I don't sleep that night either.
Elena Morse's email sits open on my laptop screen, and I read it over and over, analyzing every word choice, every punctuation mark. "I've been waiting twenty years for this." That's not the language of someone who's moved on. That's the language of someone carrying a burden.
By six AM, I give up on sleep entirely and start preparing for the meeting. I shower, dress in clothes that say "professional but not threatening." Dark jeans, button-down shirt, leather jacket. I want to look like someone she can trust, someone who takes this seriously.
I make coffee and sit at the table, running through possible scenarios in my mind. Best case: Elena is a reliable witness with concrete information that corroborates Samuel's story. Worst case: she's mentally unstable, her memories corrupted by twenty years of trauma and guilt.
But my gut tells me it's neither. Her email was too controlled, too precise. This is someone who's been thinking about this conversation for two decades, planning what she'll say, how she'll say it.
The question is: what has she been hiding all this time?
I text Torres at eight: "Meeting a potential witness today. Former Mercy Heights employee. Will update you after."
His response comes five minutes later: "Be careful. And take notes."
"Always do."
I spend the morning reviewing everything I know so far. The timeline, the missing children, Samuel's testimony about the nighttime visitors and the argument he overheard. I organize it all in my notebook, creating a clear narrative that I can reference during the conversation.
At noon, I start the forty-minute drive to Riverside. It's a suburb that exists in that strange space between urban and rural, where strip malls give way to farmland and back again. The kind of place people move to when they want to escape the city but can't afford to go too far.
Brenda's Coffee Shop sits on a quiet corner of Maple Street, sandwiched between a hardware store and a vacant lot. It's one of those local places that looks like it's been there forever, with faded awnings and hand-painted signs. Not a chain, not trendy, just functional.
Perfect for a conversation you don't want overheard.
I arrive fifteen minutes early and park across the street where I can watch the entrance. Old habit from my detective days. Always scope out the location first, see who's coming and going, identify exit routes.
The coffee shop is quiet. Through the window, I can see maybe five customers total, all spaced out at different tables. An older man reading a newspaper. A woman with a laptop. A teenager with headphones. No one who looks like they're waiting for someone.
At exactly two PM, a silver Honda pulls up and parks three spaces from mine. A woman gets out, and I know immediately it's Elena Morse.
She's in her mid-forties, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and tired eyes behind thin-framed glasses. She's wearing a professional outfit, slacks and a blazer, like she came straight from work. But there's something in the way she moves, cautious and alert, that tells me she's as nervous about this meeting as I am.
I wait thirty seconds, then get out of my car and cross the street. She's already inside by the time I enter, sitting at a corner table far from the other customers. She's ordered coffee but hasn't touched it yet.
I approach slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. "Ms. Morse?"
She looks up, and I see her assessing me the same way I assessed her. Looking for signs of trustworthiness, or danger, or hidden agenda.
"Mr. Crowe. Please, sit."
I order coffee at the counter first, giving both of us a moment to settle. When I join her at the table, she's still hasn't touched her cup. Her hands are folded in her lap, and I notice a slight tremor in her fingers.
"Thank you for meeting me," I say.
"I almost didn't." Her voice is quiet but steady. "Twenty years, and no one asked the right questions until now. Part of me wondered if it was better to let it stay buried."
"But you didn't think that, or you wouldn't be here."
A small, sad smile. "No. I didn't think that."
I pull out my notebook but don't open it yet. Don't want to seem too aggressive, too cop-like. "Your email said you've been waiting for someone to ask questions. What questions specifically?"
Elena finally picks up her coffee, wraps both hands around the cup like she needs the warmth. "The obvious ones. Why did six people die in a fire that supposedly started from faulty wiring? Why were there no smoke detectors in the children's dormitories? Why did the investigation close so quickly when there were so many inconsistencies in the evidence?"
"You raised these concerns at the time."
"I tried to. I spoke to the fire marshal, to the police, to anyone who would listen. They all gave me the same response: tragic accident, nothing suspicious, time to move on and heal." She takes a sip of coffee. "But I was there that night, Mr. Crowe. I know what I saw."
This is it. The moment where I find out if Samuel's testimony has corroboration.
