Chapter 5 - THE NIGHT ST. MAREN’S BURNED
The fire started at 2:13 in the morning.
I know because my phone rang at 2:17.
Amy.
I answered half asleep.
“Molly.”
Something in her voice pulled me upright.
“What?”
“St. Maren’s is on fire.”
I was out of bed before the call ended.
By the time I reached the church, flames were coming through the kitchen roof.
For one second, my brain refused to understand what I was seeing.
The loading door.
The pantry window.
The stupid old refrigerator.
The prep room where my grandmother had taught me to peel potatoes without wasting half of them.
Orange.
All of it.
Orange.
Firefighters filled the street.
Red lights flashed against brick.
Neighbors stood in pajamas behind barricades.
Father Nolan was wrapped in a blanket near an ambulance.
I ran toward him.
A firefighter stopped me.
“You can’t go through.”
“That’s my kitchen.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice broke.
“That’s my kitchen.”
Father Nolan saw me.
“Molly.”
I went around the barrier.
The firefighter started to object.
Father Nolan waved him through.
“Is anyone inside?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Volunteers?”
“No.”
“Antonio?”
Antonio slept in a small basement room twice a week because he opened the pantry at five.
Father Nolan grabbed my arms.
“He switched nights.”
My knees weakened.
“Everyone is safe.”
Safe.
The important word.
I tried to hold it.
Then the kitchen roof collapsed.
The sound tore through me.
I screamed.
Not words.
Just sound.
Adrian arrived seven minutes later.
I did not call him.
I learned afterward that Leo had installed a temporary overnight patrol after Peter’s confession.
One of those guards smelled smoke.
He called 911.
Without him, the fire might have reached the sanctuary before anyone knew.
Adrian stopped beside me.
His black coat was open over a white shirt.
No tie.
Hair disordered.
The most human I had ever seen him look.
He stared at the flames.
“Everyone out?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then looked at me.
I was crying.
I hated crying in front of people.
That week had eliminated the luxury.
“It’s gone.”
“No.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Adrian.”
“The room may be gone.”
He watched firefighters attack the roof.
“The kitchen is not the room.”
I turned.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you built more than walls.”
“I did not build it.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“You kept it alive.”
That was exactly the wrong kind thing to say.
I broke.
Adrian opened his arms.
Not assuming.
Asking.
I stepped into them.
It was the first time he ever held me.
He smelled like cold air and coffee.
His hand rested between my shoulder blades.
Nothing possessive.
Nothing demanding.
Just there.
I cried against his shirt until embarrassment finally returned.
Then I pulled away.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I ruined your shirt.”
“I own another.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
He looked relieved.
Then Leo approached.
His expression erased the moment.
“Fire marshal found something.”
Adrian’s face hardened.
“What?”
Leo looked at me.
“Maybe you shouldn’t—”
“It’s my kitchen.”
He nodded.
“Rear service door shows signs of forced entry.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“Strong odor near dry storage.”
“Gasoline?”
“They haven’t confirmed.”
I looked toward the fire.
Peter had told us the kitchen needed to close.
Hours later, it burned.
Not subtle.
Maybe desperation had replaced subtlety.
“Victor.”
Adrian said nothing.
“Say it.”
“We don’t know.”
“You think it’s him.”
“I think we let investigators determine that.”
I turned on him.
“That sounds very responsible.”
“I am trying to be.”
“I don’t want responsible.”
His eyes sharpened.
“What do you want?”
“I want someone to pay.”
The words came fast.
Ugly.
True.
Adrian looked at me for a long moment.
Then—
“I know.”
His voice was quiet.
“That’s when responsible matters most.”
I hated him a little for being right.
At four, detectives arrived.
At five, the fire marshal classified the scene as suspicious.
At six, they found the first clear evidence of accelerant.
At seven, local news vans arrived.
By eight, half of Buffalo knew.
By nine, something happened Empire North did not expect.
People showed up.
Not reporters.
People.
Mrs. Donnelly came first.
Seventy-eight years old.
Arthritis.
Walked six blocks carrying two grocery bags.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Soup cans.”
“Mrs. Donnelly—”
“You’ll need food.”
“We don’t have a kitchen.”
“Then find one.”
Behind her came the Alvarez family.
Then Mr. Thompson from the tire shop.
Then students from the high school.
Then volunteers.
Then restaurant owners.
Then a chef I had never met offered his commercial kitchen on weekday mornings.
A synagogue two neighborhoods over offered storage.
A mosque offered vans.
A Polish bakery sent bread.
A grocery wholesaler donated produce.
Someone created an online fund.
By noon, it had twenty-three thousand dollars.
By three, sixty-eight thousand.
Empire North needed the community food program to stop.
Instead, they reminded the city how badly it wanted the program alive.
Adrian watched from across the street.
I walked over.
“You did this.”
“No.”
“The donations.”
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“I gave money.”
“How much?”
“That is private.”
