“You can’t,” Boone cuts in, his voice a raw edge. He steps forward, catching her wrist, pulling her attention to him. “Sadie.Look at me. You’ve been through enough. We can’t risk you out there in this. Please. Let Shep get you home.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but then her gaze finds mine.
I shake my head once, firm. “We’ll tell you if we need you. But right now? This isn’t your fight.”
Her eyes glisten, but she nods reluctantly.
Shepard leans down, murmurs something soft against her temple, then kisses her hair. Boone presses his mouth to her forehead, lingering longer than he should.
When I step forward, she catches my shirt, her grip tight. I lower my head, kissing her cheek, tasting salt.
“We’ll be okay,” I whisper.
“You better be,” she whispers back.
Shep guides her toward the lighthouse road. She doesn’t look back. My chest feels ripped open watching her go, but I force myself to turn.
I face Jake. “Do you have any idea what started this?”
His jaw tightens. “I can tell you this much—it wasn’t an accident. Not with fires spread like this. Too coordinated. Too fast.”
My teeth grind. “Arson.”
“Call it what you want,” Jake says grimly. “But something’s moving in our town, and it doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen before. We were planning a town hall to discuss bringing in a sheriff, building out the police force. Maybe this is some sick response. Or maybe it’s bigger than that. I don’t know. All I know is Driftwood is burning.”
Rage claws at my throat. I drag a hand through my hair, feel the grit of salt still clinging from the boat. Boone is pacing like a caged animal, his chest rising and falling hard.
“We’ll handle it,” I say, my voice iron. “We’ll get it under control.”
Jake nods once. “Then go.”
Boone and I turn, moving fast toward the truck. I can already smell smoke in the air, faint but rising. By the time we hit the highway, the horizon is glowing orange.
When we crest the ridge overlooking Driftwood, my breath punches out.
Flames lick the skyline. Whole blocks are lit like torches. The hardware store’s roof is caving in, sparks spitting upward, and sirens wail from every direction.
People stream down the sidewalks, kids crying, neighbors pulling hoses that won’t be enough.
It’s not a town anymore. It’s a war zone.
Boone’s knuckles are white on the dash. My chest is a furnace, everything I’ve built for control splintering. Driftwood is burning, and we don’t even know why.
But I swear to God—we’re going to find out.
The heat hits before we’re even out of the truck. Not the kind that sits on your skin in summer, but the kind that claws through you, smoke thick enough to taste. Ash rains down in flecks.
Boone bolts to the back of the truck, grabbing gear before I can even shout. I follow, tugging my jacket on, mask hanging loose around my neck, my mind splitting into two tracks: what I see in front of me and what I can’t stop seeing behind my eyes.
Sawyer.
His body pinned under beam and flame. His voice cutting off in the radio mid-sentence. The fire eating through everything until there was nothing left but smoke and silence.
I shove the memory back like I always do, but the smell makes it harder. Wood, rubber, paint—exactly the same.
“Gabe!” Boone shouts, pointing. The hardware store’s roof is collapsing in on itself, flames curling through the frame. Sparks shoot across the street toward a row of apartments, families screaming as they scramble out.
“Go left, clear the block!” I yell.
