Chapter 5 - Shadows of the Old Fire
The next forty-eight hours were the longest of Victoria's life. The police were helpful but slow — they treated Rose's disappearance as a missing persons case, not a kidnapping, because there was no body, no witness, no ransom demand that they could verify. Victoria knew better. She had the note. She had Blackwood's voice on the phone. But proof was another matter.
She did not sleep. She did not eat. She sat in her office, with Lily curled up on the couch beside her, and she worked the phones. Margaret's team pulled every record. Every camera. Every license plate. And slowly, a picture began to emerge.
Rose had not been taken by force. The door was not broken. There was no sign of a struggle. Which meant — Rose had known her abductor. Or she had gone willingly.
"She wouldn't go willingly," Lily said, her voice small. "Not without me. Unless — unless they made her. Unless they threatened her."
Victoria looked at the child. She had not slept either. Her eyes were red. Her hand was closed around the ring, turning it, turning it, the way people do when they are praying.
"Margaret," Victoria said. "I need you to go back. Back to the beginning. The fire. 2003. The Harrington estate. I want every file. Every witness. Every firefighter who was there. I want to know who set that fire. Because I am starting to think — I am starting to think that Marcus Blackwood didn't just appear in our lives six weeks ago. I think he's been there all along."
It took Margaret thirty-six hours. But when she came back, she came back with a folder thick enough to break a table.
"You're not going to believe this," she said, laying the photos out on Victoria's desk. "The Harrington estate fire. 2003. The official cause was listed as electrical — faulty wiring in the attic. But I found the original fire marshal's report. The one that got buried. He found accelerant. Gasoline. In three separate places. It was arson, Victoria. Deliberate. Planned."
Victoria's blood went cold. "Who knew? Who saw that report?"
"Three people. The fire marshal — he died two years later. Heart attack. Your father — he died five years ago. And the insurance investigator. A man named —" Margaret paused. "A man named Harold Blackwood. Marcus Blackwood's father."
The room went very quiet.
"Harold Blackwood was the insurance investigator on the fire," Margaret continued. "He's the one who signed off on the 'electrical fault' conclusion. He's the one who buried the arson report. And six months after the fire, Harold Blackwood's company — a small, regional insurance firm — was bought out. For twice its value. By a shell company. That shell company later became Blackwood Capital."
Victoria stared at the photos. The burned-out house. The charred remains of the nursery. The empty crib. She had been twelve years old. She had been at boarding school that weekend. Her parents had been at a charity gala. Anna — five-year-old Anna, with her braids and her stuffed rabbit — had been home with the nanny. The nanny had died in the fire. Anna had been listed as missing, presumed dead.
But Anna had lived. Anna had wandered out of the woods, burned and bleeding, and Rose Martinez had found her.
And Marcus Blackwood's father had covered it all up.
"Why?" Victoria whispered. "Why would he set fire to our house? Why would he kill the nanny? Why would he —"
She stopped. Because she knew. She had always known, somewhere deep down. Her father had been a powerful man. He had made enemies. And Harold Blackwood — Marcus's father — had been one of them. A business deal gone wrong. A partnership dissolved. A grudge that festered into something monstrous.
But there was more. Margaret laid down one more photo. It was a manila envelope, postmarked three weeks ago. It had been sent to Rose's apartment.
"Rose got this," Margaret said. "Three weeks ago. The same week Daniel Cross showed up. I found the envelope in her trash — she kept the letter. It's in her nightstand. Victoria, it's a confession. From Harold Blackwood. Written before he died. He confessed to the arson. He confessed to everything. And he named his son. Marcus Blackwood. He said Marcus knew. He said Marcus helped."
Victoria picked up the letter. Her hands were shaking. It was old paper, yellowed at the edges. The handwriting was shaky — a dying man's hand.
I set the fire. I meant to kill them all. The father, the mother, the girls. I wanted Edward Harrington to suffer the way I suffered when he ruined me. But the youngest girl lived. Anna. She got out. I have carried that for twenty years. I am dying. I cannot carry it anymore. If you are reading this, you know the truth. Marcus knows too. He was there that night. He was seventeen. He helped me. God forgive us both.
Victoria read it twice. Then she looked at Margaret. "Rose had this. For three weeks. And she didn't tell me."
"She was scared, Victoria. Blackwood's people found out she had it. That's why they took her. Not just to rattle you. To get the letter back. Because if that letter becomes public — if the arson is proven — Marcus Blackwood goes to prison. For the rest of his life. And Blackwood Capital collapses."
Victoria stood up. She walked to the window. The city spread out below her, indifferent, beautiful. Somewhere in that city, Rose Martinez was being held. Somewhere in that city, Marcus Blackwood was laughing.
And somewhere in that city, her sister Anna had grown up, had fallen in love, had given birth to Lily, and had died — never knowing that the fire that took her family had been set on purpose. Never knowing that the man responsible was still alive, still rich, still powerful.
Victoria turned around. Her face was like flint.
"Margaret. I want the letter authenticated. I want it copied. I want it sent to every major news outlet in the country — but not yet. Not until we have Rose. First, we get Rose. Then we burn Marcus Blackwood to the ground."
Lily, who had been silent on the couch, spoke up. Her voice was small but clear. "Victoria. I know where they took her."
Everyone turned. Lily was standing now. Her hand was closed around the ring. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her voice was steady.
"Abuela has a tracker. On her phone. She got it after she got sick — she was scared she'd get lost somewhere and nobody would find her. She showed me. It's an app. On my phone. See?"
She held up her phone. On the screen was a map. And on the map, a single blinking dot.
It was moving. Slowly, north, out of the city. On a highway. Toward a warehouse district by the river.
Victoria looked at the dot. Then she looked at Margaret. Then she looked at her head of security, a man named Carter who had been with her for ten years.
"Carter. You still have friends on the force? The ones who don't ask questions?"
Carter nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. We're going to get my grandmother back. And we're going to do it tonight."
She looked at Lily. "Sweetheart. You stay here. With Eleanor. You'll be safe."
But Lily shook her head. She was eight years old. She had sold roses on the streets of New York. She had fought a boy twice her size. She had been through more in eight years than most people went through in eighty.
"No," she said. "I'm coming. She's my abuela. And I'm not staying here while you go save her. I'm family. And families don't leave each other."
Victoria stared at her. Then she smiled. It was a smile Anna would have recognized. It was the Harrington smile — stubborn, fearless, and just a little bit dangerous.
"Okay," she said. "But you do exactly what I say. Exactly. No heroics. No hitting anyone. Promise?"
Lily held out her hand. "Promise."
Victoria shook it. Then she picked up her coat, her keys, and her phone. She dialed one last number. Marcus Blackwood's.
He answered. "Victoria. Time's almost up. Have you made your decision?"
"Yes, Marcus. I've made my decision. I'm coming for you. And I'm bringing the police. And the press. And a letter from your dead father. You have exactly one hour to release Rose Martinez. If you don't — if you so much as scratch her — I will burn everything you have ever built to the ground. And I will do it with a smile on my face."
She hung up. She looked at Lily. She looked at Carter. She looked at Margaret.
May you like
"Let's go get our girl."
Outside, the sun was setting. The city was turning gold. And somewhere, on a dark highway by the river, a blinking dot was moving closer — closer to the place where the last chapter of this story would be written.
