He put a hand up before she reached the door. “Just, before you open it… the place is wrecked. Things were torn apart. Ransacked.”
She nodded, jaw tight. “Looking for something.”
Alex looked at her. “What do you think they were after?”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She moved past him, unlocked the door, and stepped into what was left of her home.
The living room was a shell. Books gutted from shelves. Picture frames shattered. Couch cushions slashed. Cabinet drawers pulled out and dumped. Her chest ached as she walked through it. But she didn’t stop. She headed straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Charlotte…”
“I know what they were looking for.” She didn’t wait for him to follow. He didn’t.
In the attic, she moved with purpose. Dust rose in the narrow beam of the single hanging light bulb as she pushed past holiday boxes and old furniture. She reached the cedar closet at the far end, dropped to her knees, and ran her hand along the warped floorboards. Her fingers found the notch. She lifted the panel.
There, in the darkness: a small box, taped shut. Old. Heavy. She peeled it open. Inside were cassette tapes, neatly labeled inblack marker. Ward – Interview 1, Ward – 2, Ward – Final. Also in the box were two racks of slides and cans of Super 8 movies. She just stared.
When she finally came back down the stairs, the box cradled in her arms like something fragile, she stopped halfway down. Her eyes moved across the ruin of her upstairs—books tossed about, drawers upturned, a life torn apart. Charlotte stood there, trembling, until her legs gave out.
Alex caught her before she hit the ground. She collapsed into him, the box pressed awkwardly between them, her breath ragged against his shoulder. He caught her without thinking, arms wrapping around her as if he could hold back everything threatening to break loose.
She gripped the edges of the box like it might explode if she let go. “These are tapes,” she said, her voice thin. “And slides. From the Ward interviews.”
Alex stiffened just slightly, his hands tightening around her back.
“I can’t do this tonight,” she whispered. “Not this.”
“I know,” he said gently, resting his chin against her hair. “You don’t have to.”
She let out a shuddering breath and finally released the box, letting him take over holding it. Her body sagged fully into his, her weight, her exhaustion, her silence—surrendering everything.
And Alex just held her.
Alex setthe box down on the hallway table like it was something sacred. He could still feel Charlotte’s weight in his arms evenafter she’d stepped away. Her face was all sharp edges and control—but her hands were unsteady. Charlotte didn’t rattle easily. But this was personal.
She didn’t say a word as they moved through the wreckage of the house. In the master bedroom, she stepped over drawers spilled open, clothes strewn about from her closet, the mattress askew. She walked like she was logging evidence, but her eyes betrayed her—drifting, remembering.
Then she stopped.
A picture frame lay on the floor near the bed. Cracked glass. Frame dented. She knelt and picked it up slowly.
Alex stayed behind her. Watching. Waiting.
She sank to the floor like gravity had taken over. When he sat beside her, she turned the frame toward him. A wedding photo, a little sun-bleached at the edges but still bright. Charlotte looked barely twenty-five, face open and smiling wide, dressed in white. Beside her stood a tall man in firefighter dress blues, a strong arm around her waist, eyes fixed on her like she was everything.
“Chuck Everhart,” she said softly. “He was a battalion chief in the end. Died twenty-five years ago.”
Alex nodded once. He knew the name. Knew the story. Chuck Everhart and David Reynolds—Jackson’s father. Best friends. Died in the same fire. One of the worst in Waverly County history.
“He and David went in together,” Charlotte said, voice low. “Rescued two kids from the basement, got them out. They went back in for a final sweep. Got trapped.”
She paused. “Later, it came out that the basement doors were blocked from the outside. It wasn’t an accident. It was a damn murder.”
Alex didn’t speak.
Charlotte’s voice thinned. “That’s how Olivia and Jackson met. Both losing their dads in the same fire. The same lie. They chased the truth together.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Olivia was ten. Sophie was eight. Molly six. Izzy four. Ruth was two.”
