Torres lives in a modest two-story house in a neighborhood that's seen better days but refuses to give up. The kind of place where people still know their neighbors' names and kids play basketball in driveways. His truck is parked in front, and I can see lights on in the living room.
I pull up behind his truck and grab my bag with all the case files, notes, and photographs. It's almost eight PM, and the street is quiet except for the distant sound of a TV playing through someone's window.
Torres opens the door before I can knock. "Come on in. Maria took the kids to her mother's for the night, so we've got the place to ourselves."
"She knows we're working?"
"She knows you've got that look again. The one you get when you're onto something big." He leads me through to the kitchen, where he's already set up a makeshift command center. Papers spread across the table, laptop open, fresh pot of coffee brewing. "I figured we'd need space to think."
I drop my bag on the table and look around. This is where Torres lives his real life. Family photos on the walls, kids' drawings on the fridge, a stack of school permission slips held down by a coffee mug. It's so normal, so far removed from the darkness we're about to dive into.
"You want to eat first?" Torres asks. "I've got leftover pizza."
"Yeah, actually. I haven't eaten since this morning."
He pulls out a box from the fridge and we heat up slices in the microwave. For a few minutes, we just eat in comfortable silence. This is what I've missed about working with Torres. The easy companionship, the way we don't need to fill every moment with conversation.
"So," he says finally, wiping his hands on a napkin. "Tell me about this witness."
I pull out my notebook and flip to the pages from Elena's interview. "Elena Morse, forty-six years old, worked at Mercy Heights from 2003 to 2005. She was on duty the night of the fire."
"She survived?"
"Barely. She evacuated twelve children before the smoke got too bad. Spent three days in the hospital with smoke inhalation." I slide the notebook toward him. "But here's the important part. She saw a man in the building that night, before the fire started. A man who shouldn't have been there, carrying a gas can."
Torres leans forward, reading my notes carefully. His cop instincts are kicking in, I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, the way he's processing every detail.
"She report this at the time?"
"She tried. Fire marshal dismissed it, said the gas can was for the backup generator. But Torres, she's credible. She's been carrying this for twenty years, waiting for someone to listen."
"What's her motive for lying?"
"That's just it. She doesn't have one. She left social work for a while after this, only recently went back to it. She's not looking for attention or money. She just wants the truth out."
Torres flips through more pages, studying the witness description Elena provided. "White male, mid-forties to fifties, dark hair graying at temples, stocky build. That's pretty specific for something that happened twenty years ago in a stressful situation."
"She's been thinking about this for two decades. Some memories get clearer with time, especially traumatic ones."
"Fair point." He sets down the notebook. "What else did she give you?"
I pull out my phone and show him the photograph of the ledger. "Financial records. Coded client list with payments ranging from ten to fifty thousand dollars. All transactions processed through something called the H.M. Foundation."
Torres zooms in on the image, studying the entries. "Client 7, Client 12. They're not even trying to hide that this is shady as hell. H.M. Foundation, any idea what that is?"
"Elena couldn't find anything. I'm thinking shell company, something that only existed on paper to move money."
"Or H.M. stands for something. Halloway... something. If he was running this operation, he might have used his initials." Torres stands and walks to his laptop. "Let me run a search through corporate registries, see if anything comes up."
While he types, I organize the rest of my materials. The timeline I've built, the list of missing children who passed through Mercy Heights, Samuel's testimony that I've carefully framed as "information from an anonymous source."
"Nothing," Torres says after a few minutes. "No H.M. Foundation registered in this state or any surrounding states during that time period. If it existed, it was off the books."
"Which supports the trafficking theory."
Torres closes the laptop and turns to face me. "Okay, let's talk about that. You're suggesting that Mercy Heights was a front for a child trafficking operation. That's a serious accusation, Crowe. We need more than suspicious financial records and one witness."
"I know. That's why I want to interview more people. The fire marshal who investigated the scene. The firefighters who responded. Dr. Halloway himself."
"Halloway's going to lawyer up the second we approach him."
"Maybe. But even how he reacts will tell us something. Innocent people don't lawyer up for questions about a twenty-year-old fire."
