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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.
o;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?
