My hands tighten around the handles.
The second we turn through the gate, chaos opens around us.
Fire trucks crowd the drive. Police cruisers block the yard. Firefighters drag hoses through mud and ash. Water arcs toward the main barn, but it’s pretty much all gone already. Animals are running all over the place.
The smaller structure beyond it burns too, flames chewing through the roof while smoke pours into the dark.
The house is still standing, but the fire inside it glows a color I’ve never seen.
Foster sees it too.
“That’s wrong,” he says when we cut the engines.
Spike looks at him. “What is?”
“All of it.” Foster swings off his bike, eyes moving from the main barn to the smaller one, then to the house. “Those buildings are too far apart. Fire doesn’t jump like that.
A horse runs past us, but Foster barely notices.
“And that house is burning too hot,” he says, voice going flat. “Way too hot for a normal residential fire.”
Tank’s jaw tightens. “Meaning?”
“Meaning somebody helped it.”
Men shout.
Animals scream.
Then I hear her.
“Amelia,” I breathe.
Her scream cuts through everything.
Not fear. Not pain.
Worse.
A sound I know all too well.
Grief.
No.
I run toward the sound.
She’s near the house, covered in soot, hair wild, one sleeve burned, blood on her hands. A firefighter stands in front of her with both arms out, blocking her from the porch.
“You don’t understand!” she screams at him. “She’s inside!”
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there.”
“My baby’s inside!”
The words hit me so hard my stride breaks.
For one second, I can’t breathe.
