She smiled. “I am tired.” The smile fell off her face. “It’s been a long weekend.”

He studied her. “Thinking heavy thoughts?”

“Something like that.”

But it was exactly like that. She’d been thinking about her dad’s words all afternoon. She’d been full of vitriol and judgment when he’d started playing the overprotective parent, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he had been obligated to report Michael and his brothers. He wasn’t wrong—the Merricks were in trouble. A lot of trouble. She had no idea how deeply Michael was buried in debt or work or anything. If she lost her job or her car or ran into financial difficulty, she knew her parents would provide a safety net. Michael didn’t have that luxury.

“Want to share?” said Irish.

“I’m thinking about Michael. And my dad.” She frowned and looked out the window. “I still can’t believe what he did.”

“He said you’d be pissed about the arrest. I think he was more pissed that the attorney pulled strings with the county prosecutor.”

The words hit Hannah like an assault, completely unexpected, and just as unwelcome. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”

Irish raised an eyebrow. His level voice didn’t change. “I’m talking about your dad arresting your boyfriend.”

“He arrested him?”

“It didn’t stick for long. Like I said—”

“Wait.” Hannah thought her head might explode. “My dad told you all that? He talked to you about the case?”

“Not a lot.” Irish looked surprised that she was surprised. “He knew I was interested—”

“Do you have any idea how long I sat around that hospital trying to get information out of him, and he wouldn’t even answer my calls?” She wanted to punch the window. “He tried to arrest him? It wasn’t bad enough that the county took his brothers away?”

“Hannah.” He winced. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to come between you and your father—”

“You didn’t. He did.” She scowled and felt like a petulant teenager. “I’ve never wanted to move out as badly as I do right now.”

But she couldn’t. Because of James.

She’d never spent a second resenting her son, but sometimes she resented this situation, the way she was trapped by an obligation of her own making.

She thought of Michael’s brothers, holding it together in the hospital by barely more than a thread. She thought of Chris, the way he’d nearly broken down in the rain, or Gabriel, a hairbreadth away from picking a fight with hospital security to find out information about his brother. Even Nick and Hunter had seemed frayed at the seams, trying to maintain the peace while wanting answers just as badly.

And she thought of Michael, her own age, sacrificing his own life for an obligation not of his own making.

An obligation he took so seriously that he’d cried in the dark over losing it.

In that instant, she felt outrageously spoiled.

“If you need a place to crash,” said Irish, “I’ve got room.”

She gave him a look, wondering if he was mocking her—or worse, putting the moves on. “That’s sweet, but I can’t leave James.”

“I didn’t say you had to.” Irish shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m almost never there.”

“Big-time party animal?”

“Biggest time,” he said flatly. He paused; then his voice dropped. “It’s a standing offer, Hannah. Just know it’s out there if you need it.”

She stared at him, watching storefronts fly by along Ritchie Highway behind him. “Thanks, Irish.”

He inhaled as if he wanted to say something else—then hesitated.

She narrowed her eyes. “Say it. What?”

Another hesitation. “I don’t want to dig myself deeper, but . . . have you ever just asked your dad to tell you what’s going on?”

“I’ve heard the confidentiality lecture about a dozen times, thank you very much.”

“I don’t mean asking him to break the law, Hannah.” He paused. “The other night, you implied that he doesn’t care about you. I think you’re way off base.”

Hannah wanted to snap and disagree, but she kept hearing her father’s voice in her bedroom this morning. I just want to keep you safe.

“He knows Michael,” she said, her voice losing some of the anger. “It’s not like I’ve been spending time with a foreign arms dealer or a drug smuggler.”

“No, you’re attached to a guy who’s been at the scene of two major crimes in the course of twenty-four hours.”

Fury flared, hot and quick, and Hannah almost came off the bench to get in his face.

Irish put up a hand. “I don’t even know the guy. I’m just saying. You can support someone and keep your eyes open at the same time.”

Her brain wouldn’t even wrap around this possibility. “He’s never given me any indication that he could be involved in anything like this.”

“Didn’t you mention to me that he’d been distant the last few weeks?” He paused. “And wasn’t his brother involved in something recently?”

“Yeah, but—” She stopped herself. Laid out like that, she wondered if she was being an idiot.

I don’t want you seeing Michael Merrick anymore.

She’d spent years resenting her father for the way he treated her. Was that blinding her to truths that might be right in front of her face?

The fire truck slowed to make a turn off Ritchie Highway, and she glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the road sign.

“Chautauga?” she said. “There’s another fire in this neighborhood?”

Irish slid open the window separating them from the main cab. “What are we running, Chief? Another fire down this way?”

The fire chief glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like another dwelling fire on that last house on the cul-de-sac. At least we know it’s vacant. Report came in from law enforcement.”

