Her father spoke from the doorway. “What do you think?”

Hannah straightened so quickly that she bumped the table and made the water slosh. “Dad. Sorry.”

“What do you think?” he said again. His tone was even—not irritated, yet not warm either. Just level. Patient. His investigator voice.

Hannah hated that voice.

She looked back at him. “I guess it’s going to have to remain a mystery.”

“Your mother asked if you could get the rolls and put them in a basket.”

She hated this voice, too. This was his dismissal voice.

Hannah was tempted to curtsey and mock him. Luckily, this wasn’t high school. Besides, she had an audience.

She looked at Irish before she made her way back to the kitchen, and gave him one last warning. “Remember what I said. He’s great at this job, too.”

Then she brushed past her father without even looking at him.

CHAPTER 11

The Roadhouse Bar and Grill sat along Magothy Beach Road, a few blocks off the water and surrounded by an acre of trees. Beige paint peeled away from the siding in numerous places, and a few fake palm trees swayed in the November wind.

Michael had never been here, but it was obviously popular, given the packed parking lot. He found a spot for the truck at the back of the restaurant, between the back door and the Dumpster.

When he killed the engine, he just sat there.

He had half a mind to drive back to Adam’s apartment, to tell his brothers that “the guy” never showed to talk about a landscaping job that didn’t exist. Then he’d help himself to a few slices of pizza—if there was any left, given the way they’d attacked the boxes when the delivery guy showed up. They could break out a deck of cards and pretend their lives weren’t skirting the edge of disaster.

And then the real guy who was threatening them would burn down the whole place.

Michael got out of the truck.

The gravel of the parking lot offered no information. No threat of danger, no hint of a problem.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

How will I know you?

You’ll know me when you see me.

Did that mean his mysterious texter wasn’t here yet, but he’d arrive in a way that was unmistakable? Or that Michael would recognize him on sight?

He’d worried all afternoon that this was another way to lure him away from his brothers—but what choice did he have? He sure as hell wasn’t going to bring them with him. And whoever set this meeting had implied that Michael could bring anyone he wanted—including the police.

Was that an extension of trust? Or a finely laid trap?

Maybe he should have involved the police. Hannah’s father was still waiting to talk to him. Michael pulled the fire marshal’s card out of his jeans pocket—now washed, though soot still stained the seams—and considered dialing.

Then he remembered the photo of Hannah and James on the school steps.

This was too close to home, for all of them. He wasn’t putting anyone else in danger if he didn’t have to.

Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and circled around to the front of the building. Some older guys in layered flannel held the door for him on their way out. Jukebox music hit him hard when he crossed the threshold. He’d expected a simple bar with a few tables, but the place was bigger than it looked from the outside. A polished wood bar stretched across the rear of the restaurant, tended by an aging man with tufts of white hair. Swinging doors led to a kitchen beyond. A middle-aged waitress burst through them with a tray of steaming plates: gravy fries, nachos, Buffalo chicken wings. Bar food. At least eighteen tables crowded the open area, and all were occupied. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and Michael’s boots crunched through them as he stepped out of the doorway.

His eyes swept the room once. Dim lighting didn’t reveal much, and several people had their backs to him, but no one looked suspicious. Everyone seemed engaged, whether in food or a conversation. Mostly men over thirty, mostly blue collar, in for a quick drink or a dinner before heading home for the night. Flannel and denim everywhere. Laughter and loud voices carried over the music.

The waitress stopped in front of him on her way between tables, and he was so keyed up that for a second, he worried this forty-year-old frizzy-haired woman was his mystery person. Then she gave him a puzzled look and said, “It’s seat yourself, sweetie.”

He cast his gaze past her, at the bar, and then back to the door. “I don’t—I’m meeting someone—”

“What’s wrong, Merrick? Run out of lawns to mow?”

He recognized the voice, but with the noise and the low lighting, it took him a minute to spot its owner. About three tables over, with his back to the door, sat Tyler Morgan.

Tyler. Tyler.

You’ll know when me when you see me.

Michael stormed between patrons. He hadn’t thought Tyler was behind this. Not really. But now, with proof right in front of him . . .

He slammed his hand down on Tyler’s table. It took everything he had not to drag the guy out of his chair and slug him in the face. “You think you’re going to mess with my family?” He hit the table again, and he must have looked fierce, because Tyler shoved back a few inches. Michael got in his face. He was yelling and he didn’t care. “You think I’m going to let you get away with it?”

Tyler didn’t move. “Get out of my face, Merrick.”

“Those people. All those people. You—”

“What people?” Tyler glared back at him. “Did you forget your medication or something?”

“You know what people.” Michael shoved him, causing the chair to scrape back a few more inches.

