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As I storm out of his office, I realize all I said won’t make a difference, not really. Sean is still out there and may still find me and hurt me. Dad can make my life hard in many ways, if he chooses to. The fear I’ll feel walking on the street alon
e won’t just fade and disappear.
But these things had to be said, and no matter what happens now, facing my fears was necessary, too.
***
As I climb into my jeep and start the engine, I feel cold. My hands can’t stop trembling.
God, what a day. I can’t image what I’d be like if I’d faced Sean, too. Thank God for small mercies. His message on my door was enough to leave me shaking.
I wonder if Dad even heard all I told him. If he’ll ever understand. Probably not. I grip the wheel and stare out into the night. Sean’s message, Dad’s expectation that I’d “come around”… Bad things come in threes, my granddad used to say.
Shit. My mind is imploding from today’s stress. Relax. I press my forehead to the cool leather of the wheel and close my eyes. Nothing really bad happened. Everything will be all right.
Yet I can’t shake the heaviness from my chest as start the engine and I drive north, heading toward Dylan and his brothers.
To push back the moodiness, I play one of the Deathmoth albums I have in my mp3. Dakota’s voice fills the car, and her anger filters through the funk I’m in. I tap the rhythm of the song on the wheel, humming along. The song rises into a crescendo as I turn onto Dylan’s street.
The flames jumping into the night sky seem part of the song’s fury, until I realize I’m really seeing them—that they’re real.
Until I realize the fire is at Dylan’s house.
God, no. I brake hard. The tires squeal, and the car fishtails a tiny bit before it comes to a stop. Pushing the door open, I jump out.
People are standing across the street from the house, some even dressed in their checkered pajamas and house robes, staring at the flames as if under a spell.
I cross the street, stumbling like I’m drunk, the heat blasting in my face. Something’s off, I realize, looking around me. No fire trucks, or ambulances, but maybe they’re on their way.
And then it hits me: Dylan and his brothers are in there—two little kids, and he’s still bed-ridden.
Oh hell.
“Have you called for help?” I grab the first bystander I find in my way and shake her. “Have you called?”
“We’ve called 9-1-1,” she says in a hushed whisper, “but, between us, I think they’re gonna be too late.”
The air leaves my lungs. “Dylan? His brothers? Have they come out?”
She shakes her head.
I ask nothing else. I start running.
The fire is at the front of the house, so maybe the back isn’t burning yet. Need to get to the back door.
Thankfully there’s a path going round the house, because the rest is this jungle of waist-high weeds. Someone was supposed to be with Dylan and the boys, I think vaguely as I race toward the back. Asher? Or Zane? Can’t remember who was coming by today. Usually by this time I’d be back to take care of Dylan and the boys.
But today I’m late. Way too late.
No. Can’t let this happen. Burning debris is falling around me, and I lift my arms to protect my head. The noise is incredible—timbers cracking and breaking, the crackle of the flames, glass shattering from the heat. Glowing embers float on the air. My footsteps are lost in the other sounds.
Hoping the back door isn’t locked, I touch the handle. It’s warm, but not too hot. I turn it and open. Smoke pours from inside, getting into my lungs, and I start to cough.
Shit. Fear constricts my lungs further, and I gasp for breath as I enter the burning house.
“Dylan!” I crouch down, because I read somewhere that you should keep low, because the smoke goes up. This seems to be true, so I crawl across the kitchen. “Miles! Teo! Where are you?”
I cough as I exit into the living room and turn toward the bedrooms. I try to call their names again, but every attempt makes me cough more, so I concentrate on reaching the boys’ room. The door is half open, so I push it and crawl inside.
