“Did my dad give you a hard time? Are you in trouble—?”

“I need to go.”

“Please don’t go,” she said. “Please don’t hang up. Talk to me.”

“God, Hannah. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could.”

And then, before she could say a word, he ended the call.

CHAPTER 8

It had been a bad idea to call her. He’d almost lost it again. The wind was picking up, stinging Michael’s cheeks and eyes. He welcomed the pain. It fed him irritation, which worked pretty well to tamp down the anxiety.

His brothers and Hunter were sleeping soundly. He’d checked a minute ago. Common sense dictated that he should be sleeping, too, but sitting inside the apartment left him feeling panicked and claustrophobic. He’d started to walk, hoping motion would help tame his wild thoughts, but twenty feet from the back door, he worried that he was leaving his brothers vulnerable again.

So now he was back on the porch, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Had Calla started those fires? They had a history, Calla and his family. She wasn’t the type to strike hard and not brag, but anything was possible.

Michael had her cell number programmed into his phone, and after gritting his teeth for a full thirty seconds, ready for her taunting voice to mock him for not starting a war quickly enough, he dialed. The line rang and rang and eventually ended on a mechanical tone telling him the number had been disconnected.

Michael stared at his phone, studying the digits as if he’d somehow misdialed a programmed number.

He stupidly called again, sure there’d been some mistake.

Same electronic message.

He sent her a text. Almost immediately, a return message appeared in his inbox.

The number you are attempting to contact has been deactivated. Please dial 411 for directory assistance. Standard voice and messaging rates may apply.

Nothing about this was reassuring. Did this mean Calla had done it, and she didn’t want him to know?

Or did this mean Calla had disappeared again?

Or was she working with someone new?

Could one person have started five fires at once? Had they started simultaneously? The houses on his cul-de-sac weren’t far apart, but it still would have taken time to set a fire in each one. He couldn’t see how one person could have caused that kind of damage—but maybe a powerful Fire Elemental could. He and Hunter and Chris had been in the woods for maybe fifteen minutes, if that. Then he thought of the markings Hannah’s father had pointed out. Elemental or not, laying out a pattern in accelerant would have taken time. Could someone have broken into five houses without detection, poured some kerosene or whatever, then lit five fires, all within in fifteen minutes?

He broke it down. Three minutes per house. That seemed really unlikely, even if each house didn’t have an alarm system. He tried to remember which houses had the little stickers in their windows, but he was coming up with nothing. Alarm systems or not, two houses on the court had dogs. Dogs would have sounded their own type of alarm.

Unless the dogs had been taken care of ahead of time? He remembered his neighbors standing outside, screaming for their dog. Had the animal succumbed to the fire—or had someone else gotten to him first?

Ignoring alarm systems and dogs, this still seemed like a big job. This would have taken planning.

Maybe that’s what you sensed in the woods every night.

It hadn’t just been Chris. It couldn’t have been—last night had proven that. Michael had been ready for an attack on his family. He’d sat outside, ready to wake them if he sensed true danger, so they could fight or run.

He hadn’t been ready for an attack on the whole neighborhood.

Guilt, quick and sudden, slammed into Michael. Maybe he should have been ready. Calla had set fires at a school carnival last month, just to get the attention of the Guides. She wanted a war. Her carnival fire hadn’t started one, and Michael wasn’t willing to do anything to draw more attention to his family. Had she given up on patience and turned to killing more people?

He needed more information. He wondered if the fire marshal would give him any. He fished the card out of his pocket and started to dial.

No. That was stupid. The fire marshal thought he was a suspect. He wasn’t going to say, “Hey, sure, Mike, take a look at my files while you’re at it. Want to walk through the crime scene?”

Michael ran a hand down his face. God, he needed some sleep.

His cell phone chimed.

Is this Michael Merrick?

He stared at it for a long moment. He didn’t recognize the number, but the area code wasn’t from Maryland or D.C. Sometimes landscaping customers would send him a text, but those had never been from an out-of-state cell.

Another bubble of text appeared.

We should meet to talk about last night. Free for dinner?

Wait. Was this the fire marshal? Was this Calla? Michael didn’t move.

Another bubble.

It’s in your best interest. I’m not sure I could limit a fire to five apartments.

Michael was on his feet in a heartbeat, letting the blanket fall. He sent power into the ground, seeking information. He needed to wake his brothers. They needed to move. They needed to move now.

The phone vibrated again.

Good idea. Run. One truck is definitely a more convenient target.

Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He searched the trees for movement, for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing. The air was still and cold. The earth warned him of nothing.

Another message.

Relax. I’m not your enemy. But I could be.

Michael slid his fingers across the phone.

Who is this?

No message appeared, but instead, a photo.

Michael, sitting on the back porch of the Merrick house. Last night, before the fire.

Then another photo, taken from a distance.

Of him standing right here, looking at his phone.

