My anger lies with Saint. Poor, sad, heartbroken Saint. But it’s Kade’s fault, too. He went to Starlight. He asked for a tattoo.
Kade is the problem. We werefineuntil he came into my life, which means the only solution is to get him out. If he leaves Sterling Falls, then… maybe Gabriel will, too.
Maybe everything could go back to normal, and I’ll finally get some sleep.
I scrub at my face again, putting my mental mask back into place. My eyes are sandpaper, and the ache that echoes through my body with every move feels like my bones are grinding together.
After a breath, I drop my hands. I smile at Saint, so sweetly, I might as well be proposing.
The difference in my expression has him taking a step back.
“Where am I going?” I repeat his question. “I’m going to burn his fucking house down.”
Easier said than done,but stilltotally fucking manageable.
I toss the empty gas can into the formal dining room. Kade is in the ocean, and I made sure to avoid the kitchen, with its glass wall that faces the water. It would give me away if he bothered to check—and I’m sure he would.
The front door is open, waiting for my hasty exit.
Glancing around, I take in his paltry living. Off the kitchen, his cot is up against a wall and surrounded by his clothes. I was kind enough to avoid splashing the gasoline in that room entirely, for which I feel thanks should be in order.
However, the rest of the house? Fair game.
On the kitchen counter, I spot the folder he tried to get me to take… what was that, weeks ago? The one with Reese’s information. The one he used to try and ‘hire’ me to find his missing friend. I believe some of it… but not his motivation. Not all of it.
I walk in a crouch in and grab it, scurrying back out. The fumes are getting to me. The whole house reeks of the fuel.
I tuck the folder into the waistband of my jeans and hurry to the front door. My nose and mouth are covered by the collar of my shirt.
One last gas can sits waiting for me on the step.
I pour some on the threshold, connecting the puddles in the house to the front steps, then down. All the way to his car, which gets a good douse. He left his windows cracked, and I tip the contents of the gas can in. The liquid pours down the window and soaks the driver’s seat.
Down around the tires, over the spot where Nyx died…
I run out of gas, which is fine by me.
It’s perfect timing.
I avoid the soaked path and toss it into the house, then return to safety on the road. Every time I get on my bike, now fixed from the crash in West Falls, I’m thankful for helmets and good mechanics.
I flick my lighter on, and the little flame jumps to life. I pull a strip of fabric from my pocket—a sliced piece of the towel I have stashed in the compartment on my bike—and hold it over the flame.
When it catches, I take two steps back and toss it onto the end of the gasoline trail.
Immediately, it alights with an impressivewhoosh. In a matter of seconds, the fire has climbed up into the SUV. Farther still, it rushes up the steps and into the house.
I tuck the lighter in my pocket and smile.
Methodically, I return to my bike and put on my helmet. I flick the visor down and kick-start it, then wait. My heart rate hasn’t settled since I ran into Saint. That’s just the adrenaline, though.
So is the spasms in my lower abdomen and the resulting nausea. Another second of watching, making sure the fire catches, and then I’ll go to my favorite bakery down the street from Bow & Arrow.
Mmm. Croissants with butter. No, a warm cinnamon roll. Or a breakfast sandwich with bacon on the side?—
Nope. I press my hand to my stomach. The pain there spikes, not just the wounds but something deeper, too. My mouth fills with saliva, usually a precursor to vomiting, and I swallow it back down.
White smoke pours out of the open front door. The orange-and-yellow flickering flames beyond it give me an ounce of satisfaction.