Torres walks to the fridge and grabs two beers, hands me one without asking. We both need it. "Alright. Let's build this methodically. We need to establish means, motive, and opportunity."
This is the Torres I remember. The detective who breaks down complex cases into manageable pieces, who builds arguments that hold up under scrutiny.
"Means," I start. "Someone with access to the building, knowledge of its layout, and the ability to spread accelerant without being immediately noticed."
"That's staff, maintenance workers, frequent visitors, or the director himself."
"Motive. Someone wanted to destroy evidence. Maybe physical evidence in the files, or maybe the children themselves were witnesses to something."
Torres nods slowly. "If this trafficking operation was real, and if someone got suspicious or threatened to expose it, burning down the building eliminates both the evidence and the witnesses in one go."
"Exactly. And opportunity. The fire happened at midnight when most staff were off duty. Only two caregivers on site. Perfect timing to maximize damage while minimizing the risk of being caught in the act."
"Premeditated," Torres says. "This wasn't some panicked response. This was planned."
We spend the next hour going through everything systematically. Torres pulls up the original fire marshal's report on his laptop, and we compare it against Elena's testimony.
"Look at this," Torres points to a section of the report. "The fire marshal determined the point of origin was the basement electrical room. But Elena said she smelled accelerant on the first floor, near the administrative wing."
"Two different locations."
"Which suggests multiple ignition points. You don't get multiple ignition points from an electrical fire. That's classic arson."
I lean over his shoulder, reading the technical details. "What about the fire pattern analysis?"
"Here's where it gets interesting." Torres scrolls down. "The report notes 'irregular burn patterns in multiple locations' but attributes it to the building's old construction and the way the fire spread through the ventilation system."
"That's convenient."
"Too convenient. Any competent arson investigator would see irregular burn patterns in multiple locations and immediately suspect accelerant use."
"So either the fire marshal was incompetent, or he was paid to look the other way."
Torres takes a long drink of his beer. "I hate cases like this. The kind where you can't trust the official reports, where everyone might be dirty."
"Welcome to my world for the past week."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You know what bothers me most? Six people died. Four of them were kids. And someone looked at that crime scene and decided to call it an accident."
"Money talks, Torres. If the people running this operation had enough influence, enough connections, they could pressure the investigation to close quickly."
"Who has that kind of power?"
"That's what we need to find out."
Torres starts a new document on his laptop, creating a list of people we need to interview. "Fire marshal who did the original investigation. Name's Robert Chen, according to this report. He's retired now, but I can track him down."
"What about the firefighters who responded?"
"There's a crew roster attached to the report. Let me see who's still active." He scrolls through the list. "Most of these guys are retired or moved to different departments. But there's one name here I recognize. Jonas Reed. He's still with the department, works as a fire inspector now."
Jonas Reed. Elena mentioned him too, said his testimony didn't quite match up with what she saw.
"Can you arrange an interview?"
"Yeah, I know Jonas. Good guy, solid reputation. If anyone's going to give us honest answers about that night, it's him." Torres makes a note. "I'll reach out tomorrow, see if he's willing to talk."
"Just us though. Don't mention the trafficking angle yet. Let's keep it focused on the fire itself, see what he remembers."
"Agreed." Torres saves the document and closes his laptop. "Now let's talk about Halloway."
I pull up the information I found on Dr. Richard Halloway. "Retired about ten years ago, moved to Florida. Lives in a retirement community near Tampa. According to his social media, he plays golf three times a week and volunteers at a local church."
"Of course he does. Monsters always hide behind respectability." Torres finishes his beer. "We need to approach him carefully. If he's involved in this, he's had twenty years to prepare for questions."
"What about Sister Miriam?"
"The nun who worked there? What about her?"
"Elena said she's still in the area. Works at St. Catherine's parish now, does youth outreach."
Torres raises an eyebrow. "And we trust someone who worked at a trafficking front to now work with vulnerable kids?"
"Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she was just as blind as Elena was, at least until it was too late."
"Or maybe she was complicit and the church protected her." Torres stands and starts pacing. It's what he does when he's thinking hard, when he's working through the angles. "We need to be strategic about the order we conduct these interviews. Who do we talk to first?"
