The firefighters had managed to evacuate all the residents. Yet, the danger did not dissuade a crowd from gathering. Curious onlookers, drawn by the spectacle of disaster, formed a tight ring around the scene.
At that moment, firefighters emerged from the smoke-blackened doorway of my unit. They bore two stretchers on which Mitchell and Poppy lay motionless.
Mitchell and Poppy were swathed in blood. Not a single patch of skin remained untouched by the disaster; their flesh bore the cruel marks of burns and trauma.
As they carried Mitchell past me, a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. With what little strength he had left, he reached out, his hand finding my wrist in a desperate grasp. But his grip was weak, and his hand soon slipped away.
I stood there, a helpless spectator, as he and Poppy were carefully loaded into the ambulance. Their injuries were so severe that the dread of losing them gripped my heart with icy fingers.
As I moved to follow the ambulance, a man burst forth from the crowd behind me. He was our new neighbor, Tom Short.
"Officer, I know who started the fire!" he declared.
His finger pointed accusingly in my direction. "It was her!"