I unlocked the red door to room fifteen, and Lucy pretended that she hadn’t been waiting for me as she sat in a wing chair, bent over a spiral notebook, making notes and calculations. But she had not touched her fast-food dinner, and I knew she was starved. I took Whoppers and French fries out of the bag and set paper napkins and food on a nearby table.

“Everything’s cold,” I simply said.

“You get used to it.” Her voice was distant and distracted.

“Would you like to shower first?” I politely asked.

“Go ahead,” she replied, buried in math, a scowl furrowing her brow.

Our room was impressively clean for the price and decorated in shades of brown, with a Zenith TV almost as old as my niece. There were Chinese lamps and long-tasseled lanterns, porcelain figurines, static oil paintings and flower-printed spreads. Carpeting was a thick shag Indian design, and wallpaper was woodland scenes. Furniture was Formica or so thickly shellacked that I could not see the grain of the wood.

I inspected the bath and found it a solid pink and white tile that probably went back to the fifties, with Styrofoam cups and tiny wrapped bars of Lisa Luxury soap on the sink. But it was a single plastic red rose in a window that touched me most. Someone had done the best with the least to make strangers feel special, and I doubted that most patrons noticed or cared. Maybe forty years ago such resourcefulness and attention to detail would have mattered when people were more civilized than they seemed to be now.

I lowered the toilet lid and sat to remove my dirty wet boots. Then I fought with buttons and hooks until my clothes retreated to a wilted heap on the floor. I showered until I was warm and cleansed of the smell of fire and death. Lucy was working on her laptop when I emerged in an old Medical College of Virginia T-shirt and popped open a beer.

“What’s up?” I asked as I sat on the couch.

“Just screwing around. I don’t know enough to do much more than that,” she replied. “But that was a big fucking fire, Aunt Kay. And it doesn’t appear to have been set with gasoline.”

I had nothing to say.

“And someone died in it? In the master bathroom? Maybe? How did that happen? At eight o’clock at night?”

I did not know.

“I mean, she’s in there brushing her teeth and the fire horn goes off?”

Lucy stared hard at me.

“And what?” she asked. “She just stays there and dies?”

She paused to stretch sore shoulders.

“You tell me, Chief. You’re the expert.”

“I can offer no explanation, Lucy,” I said.