"Jonas Reed. He's the most neutral party. He responded to the fire, did his job, moved on with his life. He doesn't have a personal stake in covering anything up."
"Unless he saw something that night that he was told to forget about."
"Even if he did, twenty years is a long time. People's loyalties change. Their fears fade. He might be willing to talk now when he wasn't back then."
Torres nods. "Okay. Jonas first. Then we decide our next move based on what he tells us. If his story matches the official report, we know we're dealing with a cover-up at multiple levels. If it doesn't, if he admits to seeing something suspicious, then we've got another witness."
"What about Halloway?"
"We save him for last. Once we have all our other interviews done, once we've built our case, then we confront him with the evidence. Give him a chance to explain himself, see if he tries to lawyer up or if he actually has answers."
It's a solid plan. Methodical, careful, the way Torres approaches every investigation. It's why we worked so well together as partners. I'm the one who sees the big picture, who makes the intuitive leaps. He's the one who builds the foundation, who makes sure every brick is solid before we add the next layer.
"I've missed this," I say without really meaning to.
Torres stops pacing and looks at me. "What?"
"This. Working cases with you. Having someone who gets it, who thinks the way I do."
He smiles, and it's genuine. "Yeah, I've missed it too. The department's not the same without you, Crowe. Chen's competent, but she's not you. She doesn't have your instinct."
"Torres..."
"I know, I know. You're not ready to come back full time. But this?" He gestures at the papers spread across his kitchen table. "This is what you were meant to do. And I'm glad you're doing it again, even if it's in this weird unofficial capacity."
The truth is on the tip of my tongue. The real reason I'm investigating this case, the ghost of a ten-year-old boy sitting at my kitchen table every night, guiding me toward justice. But I can't tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"There's something I need to tell you," I start, then immediately regret it.
Torres sits back down, his expression serious. "What?"
I choose my words carefully. "This case, it's personal for me in ways I can't fully explain. I need you to trust that I'm following solid leads, even if I can't always tell you exactly where they came from."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "You've got a confidential informant."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. It's close enough to the truth.
"Someone who was there that night? Someone who saw what happened?"
"Something like that."
"And you can't reveal their identity because they're scared of retaliation?"
"Exactly."
Torres leans back in his chair. "Okay. I can work with that. But Crowe, if this informant is feeding you false information, if they have an agenda we don't know about, we need to be careful. Confidential informants can be valuable, but they can also lead you down wrong paths."
"I trust this source. Everything they've told me has checked out so far."
"Fair enough. But we verify everything independently. We don't build our case solely on what they say. We use it as a starting point, then we find our own evidence."
"That's the plan."
We work for another two hours, building timelines, cross-referencing witness statements from the original investigation, identifying gaps and inconsistencies. Torres is in his element, and so am I. This is what we do. This is who we are.
Around eleven PM, Maria texts Torres that she and the kids are staying at her mother's overnight.
"She knows this is going to be an all-nighter," Torres says, reading the message. "Probably figures we need the time to work."
"Maria's a saint for putting up with you."
"Don't I know it." He stands and stretches. "More coffee?"
"Yeah. And food. My brain doesn't work on just beer and pizza."
Torres laughs and starts rummaging through his kitchen. "I think Maria left some lasagna. We can heat that up."
While he prepares food, I walk around the living room, looking at the family photos on the walls. Torres and Maria on their wedding day, both looking impossibly young. Their kids at various ages, school photos and vacation snapshots. A normal family living a normal life.
I think about my own apartment, bare walls and empty rooms. No kids, no family photos. Just a table where ghosts come to confess.
"You ever think about dating again?" Torres asks from the kitchen, as if reading my mind.
"Not really. Still feels too soon."
"It's been almost a year, Crowe."
"I know how long it's been."
He appears in the doorway, two plates of lasagna in hand. "I'm not saying you need to get married tomorrow. I'm just saying, at some point, you need to start living again. Really living, not just existing."
"I am living. I'm working this case. I'm doing something that matters."
"That's work, not life. There's a difference."
I take one of the plates from him and we sit at the kitchen table. "When did you become a therapist?"
