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Suddenly an object on fire soared through one of the shattered windows, leaving a blur of orange and yellow in its wake.
Crash!
A Molotov cocktail. The bottle broke as it hit the wall, and a sheet of liquid flame engulfed the den.
“GO, GO!” Jack screamed.
I was already at the sliding door that led to the deck.
“I CAN’T STAND UP!” I yelled at him.
“BACK UP AND COVER YOUR HEAD!” he roared.
I shimmied backwards, lay down flat, and pulled my jacket over my hair.
Jack aimed at the sliding door – Blam blam blam! – and the entire thing shattered.
I knocked out the last few jagged shards still stuck in the bottom of the frame. Then I crawled over the broken glass, using my leather jacket to keep my arms from being cut to shreds.
Jack followed close behind me as the gunfire kept chattering and the flames spread throughout the interior of the house. Once he was out he hissed, “Crawl to the edge of the – ”
Gunshots rang out, and the wooden floor of the deck splintered just a foot away from my face.
Jack rolled over, aimed through the space between the slats of the railing, and shot.
Blam blam!
There was a scream and a thud.
“Come on, come on!” Jack shouted as he got to a crouch, reached for my hand, and pulled me to my feet.
We ran down the steps to the scrub brush behind his property, then headed into the hills. As we crested the closest ridge, he turned back to look, and I did the same.
His house was one giant ball of fire. Black smoke billowed out of every broken window, and flames flickered behind every intact one.
Not only that, but his truck, motorcycle, and my car were all engulfed in flames. The fuckers had Molotov’d them, too.
But that wasn’t what mattered to me. Instead, I choked back a cry when I realized what I’d left behind in the house.
The photo album.
I thought about going back, but that was suicide.
I glanced over at Jack, and suddenly I realized I wasn’t the only one sick with loss. He was staring at the house with a stunned look on his face. Everything he had in the world, he was losing at that very second.
“Jack,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked at me blankly like a sleepwalker – and then pulled himself out of the dream.
“Come on,” he said, took my hand, and led me into the wilderness.
72
Jack
Istumbled through the underbrush, holding Fiona’s hand, trying not to think about how my life was burning up back there.
I’d thought I’d lost everything two weeks ago.
