Page 27 of The Cost of Silence

“For your safety,” I correct before I can stop myself.

The words hang between us in the quiet car, louder than they should be.

She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s turning that answer over and examining it from every angle. Then she faces forward again, saying nothing, which somehow feels worse than when she argues.

We hit a slower stretch of traffic near her neighborhood. Smoke smears the sky ahead of us, not thick enough to be catastrophic but heavy enough to sting the nose when I crack the window. The closer we get, the more the air fills with the smell of burnt plastic and soaked drywall, the aftermath of a fire rather than the heat of it.

Isabella’s breath changes. Shorter. Sharper. Her fingers loosen from her sweater and close around the strap of her bag instead, knuckles whitening.

“You sure you want to see this today?” I ask.

“Would it be easier tomorrow?” Her laugh sounds thin. “Next week? Next year?”

I don’t answer because she’s right.

We turn the last corner, and the scene unfolds in front of us.

Her building looks like every other midrange Manhattan block at first glance—brick, iron balconies, a deli on the corner—but the closer we get, the more the damage appears. Yellow tape flutters along the front steps like warning flags. A couple of top-floor windows are black rings of soot, glass blown out, curtains hanging in charred ribbons. The entire upper right side of the building is streaked with smoke, like fingers clawing up the wall.

Fire trucks are still parked along the curb, lights spinning lazily now instead of frantically. A few firefighters move in and out of the entrance, gear half-off, helmets dangling from one hand. Neighbors cluster in groups on the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets, cups of coffee in their hands. The smell of burnt insulation and wet ash sits in the air like a ghost.

I kill the engine but don’t move to get out yet. “We go as far as the tape,” I tell her. “If they won’t let you inside, you listen. If anyone looks at you wrong, you stand behind me. Understood?”

She nods, jaw clenched, throat working once.

We step out into the cold. The noise hits in pieces—the squawk of radios, the low murmur of voices, a car horn somewhere farther down the block. Isabella’s neighbors glance our way, recognition flickering in some of their eyes. Most of them look shell-shocked, clothes thrown on haphazardly, faces lined with tired worry.

“Isabella!” a voice calls.

An older woman wrapped in a bulky cardigan breaks from the cluster near the deli and hurries toward us, slippers slapping the pavement. Mrs. Patel, from the phone call. Isabella’s posture softens, just a fraction.

“Mrs. Patel,” she breathes, moving forward. I track her automatically, staying half a step behind and to the side. Close enough that if her knees buckle, I can catch her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” The older woman reaches for Isabella’s hands, clutching them in both of hers. Her gaze skims Isabella’s face and widens. “Oh, my girl. What happened to you?”

“Wrong place, wrong time.” Isabella tries for lightness, but it fractures at the edges. “Are you sure you’re all right? Anyone hurt?”

“Some smoke inhalation, but no deaths, thanks to God.” Mrs. Patel squeezes her fingers. “The fire started at the far end of the corridor. They think electrical, but they aren’t sure yet. Yourplace…” She trails off, glancing toward the firefighters near the entrance, uncertainty knitting her brows. “They will not let us up yet. Too much damage, too much water. They say it is not safe.”

The words hit Isabella like a physical blow. I see the way her shoulders dip, her breath stutters. I step in, just half an inch, so she can lean on me if she needs to. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

“Thank you for calling me,” Isabella says, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Mrs. Patel nods, then gives me a quick, evaluating look, her gaze taking in the suit, the expression, the way I’m standing a little too close to her neighbor.

“And this is…?” she asks.

Isabella answers before I can. “A very annoying complication.”

The corner of my mouth twitches; I let it. “Nico,” I say, extending a hand.

She studies it for a second, then shakes, grip surprisingly firm for someone who weighs about as much as my niece. “You look like trouble, Nico.”

“He is,” Isabella mutters.

“Then you be careful, both of you,” Mrs. Patel says, patting Isabella’s cheek with gentle fingers before shuffling back toward her crowd.

We approach the tape. A uniformed cop steps forward, palm up.