"When my partner became a hermit." He takes a bite of lasagna, then continues. "Look, I get it. Losing someone you love destroys you. But you can't let it destroy you forever. She wouldn't want that."
"You didn't know her."
"I knew her enough to know she loved you. And people who love us don't want us to stop living when they're gone."
I don't have an answer to that, so I focus on eating. The lasagna is good, and I realize I'm actually hungry for the first time in days.
We eat in silence for a while, then Torres changes the subject. "So, Jonas Reed. I'll call him first thing tomorrow, see if he can meet with us this week."
"Where's he stationed?"
"Fire Station 7, over on Riverside. Same station he was at twenty years ago."
"He's been there that long?"
"Jonas is old school. He found a house he liked, a station he liked, and he stayed. That's the kind of guy he is. Steady, reliable, doesn't chase promotions or transfers."
"Which means he probably remembers that night clearly. It was a major incident, multiple fatalities. Those are the calls that stick with you."
Torres nods. "Yeah. And if there was anything suspicious about the scene, Jonas would have noticed. He's got good instincts for arson indicators."
"Let's hope he's willing to share those instincts with us."
We clean up the dishes together, another comfortable routine from our years as partners. Torres washes, I dry. It's domestic and ordinary, and it reminds me of what normal life used to feel like.
"Thanks for this," I say as we're finishing up. "For believing me, for helping with the case. For not thinking I'm crazy."
Torres grins. "Oh, I definitely think you're crazy. But you're my kind of crazy. And besides, this case is interesting. If even half of what we suspect is true, this could be huge."
"That's what worries me. If this is as big as I think it is, there are people who won't want us digging into it."
"Let them try to stop us. We've faced down worse."
Have we though? I'm not sure we have. But I don't say that out loud.
By midnight, we've done as much as we can without additional interviews. Torres walks me to the door, and we stand on his porch for a moment, looking out at the quiet street.
"I'll call you as soon as I hear from Jonas," he says. "Hopefully we can meet with him in the next day or two."
"Sounds good."
"And Crowe? Be careful. If your instincts are right, if this really was a trafficking operation that someone murdered to protect, then you're poking a very dangerous hornet's nest."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you've got that look again. That obsessed look you get when you're onto something. The look that makes you forget about things like personal safety and threat assessment."
"I'll be careful."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he nods. "Go home. Get some sleep. Try to be a normal human for a few hours."
I drive home through empty streets, my mind still racing through everything we discussed. The pieces are starting to come together, but there are still too many gaps, too many questions without answers.
Back in my apartment, I sit at the table and wait. It's after one AM now, but I know Samuel will come. He always comes.
The temperature drops right on schedule, and Samuel materializes in his usual chair.
"You're making progress," he says. It's not a question.
"Yeah. I talked to Elena Morse today. She confirmed your story about the man with the accelerant."
Samuel's face lights up. "She believed you? She's helping?"
"She is. And tomorrow, my partner is setting up an interview with one of the firefighters who responded that night. Jonas Reed. Do you remember him?"
Samuel thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "I don't remember much after the fire started. Just smoke and fear and then... nothing."
"That's okay. Jonas might remember details about the scene that can help us prove it was arson."
"What about Dr. Halloway? When are you going to talk to him?"
"Soon. But we need to build our case first. Get all our other interviews done, gather all our evidence. Then we confront him with everything we know."
Samuel nods, understanding. "I trust you, Mr. Crowe. You're going to find the truth. I can feel it."
I hope he's right.
We talk for another hour, Samuel sharing more memories from his time at Mercy Heights, and me taking careful notes. Every detail matters. Every memory could be the key that unlocks this case.
When Samuel finally fades, I'm left alone with pages of new information and a growing sense of purpose.
This case is going to break open. I can feel it too.
But I also feel something else. A sense of danger, of forces moving in the darkness. People who have stayed hidden for twenty years, who have every reason to want this buried.
Tomorrow, we talk to Jonas Reed. Tomorrow, we take another step toward the truth.
And whatever comes after that, I'll face it the way I always have.
One step at a time, following the evidence wherever it leads.