They moved her into the back kitchen — the only room in Grimshaw Hall not yet swallowed by fire or filled with shouting officers. The air was thick with smoke from the ducts, a bitter tang of charred wood and scorched carpet. The roar of the inferno vibrated through the floor.

Joan Grimshaw sat on a metal prep stool, her hands shaking, her face streaked with soot and tears.
She looked older than she had an hour ago.
Older than she had in a decade.

Pauline Philbey stood against the wall, arms tightly folded, eyes fixed on Joan as if she could hold her there by will alone.

Riggs and Georgie waited nearby, masks hanging around their necks, ready to move, ready to react.

Fizz Harbord knelt beside Liz Russell, rechecking her pulse, whispering something soft and grounding...

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