“You’re safe,” he told her solemnly. “Dad’s really strong.”
Firefighters arrived minutes later. The fire, thankfully, was contained two floors above us. No deaths. No serious injuries. But the elevators were damaged and would be out for days.
After the all-clear, I carried Mrs. Lawrence back up all nine flights.
Again.
By the time I set her down on her couch, my hands were numb and my vision swam. She cried and thanked me over and over until I gently told her to rest.
For the next two days, I checked on her constantly—bringing groceries, making sure she took her meds, helping her move around until the building felt safe again.
Then, on Thursday evening, while I was stirring pasta sauce, someone pounded on my door so hard the frame rattled.
I opened it to find a man in his fifties, tall, well-dressed, his face twisted with fury.
“We need to talk,” he snapped. “I know what you did during that fire. YOU DID IT ON PURPOSE. YOU’RE A DISGRACE!”
Nick froze behind me.
“I… what?” I said.
“You staged it,” the man continued, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You carried her like some hero so she’d depend on you. So you could worm your way into her life.”
My blood went cold. “Who are you?”
“I’m her son.”