"Tell me what you saw."
Elena sets down her cup and takes a deep breath. "I wasn't supposed to be working that night. I'd traded shifts with another caregiver, Sarah Mitchell. She wanted the night off for her anniversary, so I covered for her. If I hadn't..." She trails off, then shakes her head. "I was doing rounds at eleven PM, checking on the children. That's when I smelled it."
"Smelled what?"
"Gasoline. Or something like gasoline. Strong chemical smell in the main hallway on the first floor. I followed it to the administrative wing, near Dr. Halloway's office."
My pulse quickens. This matches Samuel's account. "What did you do?"
"I went to investigate. The office door was open, and I could see someone inside. A man. He was bent over, doing something by the filing cabinets. When he heard me, he stood up quickly and turned around."
"Did you recognize him?"
Elena's hands tighten around her coffee cup. "No. I'd never seen him before. But he looked... wrong. Out of place. He was wearing work clothes, like a maintenance uniform, but we didn't have any maintenance scheduled that night."
"Can you describe him?"
"White male, maybe forty-five to fifty. Dark hair, going gray at the temples. Average height, stocky build. He had these cold eyes, Mr. Crowe. The kind of eyes that calculate instead of feel."
I'm writing all of this down now, creating a detailed witness description. "What happened next?"
"He said he was checking a gas leak. Said Dr. Halloway had called him. But something felt off. His toolbox was closed, and I could see a red gas can next to the filing cabinet. Why would you bring gasoline to fix a gas leak?"
"What did you do?"
"I asked for his identification, his company credentials. He got angry, said I was interfering with his work. Then Dr. Halloway appeared." Elena's voice gets quieter. "He told me everything was fine, that he'd authorized the maintenance check. He asked me to return to my rounds and not worry about it."
"But you didn't believe him."
"No. Because Dr. Halloway looked scared. Not angry or annoyed that I was questioning him. Scared. And that's when I knew something was very wrong."
I flip to a new page in my notebook. "What did you do after that?"
"I went back to the dormitories like I was told. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen. So I stayed in the hallway near the children's rooms, instead of going to the staff break room like I usually would during quiet hours."
"That probably saved your life."
"It definitely saved my life. And several children's lives too." Elena's hands are shaking harder now. "The fire started around midnight. I was sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway when I smelled smoke. By the time I got to the stairwell, the first floor was already engulfed."
"You evacuated the children."
"As many as I could. I got twelve kids out through the second-floor fire escape. But there were others I couldn't reach. The smoke was too thick, the fire was spreading too fast." Tears start running down her face. "I could hear them screaming, Mr. Crowe. I could hear them calling for help, and I couldn't get to them."
I give her a moment, then ask gently, "The official report said you were one of the last people out of the building."
"I was. The fire department arrived as I was helping the last child down the fire escape. They found me on the ground outside, suffering from smoke inhalation. I spent three days in the hospital."
"And when you recovered, you tried to tell people what you'd seen."
"Yes. I told the fire marshal about the man in the office, about the gas can, about Dr. Halloway's strange behavior. They investigated, but they said there was no evidence of arson. The fire pattern was consistent with an electrical fault. The gas can I saw was supposedly for the building's backup generator."
"Supposedly."
Elena meets my eyes. "I know what I saw, Mr. Crowe. That fire was deliberately set. And Dr. Halloway knew about it."
I lean back in my chair, processing. This is strong corroboration of Samuel's account. Two independent witnesses describing the same suspicious circumstances. But there's something Elena isn't telling me. I can feel it in the pauses, the way she chooses her words carefully.
"Why didn't you push harder?" I ask. "If you were certain it was arson, why let the investigation close?"
Elena's face hardens. "Because they threatened me."
"Who threatened you?"
"I don't know who specifically. Two days after I was released from the hospital, while I was still staying with my sister, two men came to the house. They said they were lawyers representing the orphanage's insurance company. They wanted to discuss my statement to the fire marshal."
"What did they say?"
"They said if I continued making accusations about arson, they would make sure I never worked with children again. They had photos, Mr. Crowe. Photos of me from that night, from the weeks before. They knew where I lived, where my family lived. They made it very clear that if I didn't drop my concerns, there would be consequences."
