At the top of the stairs, he paused outside the guest bedroom door and pushed it open. The room was simple—a quilted bed, a small dresser, and a window looking out over the yard. He flicked on the bedside lamp, warm light pooling across the floor.
“You can crash here,” he said. “Bed’s made. Extra blanket in the chest if you get cold.” He turned to face me fully then, hands on my shoulders, eyes searching mine the way only a big brother could—steady, worried, but trying not to let the worry show too much. “I’ve got to head back to the station. The fire marshal is meeting me there, and I need to talk to a couple of people before things cool off. But I’ll be back before it’s too late. Levi will be here when he’s done—he texted me ten minutes ago. He’ll find you here. Charge your phone. I have chargers everywhere, you know that.”
“Okay.” My throat tightened. “Matt?—”
He pulled me into a hug before I could finish, arms wrapping around me firm and careful, like he was afraid I might break but knew I needed the pressure to stay together. I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of smoke and hisfamiliar cologne, and for a second the world narrowed to just me and my brother holding me up.
“You’re safe,” he murmured against my hair. “You’re here. Gerald is okay. Aggie is okay, too. You took care of them. You did good tonight, Bec. Real good.”
He held on until my breathing evened out a little, then eased back just enough to look at me. “Shower. Eat if you can. Rest if you can’t. I’ll lock up when I leave, but my door’s always open for you.” He brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “Text me if you need anything. I mean it.”
I swallowed hard. “I will.”
He gave me one last long look—big-brother assessment, cataloging every scratch, every smudge of soot, every tremor—then nodded to himself.
“Love you, Bec.”
“Love you too.”
He squeezed my arm once more, turned, and headed down the stairs. I listened to his footsteps fade, the front door open and close, the police SUV start up and pull away. Then the house settled around me.
I stood in the doorway of the guest room a moment longer, arms wrapped around myself, before I finally moved toward the bathroom and the promise of hot water.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the closet, Gerald’s small body pressed to my chest, smoke pouring in faster than I’d believed possible.
I showered and changed into one of Matt’s worn, soft flannel shirts and a pair of baggy sweats that were about to fall off. Tying the strings tight, I headed to the kitchen, plugged my phone into one of Matt’s million chargers, and started a pot of coffee.
I was staring out the kitchen window into the dark when my phone buzzed.
Matt: Travis is in my office. For questioning. He was lurking at Aggie’s trailer and just admitted to flicking cigarettes at the campground. Pretty sure the fire is his fault. You can come and talk to him if you want. Your call. No pressure. Also, keep quiet about this. This is your brother talking. Not a cop.
I read it twice.
My first impulse was to set the phone down, walk away, let Matt handle it the way I’d let him handle everything my whole life. He was good at it, and I was exhausted. Aggie’s Airstream had burned to nothing tonight, and I’d nearly burned with it. I had every reason to stay right here.
Me: I’m on my way.
I pocketed the phone, grabbed the keys to Matt’s truck, and left.
The Sweetbriar Police Station was eight minutes from Matt’s. I made it in six, parked crooked, and sat gripping the wheel for half a minute, staring at the lit entrance.
I’d told myself, more than once, that if Travis ever came near me again, I was finally going to lose my temper and kick his ass all the way back to that fancy condo we used to share.
I never had. Every time he appeared, I stayed measured, careful, the version of myself that gave him nothing he could twist. I’d been so determined not to be the unstable one—the dramatic one, the one who proved every ugly thing he’d ever said about me—that I kept my voice level, my hands steady, and swallowed the rest.
He’d taken every calm response as permission to keep coming.
I got out of the car.
Matt waited in the hallway, arms crossed, expression careful. He looked at me, glanced at my shoes—still flecked with ash—then back up.
He almost smiled. “He’s in there.”
“Under arrest?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. He knows the fire investigation is open. I think he’s scared.” He paused. “He should be.”
I stared at the closed door. My pulse had started a slow, heavy drum in my throat.
