James froze mid-laugh, his fork suspended in the air. Michael was already moving, sliding out of the booth with the kind of fluid precision that comes from practice—the kind you hope you never have to use.
I followed, my body slower than my brain, the warmth from moments ago evaporating like it had never been there at all.
We all knew what was happening. Act 1.
The heat hit me before I even cleared the doorway. It wasn't the kind of wild, raging fire you see in movies—no towering infernos or explosions. This was different. Controlled. Precise. My truck was the only thing burning, with flames licking at the tires, curling around the edges of the windows like fingers making a point. It was so carefully planned that it missed the explosive potential of the gas tank.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, my brain lagging behind the reality in front of me. The fire wasn't about the truck. It was about me.
I'd been stripped bare in front of it, like the fire could see through me, down to every crack I'd spent years hiding. The heat wasn't only external; it seeped into my chest, fanning embers I'd long convinced myself had gone cold.
Michael barked something sharp and urgent, but it barely registered. The flames drew my gaze, with how they danced like they had a purpose. I almost heard Elliot's voice in the crackle, mocking and smug.
The local fire department showed up fast. Sirens blared like they were waiting for the call. They moved efficiently, dousing the flames easily. They'd likely rehearsed vehicle fires dozens of times. When the smoke cleared, my truck was still standing, charred but intact—damaged just enough to make the message clear.
Michael grabbed my arm as I stepped forward. "Don't touch anything."
I shook him off. I had to see it. When I leaned into the driver's side window, the warped glass distorted my reflection, twisting my face into something unrecognizable.
For a fleeting second, I saw my father's eyes staring back at me. The same set jaw. The same stubbornness.
Then the message came into focus, etched in soot like a final judgment:
"A man is purified by fire. Tomorrow, we finish."
Bald fury made my throat tight.
James stepped up beside me, his voice low and steady. "He's close."
Michael didn't bother hiding his frustration anymore. "That's it. You're pulling out of the race."
He didn't get it. Our presence in Coeur d'Alene wasn't about the race anymore. I'm not sure it ever was.
It was about what the fire meant.
Back at the hotel, the walls were too close, and the fluorescent lights were too bright. Michael paced like a caged animal.
His anger was like wildfire. It burned hot, fast, and without regard for nuance. We'd all three packed back into the cramped hotel room. I sat on one of the beds and bunched the cheap bedspread in my fists as I leaned forward, grounding myself.
I still smelled it. The ghost of the fire lingered in my nostrils, thick and oppressive, like it had stitched itself into the lining of my lungs. I swallowed against the phantom taste of ash.
My truck wasn't merely metal and paint. It had been mine, full of the quiet comfort of routines—coffee cups wedged in holders, old receipts stuffed in the glove box, and maps tucked in the side panels. Now, it was a husk with a threatening message carved in soot.
"You need to pull out," Michael snapped. "This isn't any other race, Marcus. It's baited. You're walking into it like an idiot."
I didn't look at him. The truth sat too heavy in my chest—James's discovery about Raines and our father pounded at the back of my neck.
How could I tell Michael about that? How do you tell your brother that Dad wasn't only a man who died in a fire? No, his death was part of something monstrous, a twisted blueprint.
It was easier to argue that Dad died because of mistakes made. It was cleaner. Less suffocating.
"I'm not pulling out." My voice was sharp and brittle. "I'm not giving Raines the satisfaction."
Michael stepped closer, his jaw clenched so tight I saw the muscles twitch. "This isn't about pride. It's about staying alive."
"No, it's about finishing something that's been chasing me for years. This ends tomorrow."
Michael's eyes darkened. "You're not Dad."
