Claire cocked the hammer. She squeezed the trigger.
The explosion shook the air.
Blood splattered up her neck.
Paul dropped to the ground. He was screaming. The sound was feral, frightening. He clutched at his knee, or what was left of his knee. The hollow-point bullet had disintegrated his kneecap and ripped apart his ankle. White bone and strips of tendon and cartilage dangled down like bloody pieces of frayed string.
She told Paul, “That was for me.”
Claire shoved the gun down the back of her jeans. She grabbed the foil blanket. She started toward the house.
Then she stopped.
Fire had taken over the left side of the house. Flames were clawing at the kitchen wall. Sparks jumped up at the ceiling. Glass shattered in the intense heat. The telephone had melted. The linoleum was black. Smoke hung like white cotton in the air. Orange and red flames had filled the den as they trudged toward the hallway.
Toward the garage.
It was too late. She couldn’t go in. Trying to help Lydia would be madness. She would die. They would both die.
Claire took a deep breath and ran into the house.
TWENTY-THREE
“I’m in the garage!” Lydia pulled uselessly at her restraints as bright red flames licked at the mouth of the hallway. “Help me!”
She had heard gunfire. She had heard a man screaming.
Paul, she thought. Please, God, let it be Paul.
“I’m here!” Lydia cried. She strained against the chair. She had given up hope until the phone rang, until the gunshot.
“Help!” she screamed.
Did they know about the fire? Were the police handcuffing Paul when they should be running into the house? He had left the door to the house open. She had a front-row view to the changing nature of the fire. The gentle flicker had turned into white-hot flames that were chewing through the walls. The carpet peeled up. Chunks of plaster melted off the ceiling. Smoke and heat roiled through the narrow corridor. Her hands felt hot. Her knees felt hot. Her face was hot.
“Please!” Lydia screamed. The fire was moving so fast. Didn’t they know she was in here? Didn’t they see the flames shooting through the roof?
“I’m in here!” she yelled. “I’m in the garage!”
Lydia pulled uselessly at the restraints. She couldn’t die like this. Not after what she had survived. She needed to see Rick one more time. She needed to hold Dee in her arms. She had to tell Claire that she had really forgiven her. She had to tell her mother that she loved her, that Paul had killed Sam, that her father had not taken his life, that he had loved them all so much and—
“Please!” She screamed so loudly that she strangled on the word. “Help me!”
There was a figure at the end of the hallway.
“Here!” she yelled. “I’m here!”
The figure got closer. Closer.
“Help!” Lydia cried. “Help me!”
Claire.
The figure was Claire.
“No, no, no!” Lydia panicked. Why was it Claire? Where were the police? What had her sister done?
“Lydia!” Claire was running at a crouch, trying to stay below the smoke. A foil blanket was over her head. Fire roiled behind her—brick-red and orange flames that lapped up the walls and dug chunks out of the ceiling.
Why was it Claire? Where were the firemen? Where were the police?
Lydia frantically watched the door, waiting for more people to rush in. Men in heavy fireproof jackets. Men with helmets and oxygen. Men with axes.
There was no one else. Just Claire. Crazy, impetuous, idiotic fucking Claire.
“What did you do?” Lydia screamed. “Claire!”
“It’s all right,” Claire screamed back. “I’m going to save you.”
“Jesus Christ!” Lydia could see the fire curling the paint off the walls. Smoke was filling the garage. “Where is everybody?”
Claire grabbed the knife off the table. She cut through the plastic ties.
“Go!” Lydia pushed her away. “I’m chained to the wall! You have to go!”
Claire reached behind the chair. She twisted something. The chain fell away like a belt.
For a moment, Lydia was too stunned to move. She was free. After almost twenty-four hours, she was finally free.
Free to burn alive in a fire.
“Come on!” Claire headed toward the open door, but the fire had already consumed their only way out. Flames melted the plastic slats on the wall. The shag carpet curled like a tongue.
“No!’ Lydia screamed. “God dammit, no!” She couldn’t die like this. Not after living through Paul’s torture. Not after thinking she was going to get away.
“Help me!” Claire ran at the roll-up door. The metal made a clanging