Name on fire

The names never left her.

They were etched into her like the scars Camille carried burned deep, permanent, unwilling to fade.

Celia Reign.

Marla Boone.

Trinity Sol.

Three names. Three girls. All once residents of Hawthorn Home. All once friends or something close to it in that decaying, forgotten system where survival meant silence, and silence came with guilt.

Salem stared at them on her board, written in red marker under the heading: “Camille’s Next Targets?”

Each name a breadcrumb. Each name a ticking clock.

She hadn't slept since Harper Mills. Ava was now in a hospital under protective care, safely away from Camille’s reach. But Salem knew Camille never left trails without intention. That photo Ava in the pink gown wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

She’s keeping count.

And she’s not done.

Juno Reyes arrived at the apartment the next morning, yawning, a bag of breakfast tacos in one hand and her laptop in the other.

“I slept for three hours and I’m still prettier than you,” she said, tossing Salem a taco. “Also, there’s been a fire.”

Salem looked up from the crime board. “Where?”

“An old nursing home, West End. Marla Boone’s listed as a night nurse on staff. Guess what wing caught fire?”

Salem didn’t need to guess. “Was she found?”

Juno nodded grimly. “They pulled three bodies. One was Marla. ID’d by dental. The other two were residents. No survivors from that hallway.”

Salem’s stomach dropped.

Two down.

They drove to the scene.

West End still smoked in places, even after the fire department left. The smell of charred wood and chemicals lingered. The building’s side wing was blackened to the bone flames had clearly started in the electrical unit, or so the report claimed.

But Salem knew better.

She walked the hallway in gloves, boots crunching on ash. Room 214 had been Marla’s station. There, under the melted desk, was the same wax seal she’d seen before this time imprinted directly into a scorched wooden surface.

A crescent moon with a tear beneath it.

Camille’s calling card.

Juno took photos. “You think she’s working alone?”

“No,” Salem said. “Camille plans chaos like a symphony. Someone helped her get inside. Set the wires. Left unnoticed.”

She remembered Camille’s words in the factory basement.

“One saved. Three more to burn.”

Two down.

Trinity Sol was next.

Salem traced Trinity to a strip club in the outskirts called Velvet Sin. Classy name, for a place with flickering neon and a bouncer who looked like he hadn't blinked in ten years.

“She doesn’t come in until seven,” he said, arms crossed. “Stage name’s Solstice.”

Salem showed her badge.

“Not here in any official capacity,” she lied. “But she’s in danger.”

The bouncer sighed. “Ain’t they all?”

Inside, the club pulsed with lazy beats and jaded routine. Girls in glitter moved like ghosts. Everyone looked tired of pretending.

Trinity walked in later than expected tall, red hair now dyed jet black, face hardened, but Salem recognized the eyes. Same sharp, suspicious gaze from a decade ago.

“Salem?” she blinked when approached. “Holy shit.”

Trinity pulled her into a back dressing room that smelled of hairspray and old perfume.

“Why now?” she asked. “Why after ten damn years?”

“You’re in danger,” Salem said quickly. “Marla Boone’s dead. Camille is alive.”

Trinity froze.

“No,” she whispered. “She can’t be. We buried her.”

“You saw fire,” Salem said. “Not a body.”

Trinity sat down hard. Her cigarette trembled. “She said she’d kill us if we told. And now she’s doing it anyway.”

Salem leaned in. “You did tell, didn’t you?”

A long silence.

Then, Trinity nodded.

“She thought I betrayed her. That I told the caseworker about the fire before it started. But it wasn’t me.”

“Who was it?”

“She said it was you.”

Back at Salem’s apartment, the weight pressed heavier than ever.

Camille believed Salem betrayed her all along.

And maybe… she wasn’t entirely wrong.

The week the fire happened, Salem had written a letter to Child Protective Services, begging to be transferred. She didn’t name names. But she’d mentioned Camille’s strange obsessions. Her drawings. Her violent moods.

She had tried to save herself.

And Camille paid the price.

The next morning, Trinity was gone.

Her apartment abandoned.

A note left behind:

“I won’t burn, Salem. Not for her. Not for you.”

Attached was a necklace.

An old, rusted hawthorn pendant.

From the home.

From their past.

Salem clenched it in her fist until her hand bled.

Later that night, Salem sat with Dante in his small downtown loft, watching security footage he’d pulled from Velvet Sin’s alley.

A figure.

Female. Hooded.

Arrives at 2:14 a.m.

Leaves at 2:26.

“She was here,” Salem whispered. “She came for her.”

“Or warned her,” Dante said. “No blood. No struggle. Maybe Trinity’s working with her.”

“No,” Salem said. “She’s running. And Camille likes it that way. She wants the last one to suffer. The slowest death.”

Juno called.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” she said. “Another message. Digital this time.”

She forwarded the video.

Salem hit play.

It was a black screen at first.

Then a match struck.

Flame danced

.

A voice followed calm, cold, unmistakable.

“Ashes don’t forget the spark.”

Then:

A list of names.

Celia. Marla. Trinity.

And finally…

Salem Cross.

Then the flame vanished.