“What?” said Hannah. “Wait. The last house—”

“That’s your boyfriend’s house, right?” said Irish.

She stared at him, thinking of the destruction on the first night, of the bombing on Friday. “Someone came back to finish the job?”

“Sounds like it,” said Irish. His tone was grim. “Or maybe someone is destroying evidence.”

CHAPTER 21

Hannah stared at Michael’s house as the fire truck rumbled across the broken pavement. A truck she didn’t recognize sat on the road in front of his driveway—and beside that was her father’s work truck. Someone had boarded over the front windows of the house, but the door hung open. Smoke billowed from the back of the house.

Despite what the chief had said, she hadn’t believed it until she’d laid eyes on the house.

“You okay for this one?” said Irish.

She met his eyes, wondering if he was teasing about the bombing. But his eyes were serious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then she straightened, remembering something that had been a concern on the night of the first fire. “The garage. It’s full of landscaping equipment. Lots of fertilizer and chemicals—”

Irish jerked open the window to the main cab again. “Chief. You need to hear this.”

Within two minutes, they had a plan.

Within five minutes, she had an oxygen mask and helmet in place, and she was following Irish into the house, dragging a hose with them.

It was different this time, knowing Michael and his brothers were safe and far from here, that she could keep her mind focused on firefighting. She tried not to think of what Irish had implied, that this could be an attempt to hide evidence. The house was dark and clouded with smoke, but some of the other guys from her unit were prying the plywood away from the windows to allow oxygen back into the home.

They found the fire in the kitchen, already eating away at the walls. She and Irish attacked the wall closest to the garage first, working methodically to ensure the fire didn’t spread back to areas they’d already cleared. They worked backward, chasing flames away from the walls, leaving only the floor on fire.

Someone had to have spread accelerant for the floor to be burning this hot, this long.

Not Michael, she thought. He wouldn’t have done this.

Right?

She could see the vinyl flooring melting into a clear pattern of lines below the flames. She turned the nozzle, ready to attack the floor next.

Irish grabbed her hand and kept the water directed at the wall. His voice came across her radio. “Hannah. Wait. What do you see?”

She stared. She saw fire. A lot of fire.

But then a pattern started to emerge. “A message?” she guessed. Then she looked more closely. “A star? What does that mean?”

“That’s not a star,” said Irish. “But it’s definitely a message.”

“It’s not a star?”

He let go of the hose, and water streaked across the flames on the floor.

“No,” he said. “That’s a pentagram.”

Michael had never been so glad to see the inside of a police car.

He was handcuffed beside Tyler, and they were alone in the vehicle, but Hannah’s father was just outside, speaking to the officer who was going to be driving them to the police station. The cul-de-sac was again lined with fire trucks and ambulances, but the terrified urgency from Thursday night was conspicuously absent. The radio in the front seat kept crackling with orders and updates, but Michael didn’t understand most of the codes, and he didn’t learn anything more than he already knew: his house was empty, yet on fire. A brush fire was burning in the woods.

He’d searched the faces of the firefighters he’d seen milling about, but he hadn’t seen Hannah. At least he didn’t have to be worried about her getting involved here.

Tyler shifted beside him. “I’ve never been arrested before,” he said. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or not.”

Michael stared out the window at the woods behind his house. “I prefer it to being dead.”

When Marshal Faulkner had put the gun against his head, Michael had worried that the Guide would burst out of the woods and kill them all—Hannah’s father included. But it was as if Jack Faulkner’s appearance had broken some sort of spell. Once he’d appeared to take them into custody, Michael hadn’t sensed their pursuer at all.

He had no idea what that meant—but he wondered if he should be giving Hannah’s father a bit more regard. Hadn’t the man been at every crime scene?

Yeah, because he’s the fire marshal, you idiot.

“Did you see anyone?” said Tyler.

“No.” Michael kept his eyes on the woods. “I didn’t.”

And that bothered him, too. Everything had happened so fast that Michael was still trying to piece it together. Had a Guide affected the air, making it thin and difficult to breathe—or had Michael been panicked, leaving adrenaline to do the same thing? Tyler had started the fire on the forest floor, right? Had the Guide made trees fall? Or had Michael done that?

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It hit him like a live wire. Michael jumped and swore.

“What?” said Tyler.

“I got another text.”

Tyler’s voice dropped, though they were alone in the car. “From the guy in the woods?”

“My hands are cuffed behind my back, Tyler. It could be from anyone.”

But it wasn’t. He knew. This was bait. A trap. A taunt.

He looked out the window at Jack Faulkner and wondered if he should tell him. The earlier text messages weren’t a secret—was there any reason to keep these hidden? He’d probably lose this phone too, but hell, he’d lose it anyway when he got to the police station and they booked him.