Eli locked the door and pulled the shades. He sat in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat.
Silas was arrested in Florida, where he’d been living under a different name for fifteen years. He confessed within hours, weeping that Roland had “owed him” for a bad investment. The fire had gotten out of control faster than he’d expected. He hadn’t meant to kill Dina. He hadn’t known Marisol was home.
Linda flew to Ohio. She found Tiller’s old notes, buried in a cardboard box labeled “Archived—2003.” She found a photograph of the gas fitting—cross-threaded, deliberately sabotaged. She found a witness no one had interviewed: a neighbor who saw a green sedan parked outside the duplex the morning of the fire. A sedan registered to Roland Meeks’s brother, Silas. An Innocent Man
She placed the watch down. “Ever been to Ohio, Mr. Cross?”
Eli looked at her for a long moment. His hands, those steady, careful hands, remained at his sides. Eli locked the door and pulled the shades
“I wasn’t running from guilt,” he said. “I was running from grief. And I ended up right where I belonged.”
She saw the sketch on Twitter. Her hands began to shake. He confessed within hours, weeping that Roland had
“I didn’t start that fire,” he said softly.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t.”
She walked up to Eli. Her face was wet with rain and something else.