"You should have reported that to the police."
"You think I didn't try?" Her voice rises slightly, then she catches herself and lowers it again. "I told the detective assigned to the case. He said the insurance company had a right to investigate their own claim. He said if I felt threatened, I should get a restraining order. But how do you get a restraining order against people you can't identify?"
Fair point. And it explains why she backed off, why she stopped pushing. She was a young woman in her twenties, scared and traumatized, facing down people with resources and connections.
"What about Dr. Halloway?" I ask. "Did you ever confront him about what you saw?"
Elena's expression becomes complicated. "Once. About a week after the fire, while they were still investigating. I went to his temporary office and asked him directly why there was a man with a gas can in the building that night."
"What did he say?"
"He denied it. Said I must have been confused, that the smoke inhalation affected my memory. But then..." She pauses. "Then he said something strange. He said, 'Some things are bigger than one person, Elena. Some things have to happen to prevent worse things from happening. I hope someday you'll understand that.'"
I stop writing and look up. "That sounds like a confession."
"That's what I thought. But when I tried to tell the investigators, Halloway claimed I was making it up. Said the trauma had affected my judgment. And without any evidence, it was his word against mine."
We sit in silence for a moment. I'm piecing together a picture of a conspiracy, of powerful people working to cover up something terrible. But I still don't understand the full scope of what was being hidden.
"Elena, I need to ask you something. In the weeks before the fire, did you notice anything unusual about the orphanage? Anything that might explain why someone would want to burn it down?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes drift to the window, watching the street outside. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely audible.
"I noticed things. Things I should have reported, but I was young and scared and I didn't want to believe what I was seeing."
"What kind of things?"
"Children leaving in the middle of the night with people I'd never seen before. Files that would disappear from the office, then reappear with different information. Dr. Halloway having meetings with men in expensive suits, meetings where he'd close all the blinds and lock the door."
"Did you ever hear what they discussed in these meetings?"
Elena shakes her head. "No. But I saw money change hands once. A man in a gray suit handed Dr. Halloway an envelope. It was thick, like it was full of cash. They didn't see me watching."
My theory is solidifying. This wasn't just an orphanage. It was a trafficking operation. Children being sold to wealthy clients, paperwork being falsified to cover it up.
"Elena, do you remember any names? Any of these men who visited?"
"No names. They were always very careful about that. But..." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded piece of paper. "I kept something. I don't know if it will help, but I've carried it with me for twenty years."
She unfolds the paper and slides it across the table. It's a photocopy of a document, the edges worn from being folded and unfolded countless times. I smooth it out and read it carefully.
It's a financial ledger, dated three months before the fire. A list of names on the left column, amounts in the right column. But the names don't make sense. They're all coded: "Client 7," "Client 12," "Client 23." The amounts range from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars.
At the bottom, there's a handwritten note: "All transactions to be processed through H.M. Foundation. No direct contact."
"Where did you get this?" I ask.
"I found it in the trash in Dr. Halloway's office about a week before the fire. It was crumpled up, like he'd thrown it away. I didn't know what it was at the time, but something told me to keep it."
"H.M. Foundation. Do you know what that is?"
"No. I tried to research it after the fire, but I couldn't find any organization with that name. It might have been a shell company, something that existed only on paper."
I photograph the document with my phone, then hand the original back to her. "This is evidence, Elena. This could help prove what was happening at Mercy Heights."
"Could it? Or would they just claim it's fake, that I created it to support my story?"
She has a point. Without proper chain of custody, without corroborating evidence, this document could be dismissed. But it's still valuable. It shows a pattern, a system of transactions that suggests something illegal.
"Elena, I need to ask you something difficult. Is there any chance you were involved in what was happening? Even unknowingly?"
Her face goes pale. "What are you asking?"
"I'm asking if you ever facilitated these transactions. If you ever helped arrange these nighttime visits, even if you didn't understand what was really happening."
"No." The word comes out hard, definitive. "Absolutely not. When I figured out what was going on, I was horrified. That's why I started asking questions. That's why they threatened me."