Tyler gritted his teeth, but he didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you think this is funny?” He was causing a scene, but Michael didn’t care. That Tyler would do this—that he would make jokes—that he could—his neighbors had died—

“What is your problem, Merrick?”

“You’re my problem! Did you do this? Did you start those fires?”

Tyler’s expression darkened. He didn’t move from his chair. “Look,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “I don’t know what you’re on, but if you don’t sit down and act like a normal person, Tammy is going to call the cops.”

Michael stared at him. The restaurant had gone silent except for the jukebox still cranking out tunes in the corner. Four men were standing nearby, ready to come to Tyler’s aid. The waitress—Tammy? —had a phone in her hand, and she was looking at Tyler, as if waiting for him to tell her what to do.

Michael’s breathing echoed in his ears.

Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Sit down and behave, or leave, Merrick. Your call.”

Michael swallowed. He felt like he’d run a mile at top speed. “Did you text me to meet you here?”

“No.”

“Don’t you f**k with me, Tyler—”

“Jesus! I don’t even know your number! Why the hell would I text you?”

“Tyler?” said Tammy. “Should I call?”

I don’t even know your number. That was true. Michael had never given Tyler his number. Not that it wasn’t listed with most of his business stuff, but still . . .

Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He glanced around again. He was causing a scene—but no one else had come out of the woodwork.

Tyler gave Michael a clear up and down. “He’s all right. He’s going to sit down and have a beer. Right?”

Michael looked around again. The anticipatory tension in the restaurant was potent. God, what was wrong with him?

He collapsed into the chair across from Tyler. Normal activity slowly resumed around him. The four men returned to their tables. Tammy picked up her tray and slid the phone into a pocket of her apron.

Tyler scooted back up to the table. “You don’t have dy***ite strapped to you or anything, do you?”

Michael glared. “Don’t be an idiot, Tyler.”

“You come rolling in here like a psycho, and I’m the idiot. Okay.”

“If you didn’t text me, what are you doing here?”

“Having dinner.”

Michael pulled a whole peanut out of a bucket on the table and crushed it between his fingers. He didn’t want to eat it, but he needed something destructive to do with his hands. He glanced around again, ready for someone to jump out of the shadows and yell Boo! “Sure. Here. This is your scene.”

“I don’t know if it’s my scene, but my family owns this place, so it’s free.” He paused. “What are you doing here?”

“Your family owns this place?”

“My grandparents did, actually. My folks inherited when they died. Want me to draw you a family tree?”

“No, I’m good.”

But he wasn’t good. This didn’t make sense. Did . . . whoever-it-was know that this was Tyler’s family’s restaurant? Did it matter?

You’ll know me when you see me.

Another glance around. The only person he recognized was Tyler.

But really, this whole thing—none of it felt like Tyler, just like none of it felt like Calla. Tyler had brutalized Michael’s family for years, wanting the Merricks put to death because they were full Elementals. Then Tyler had accidentally revealed his carefully kept secret to Nick: Tyler was a full Elemental himself—a powerful Fire Elemental who had just as much reason to fear the Guides coming to town as the Merricks did.

They weren’t friends now, not by a long shot. But Tyler hadn’t bothered them in weeks. And no one knew Tyler was a Fire Elemental.

Michael took a long breath and let it out. “Our house was set on fire last night.” He hesitated, keeping his voice low. “My whole street.”

Tyler frowned, then went still. He leaned in against the table. “I heard about that on the news. I didn’t know it was your neighborhood.” He paused, and his voice sharpened. “And you thought I would do that?”

“No—I don’t—” Michael shook his head. The adrenaline was fading, letting exhaustion settle in again. “I have no idea who did it.”

“No wonder you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

Tammy reappeared beside their table and unloaded two frosted bottles of Natty Boh, and then a platter of nachos. Tyler thanked her, and Michael smashed another peanut.

“Hungry?” said Tyler.

He hadn’t eaten all day, but he couldn’t think of putting food in his mouth right now. “No.”

Tyler shrugged and took a chip. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

“I got a text this morning that I should meet someone here about the fires.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know who. I thought it was you.”

“Show me.”

Michael hesitated—then unlocked his phone, clicked on the texts, and handed it over. It felt weird to trust Tyler with something he hadn’t shared with his brothers, but this felt safer, too. His brothers had a big stake in this game. Tyler didn’t.

Tyler scrolled. For a while.

Michael fidgeted. It was seven-fifteen now, and no one had come through the door.

“This guy said you could bring your brothers.” Tyler handed back the phone, and Michael slid it into his pocket. “And the police.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t think maybe that was important?”

“I’m not leading my brothers into a trap.”

“Do they know you’re here?”

The question hit Michael hard. His brothers had no idea—but admitting it out loud seemed dangerous. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”