Michael looked up, searching the trees on the other side of the pond. He begged the ground for information, but the earth returned nothing but contented vibes.

His phone vibrated with another message.

Dinner. Yes or no?

Michael wanted to punch his phone into the side of the building. He started forward, ready to search the woods himself. A new message appeared.

Don’t go too far, Michael Merrick. Wouldn’t want to leave your brothers alone, would you?

He froze. He had no idea if this was one person or several. If he walked away from this apartment building, would it go up in smoke like the house had last night?

New awareness shot off a flare in his head. Wasn’t that exactly what had happened? He’d walked away, leaving them vulnerable?

He typed back with shaking fingers.

This isn’t a game. What do you want?

I just told you what I want. Let’s say 7 p.m.?

Who are you? Is this Calla?

No. Bring her if you like. I think she’ll appreciate what I have to say.

Michael couldn’t think. Lack of sleep and an abundance of adrenaline didn’t help.

He looked out at the trees, then slowly slid his fingers across the face of his phone again.

You’re obviously here. Why don’t you come talk to me right now?

I think a crowded environment would be better for this meeting.

Interesting. Something about that statement dialed Michael’s anxiety back a notch and fed him confidence. Photos taken from a distance weren’t half as intimidating when you considered that it meant someone wasn’t drawing close.

Was this mystery texter afraid of him?

Should I come alone?

Your choice.

What if I choose to bring the cops?

Go ahead.

Michael frowned.

Another message appeared.

As I said, I am not your enemy. Bring anyone who makes you feel comfortable.

And what if I don’t come?

I’ll be forced to make my point another way.

More pictures appeared, in frighteningly rapid succession. Homes on fire. Car crashes. Tornado damage. A bloated body, floating in murky water. Terrible images, but nothing personally terrifying.

Then more photos: Hannah in her fire gear, kneeling over him last night, her face exhausted but focused. Another of Nick, stopping the CPR efforts. Another photo of an ambulance in the cul-de-sac, Chris sitting on the bumper.

Michael clenched his jaw. His hands gripped the phone so tightly that he worried the case would snap.

Then another photo appeared. Hannah on the front steps of Southgate Elementary, James bouncing along beside her, his backpack hanging askew.

Michael felt his heart give a jerk. He made a sound before he could stop himself. His fingers wouldn’t type, but his voice wasn’t broken.

“You leave them alone!” he yelled, shouting at the trees, at the distance, at the very air. The earth rumbled and split, forming a crack that led from his feet to the fence around the drainage pond. “You hear me? You leave them alone!”

The phone vibrated.

You meet me, and I’ll leave them alone.

Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He stared out at the trees, then back at the series of photos.

Then back at the trees.

Nothing.

Sweat had collected on his neck. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He wasn’t cold now.

He forced his fingers to work.

Fine. Where?

Another text, this time a link to the web page of a little bar and grill on the outskirts of town.

7 p.m. I’ll be in the bar.

Eventually, Michael couldn’t take the quiet stillness. Seven o’clock was almost half a day away, and he had to do something.

So he walked. Not far, just a short walk along the fence blocking the drainage ditch. At first, he’d been ready for a chastising text. A warning, a threat, something.

Nothing.

As his brothers slept and no danger presented itself, Michael gained confidence. That picture of him on the patio had to have been taken from the woods, and even if no one remained, he should at least be able to seek information from the ground.

If nothing else, the movement would do him good.

But the woods didn’t offer any answers, and they didn’t offer enough space to walk and think, either. The dense trees barely covered half an acre before giving way to Ritchie Highway; they were more to give the illusion of nature than any real attempt to preserve the land. The air was still brisk, reminding him that he didn’t have a sweatshirt, keeping his steps quick.

Every time his bare feet touched the earth, he asked for information.

Was someone here? Did someone cross this path?

Is someone here now?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He checked his phone a few times, examining the picture of himself, aiming his own phone at the now-empty patio. The photo was grainy—no surprise since it had been taken from a pretty good distance. He could estimate the angle, but now that he was out here using his own phone to try to recreate it, he realized that the picture hadn’t been taken from the ground.

It had to have been taken from high up in a tree.

All of a sudden, Michael felt too exposed.

He cast his gaze up, searching the branches overhead. He put his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree, and as always, he could almost feel the tree leaning back into him.

Much like the earth, trees and plants didn’t speak to him in words, but in general impressions. He sensed nothing malicious, nothing insidious. The tree liked him here.

Another tree. This one was younger, and a few autumn leaves eagerly fell around Michael when he touched the trunk. Again, nothing negative.

Another tree. This one didn’t lean into him. The bark almost crumbled under his fingers when he touched it. Dead. No information to be found. He moved on to the next ones.

Nothing.

The young tree shed a few more leaves. One caught the wind and twirled to Michael. He caught it and spun it by the stem.

No one was out here. What had he expected to find? A journal detailing plans to destroy the Merrick neighborhood? He didn’t even know what he was doing out here.