I believe her. But there's still something she's not telling me. I can feel it in the way she won't quite meet my eyes, in the defensive tone that crept into her voice.
"What aren't you telling me, Elena?"
She stares at her coffee cup for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with guilt.
"One of the children who died in the fire, Samuel Harding, came to me two days before it happened. He said he'd seen something scary, something he didn't understand. He asked me if the orphanage was safe, if the adults there would protect him."
My heart stops. Samuel went to her for help.
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him everything was fine. I told him he was safe. I told him not to worry." Tears are streaming down her face now. "I lied to him, Mr. Crowe. I knew something was wrong, and I told that little boy he was safe. And two days later, he burned to death."
This is the guilt she's been carrying. Not just that she couldn't save everyone, but that she specifically failed Samuel. That she had a chance to help him and she didn't.
"You were scared," I say gently. "You didn't know what was going to happen."
"But I suspected. Deep down, I knew something terrible was coming. And I did nothing." She wipes her eyes with a napkin. "That's why I've been waiting for someone to investigate. I owe it to Samuel and the others who died. I owe them the truth."
I close my notebook and lean forward. "Elena, I'm going to find out what really happened that night. But I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
"I need you to think back to those weeks before the fire. Any detail, no matter how small. Names you might have overheard. License plates of cars that came late at night. Anything that could help me identify the people involved."
"I've been thinking about it for twenty years. If I could remember anything else, I would have."
"Try again. Sometimes memories come back when you're actively working a case. Write down everything, even if it seems irrelevant. You never know what might be the key."
She nods slowly. "Okay. I can do that."
"And Elena, if anyone contacts you about this, if anyone threatens you or seems suspicious, you call me immediately." I write my number on a napkin and slide it across the table. "Don't try to handle it alone."
"You think they're still out there? The people who did this?"
"I think powerful people went to a lot of trouble to cover up what happened at Mercy Heights. People like that don't just disappear. They adapt, they evolve, they find new ways to operate." I meet her eyes. "And they don't like people asking questions about their old operations."
Elena takes the napkin and folds it carefully, putting it in her purse. "Are you going to talk to Dr. Halloway?"
"Eventually. But first, I want to talk to Sister Miriam. And I want to see the site where the orphanage stood."
"Sister Miriam still lives in the area. She works at St. Catherine's parish now, does outreach with troubled youth." Elena's voice is bitter. "Apparently, running an orphanage where children died didn't hurt her reputation in the church."
"What about Halloway?"
"Last I heard, he retired to Florida. Moved there about ten years ago. Living off his pension and probably the money he made selling children."
I make a note of both locations. "Thank you, Elena. This has been incredibly helpful."
She stands, gathering her purse and coat. "Mr. Crowe, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why are you doing this? It's been twenty years. Most people would say it's ancient history, not worth digging up. So why do you care?"
I think about Samuel sitting at my table, about Marcus and Emma, about the strange purpose I've stumbled into. But I can't tell her any of that.
"Because six people died, and someone should care about finding out why," I say simply.
Elena nods, seeming satisfied with that answer. "Find the truth, Mr. Crowe. Whatever it takes. Those children deserve that much."
After she leaves, I sit alone at the table for a while, processing everything she told me. The man with the gas can, the coded ledger, the H.M. Foundation, the threats from unnamed lawyers.
This case is bigger than I thought. Bigger and darker and more dangerous.
I pull out my phone and call Torres.
"Tell me you got something good," he says by way of greeting.
"Better than good. We need to meet. Tonight. I've got a witness who corroborates arson, plus financial records that suggest a trafficking operation."
There's a pause. Then: "Jesus, Crowe. What have you gotten us into?"
"The truth. Isn't that what we're supposed to be finding?"
"Yeah, but usually the truth doesn't involve trafficking and cover-ups by powerful people."
"When has the truth ever been easy?"
Torres sighs. "Okay. Meet me at my place at eight. And bring everything you've got. If we're going down this rabbit hole, we're going down prepared."
I hang up and look at the photocopy of the ledger on my phone screen. Somewhere out there, people are living free who should be in prison. People who burned children alive to hide their crimes.
But not for much longer.
I'm coming for them.