“My sister locked the bedroom door from the outside.

The next morning, the sun broke over Bennett Street with a cruel, mocking brightness. The white house at number 42 looked as pristine as ever from the outside, save for the blackened, soot-stained window frame on the second floor where Caitlyn’s bedroom had nearly become her tomb.

Inside, Eleanor Monroe was already seated at the mahogany dining table, sipping her morning Earl Grey tea from fine china. Across from her sat twelve-year-old Chloe, scrolling mindlessly on a sleek tablet while buttering a piece of toast.

"Mother," Chloe said casually without looking up. "Are the police really coming back today? Everyone at school is talking about the fire. They're saying Caitlyn tried to burn the house down."

Eleanor set her teacup down with a precise, measured click. Her lips formed a thin, tight line. "People will say whatever sensationalist nonsense entertains them, Chloe. But your uncle Arthur is making a terrible mistake trying to involve himself in family matters that do not concern him. We are Monroes. We maintain our dignity, no matter how... difficult... certain family members behave."

Before Chloe could reply, a sharp, heavy pounding echoed against the front door. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor dropping by with casserole dishes; it was the rhythmic, authoritative rap of law enforcement.

Eleanor smoothed down her silk cardigan, stood up with unbothered grace, and walked to the front entryway. She unlocked the heavy oak door, expecting Captain Vance or perhaps a local patrol officer.

Instead, standing on her porch were Detective Miller of the State Bureau of Investigation, two uniformed state troopers, and Arthur.

And right behind Arthur stood Caitlyn, wearing a clean blue dress, holding her uncle's hand with quiet, resolute courage.

Eleanor’s smile didn't waver, though her eyes hardened into shards of ice. "Detective Miller. To what do I owe the absolute displeasure of this uninvited interruption? As you can see, we are dealing with property damage from a domestic accident caused by a troubled child."

Detective Miller didn't return her smile. He stepped across the threshold uninvited, holding a manila folder in his hand.

"Mrs. Monroe, I am executing a search and seizure warrant for this residence, as well as a preliminary detention order for questioning regarding attempted arson of an occupied dwelling, and a reopened inquiry into the death of your late husband, Thomas Monroe."

The color finally drained completely from Eleanor’s face. The porcelain mask of suburban perfection fractured, revealing the desperate, calculating panic underneath.

"That is absurd!" Eleanor shrieked, her voice losing its melodic composure for the first time in public. "My husband died of an accidental fall! My home caught fire because my unstable niece was playing with matches! You have no jurisdiction—you are ruining my reputation!"

"Your reputation is the least of your concerns right now, Eleanor," Detective Miller said coldly, gesturing to the troopers behind him. "Step aside. We have a warrant to search the master bedroom vanity, the security locks on the second-floor doors, and every inch of this house."