light climbing my kitchen wall. I saw Oliver’s green eyes under the bed. I saw my mother’s handwriting on that purple key tag.

At 7:12 a.m., Jasmine called.

“Oh my God, Claire,” she said. “I just saw the news. Are you okay?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m alive.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Tell me what you need.”

That sentence almost broke me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was simple. My own mother had heard that my apartment burned down and treated it like spilled coffee. Jasmine, who had known me only four years, sounded ready to drive across the city in her pajamas.

“I need clothes,” I said. “And I need you to check something.”

“Anything.”

“Did you tell anyone my flight was canceled?”

“No. Why?”

I sat on the bed’s edge, staring at the beige carpet. “Because whoever started the fire probably thought I was in San Diego.”

Jasmine went silent.