Chapter 56 The Ghost in the Flames

Chapter 56 The Ghost in the Flames

Damien’s POV

No matter how many showers I took, no matter how much rain fell, I could still feel it clinging to my skin that acrid stench of burning metal, soaked wood, and everything that once resembled control.

It had been three days since the fire.

Three days since Maria vanished into the flames.

Three days since Scarlett’s scream still echoed in my head, her voice raw with grief as the building collapsed behind us.

And I hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not once.

The safehouse was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after war, the kind that feels like mourning. Scarlett hadn’t spoken much since that night. She’d sit by the window for hours, staring into nothing, her face pale, her hands trembling when she thought no one was watching.

But I always was. Watching her.
Protecting her.
Failing her.

I’d failed them both.

The rain came again that morning, gentle at first, then steady tapping against the window like an impatient heartbeat.

I stood in the kitchen, coffee untouched, watching it fall. My reflection in the glass looked like a ghost hollow-eyed, haunted, and a little more broken than before.

Reilly walked in, breaking the silence. He looked worse than I did. Red eyes, a cigarette clinging to his fingers, exhaustion radiating from every movement.

“They said the fire’s officially ruled accidental,” he muttered. “Nobody recovered. Nothing usable from the wreck.”

I nodded absently. “Of course not.”

“You think she’s alive?”

I hesitated as the question sliced through me like a blade.

Maria DeLuca wasn’t the kind of woman who simply vanished. She planned her vanishing. She built her survival into every disaster. And if there was even the smallest chance she’d made it out alive…

Then she was somewhere watching us. Waiting.

“I think,” I said finally, “if she’s dead, the world feels quieter than it should. And if she’s alive… we’ll find out soon enough.”

Reilly grunted, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “And Scarlett?”

I glanced toward the window at the far end of the hallway, where Scarlett sat curled up on the couch, knees to her chest, staring at the rain. Her hair was damp, tangled. She looked like a painting left out in the storm too long.

“She blames herself,” I said quietly.

“She shouldn’t.”

“No,” I agreed, my voice rough. “She shouldn’t. But she does.”

Reilly studied me for a moment, then gave a humorless smile. “You blame yourself too.”

I didn’t respond.

Because he was right.

Later that afternoon, Scarlett disappeared.

Not gone, not missing she just needed air, she said. But when the minutes turned to hours, and the storm outside grew worse, I went after her.

The city was drowning. Rain turned the streets into rivers, the air thick with fog. I found her near the old bridge, the one overlooking the waterway that fed into the docks.

She stood at the railing, soaked to the bone, her dress clinging to her skin. Her eyes were red, her lips trembling.

I didn’t call out to her. I just walked up and stood beside her, the cold wind slapping against my face.

“She used to bring me here,” Scarlett said finally, voice distant. “When I was little. We’d feed the birds. She said the water was freedom.”

I swallowed hard. “She said a lot of things.”

“She wasn’t all bad, Damien.” Her voice cracked. “She did terrible things, yes. But… she loved me. In her own way.”

I turned to her, heart heavy. “You don’t have to defend her.”

“I’m not.” Scarlett’s gaze stayed on the water. “I just can’t stop seeing her face. That look when she told me to run.”

Her hands gripped the railing until her knuckles went white. “She saved me. After everything. Why would she do that?”

Because she still loved you, I wanted to say. Because even monsters can have hearts.

Instead, I said, “Maybe it was the one thing she ever did right.”

Scarlett’s breath hitched, her jaw tightening. “You sound like you hate her.”

“I hate what she did to you.”

“To us,” she corrected softly.

The words hit like lightning. For a second, neither of us moved. The rain fell harder, drowning out the sound of our hearts.

I wanted to reach for her to pull her in, to make her stop shaking. But I didn’t. Because if I touched her right then, I wouldn’t have stopped.

And I couldn’t afford to lose control again. Not with everything still burning around us.

That night, I dreamed of fire.

Maria’s face in the flames.
Her voice whispering my name not with anger, but with something worse.

“You never could let go, could you, Damien?”

I woke up gasping, sweat slicking my skin despite the cold. The clock on the wall glowed at 3:17 a.m.

For a moment, I thought I heard something faint tapping at the door.

I grabbed my gun from the nightstand, every nerve on edge. The storm outside had quieted, but the world still felt heavy, like it was holding a secret.

When I opened the door, no one was there. Just rainwater pooling on the porch.

But something was there.

A small envelope. Plain, cream-colored. Sealed with a wax stamp a single letter pressed into the center.

M.

My chest went cold.

I picked it up, fingers trembling, and tore it open. Inside was a single Polaroid photo the kind you can’t fake.

It showed the wreckage of the warehouse. Smoke curling in the background.
And in the corner of the frame blurred but unmistakable was a silhouette of a woman walking away.

Dark coat.
Wavy hair.
The same posture, the same calm, deliberate stride I’d seen a thousand times before.

Maria.

Underneath the photo was a short note, written in her handwriting. Elegant. Sharp. Familiar.

> “You should have known I don’t burn easily.”

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Every part of me screamed that it wasn’t possible.
But I’d seen her eyes in that fire.
I heard her voice.
Felt her hand push Scarlett toward me before the flames took her.

And now she was taunting us.

I turned the photo over, hoping for something more. There, written in faint ink, was a set of numbers. A date and a time.

October 10 – 9:00 p.m.

I checked the calendar on my phone.
That was tomorrow night.

When Scarlett came downstairs the next morning, she looked slightly better dry clothes, hair tied back, a fragile calm in her expression.

But when she saw the photo lying on the table, that calm shattered.

Her eyes widened, color draining from her face. “What is that?”

I hesitated. “It was on the porch last night.”

She picked it up with trembling hands, scanning every line, every pixel, her breath quickening.

“This is her,” she whispered. “This is her.”

“I know.”

“She’s alive.”

I didn’t answer.

Because in Scarlett’s voice, I heard something new, something dangerous. Not fear. Not a shock.

Hope.

And hope, in our world, was more dangerous than hate.

By evening, Scarlett had made up her mind.

“We have to go,” she said, pacing the length of the room. “The time on the back means something. Maybe she wants to meet. Maybe she’s in danger. Maybe—”

“Or maybe it’s a trap,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to.

She froze. “You think she’d hurt me?”

“I think Maria doesn’t do anything without a reason. And I think if she wanted us dead, she wouldn’t waste a postcard.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re afraid of her.”

I met her eyes. “I’m afraid for you.”

The silence between us stretched until it felt like a noose. Finally, she said quietly, “You can stay here if you want. But I’m going.”

And in that moment, I knew there was no stopping her.

Because Maria wasn’t the only one who refused to burn.

Scarlett had inherited that same fire, the same defiance that terrified me and drew me to her all at once.

As she turned to leave, I caught her wrist.

“If she’s alive,” I said, my voice rough, “you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t let her turn you into her.”

Scarlett looked at me for a long, painful moment rainlight flickering in her eyes. Then she whispered, “Maybe it’s already too late.”

She pulled free, disappearing into the night before I could stop her.

I stood there, watching her taillights vanish down the road, heart heavy with dread.

Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about Maria anymore.

This was the beginning of something darker.
A new game.
A new war.

And the cruelest part?

I wasn’t sure which side Scarlett would choose when the time came.