Three days after the warehouse fire, Lucy sat in a hospital room watching her father sleep. The doctors said he'd recover—broken ribs, a concussion, severe dehydration. But the emotional wounds would take longer to heal.
William appeared in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. He moved slowly, back in the wheelchair. The strain of the past few days had undone months of physical therapy progress.
"Any change?" he asked quietly.
"Not yet." Lucy took the coffee gratefully. "The detective came by earlier. Said Mirabel and Victoria are both refusing to talk. Isabel's lawyer is claiming she was coerced, that she feared for her life."
"Of course she is." William's voice was bitter. He looked exhausted, hollowed out. "Brad?"
"Still cooperating. He gave them everything: financial records,