“How much?”
His face told me.
“Jesus.”
“But I did not organize this.”
He looked around.
“You did.”
I stared at the line of people passing boxes hand to hand.
No.
Not me.
Us.
That distinction mattered.
At four, Peter called.
I almost did not answer.
Then I remembered his warning.
“They planned more than the wedding.”
I picked up.
“Tell me you had nothing to do with the fire.”
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
“Peter.”
“I didn’t light it.”
Not good enough.
“What did you do?”
“I gave them the alarm code.”
I closed my eyes.
“You what?”
“Months ago.”
“Why?”
“They said an inspector needed after-hours access.”
“You believed that?”
“No.”
At least honest.
“I didn’t ask.”
I felt sick.
“Who did you give it to?”
“Victor’s operations director.”
“Name.”
“Caleb Moss.”
Adrian was watching my face.
I put the phone on speaker.
Peter continued.
“Caleb handles site acquisition problems.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“Where is he?”
Peter realized Adrian was listening.
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“He owns a cabin near Ellicottville.”
Leo was already making a call.
I spoke.
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you helping now?”
Silence.
Then—
“Because I saw the fire.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“Because you feel guilty?”
“Yes.”
“Still not enough.”
His voice broke.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
A long pause.
“I thought it was just business.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The phrase people used when money helped them stop seeing human beings.
Peter continued.
“They told me the kitchen would relocate.”
“They told me the parish would get millions.”
“They said no one would really lose.”
“And you wanted your debt gone.”
“Yes.”
“How much did Victor promise you?”
“Five hundred thousand if the acquisition closed.”
I laughed.
Five hundred thousand.
My pain had a price.
Apparently everyone did.
Peter whispered—
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at the blackened roof.
“Stop saying that.”
“What do I say?”
“Nothing.”
Then I hung up.
The police found Caleb Moss the next morning.
Not at a cabin.
At the airport.
He was carrying seventeen thousand dollars in cash and a one-way ticket to Toronto.
He did not confess immediately.
Men like Caleb usually had lawyers before most people had breakfast.
But evidence accumulated.
Traffic cameras.
Phone records.
A rental car captured near St. Maren’s.
Messages with Paul Keane.
Payments from an Empire North subsidiary.
Then came the security footage.
A building across the alley had a camera.
At 1:58 a.m., a man matching Caleb’s height entered the rear service lane.
At 2:09, he left.
Four minutes later, smoke appeared.
Victor Shaw held a press conference.
He denied everything.
He called Caleb a rogue employee.
He called Peter unstable.
He called Paul’s contract legitimate.
Then someone asked about the hidden wedding cameras.
Victor left without answering.
Three nights after the fire, I sat on the steps outside the church.
The sanctuary had survived.
Barely.
The kitchen had not.
Adrian sat two steps below me.
“You’re very quiet,” I said.
“So are you.”
“I’m allowed.”
“So am I.”
I looked at him.
He smiled.
Slightly.
I had started noticing when he smiled.
That felt dangerous for entirely different reasons.
“Why are people afraid of you?” I asked.
He looked toward the street.
“That is a complicated question.”
“I have time.”
“Some stories are deserved.”
My stomach tightened.
“Meaning?”
“I grew up around men who believed fear was currency.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“Things I’m not proud of.”
“And you?”
He was silent.
Then—
“When I was younger, I believed being feared meant being safe.”
That answer mattered.
“Did you hurt people?”
“Yes.”
Honest.
No romanticization.
No excuse.
I swallowed.
“How long ago?”
“Long enough that I’ve spent more years trying to become someone else than I spent being that man.”
“Why?”
He looked at St. Maren’s.
“My mother died.”
I waited.
“She knew what I was becoming.”
His voice lowered.
“She asked me if I wanted people to lower their voices when I entered a room because they respected me or because they were afraid I would destroy something.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I was twenty-six.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“I told her there was no difference.”
“And now?”
He looked at me.
“Now I know there is.”
I thought about Peter.
Victor.
Fear as leverage.
My humiliation as strategy.
Then Adrian.
A man with more power than anyone around us.
A man Peter had practically begged to become violent.
And he had walked me out instead.
“Why didn’t you hit Peter?”
Adrian looked genuinely surprised.
“Because you needed to leave.”
“That’s it?”
“That was the important thing.”
Not his pride.
Not revenge.
Me leaving.
I looked away before he could see too much on my face.
His phone buzzed.
He checked it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Daniel.”
“What happened?”
“Peter is gone.”
I frowned.
“Gone where?”
“They don’t know.”
My skin turned cold.
“Police?”
“His attorney says Peter missed a scheduled interview.”
Adrian stood.
I did too.
Then another call came.
This one to me.
Amy.
I answered.
“Molly?”
Her voice was shaking.
“What?”
“There’s someone at my apartment.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
“Peter.”
I looked at Adrian.
May you like
Amy whispered—
“And he’s bleeding.”
