supposed to be a profile picture, but she noticed me taking the photo, and she turned. And smiled that smile of hers.”
“It’s a great picture,” Daniel agreed. “But you have to take care of it.”
“I have to take care of it.”
He tore the page and crumpled it, dropping it on the floor. Then he took the next newspaper, tore it as well. The sound of the ripping newspaper made him shiver. Almost as if it were Catherine’s screams. As if by tearing her picture, he caused her pain.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry.” He tore another paper and crumpled it. The papers piled on the floor around his feet.
“You should get the matches,” Daniel said.
“How much longer?” Tatum asked, teeth gritting.
O’Donnell looked out her window at the lone house. “Twenty minutes. That’s what they said.”
He knew that. He was being the obnoxious kid, asking his parents repeatedly if they were there yet. But damn it, the house was right there. And they could see movement through the closed shutters. Terrence Finch was home.
But he was dangerous, even more so if Glover was there as well. And if they were holding Rhea Deleon in that house, it could devolve into a hostage situation fast. Waiting for SWAT was definitely the right thing to do.
Still, it was hard to fight the urge that kept prodding him to move, move, move. The house was right there.
“What if they’re killing Rhea Deleon right now?” he asked. “We need to move.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Zoe said from the back seat. “Why would they kill her at this very minute?”
Tatum glanced at the other car, in which Koch and Sykes waited. Unmarked cars, and they were keeping their distance. But still, what if Glover glanced out the window? Or Finch? After all, Finch was probably highly paranoid. If he just saw an unfamiliar car outside his home . . .
He checked the time. Eighteen minutes.
The crumpled newspapers covered the entire floor. He lit a match and held it by one of the papers. It caught quickly, and he watched, fascinated, as the flame danced, the paper’s color morphing from white to brown and finally black, the fire flickering.
And then it died, a wisp of smoke curling upward.
He tried again, lighting a second match. This time, the flame hardly seemed to take before it died.
“I think the paper may be too damp,” he said.
Daniel didn’t answer. He looked through the shutters, frowning.
“I’ll get the cooking oil,” he muttered. He went to the kitchen, got the bottle of cooking oil, and returned to the living room. He squirted the oil on the papers, emptying half the bottle.
Then he lit a third match.
It caught fast this time.
“Is that smoke?” Tatum asked, squinting.
“Damn it, you’re right—it’s smoke!” O’Donnell flung her door open. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
Tatum’s body shot from his seat like a tightly coiled spring. He was out of the car and running, pulling his gun from its holster. Koch and Sykes were running as well, shouting.
They’d parked far from the house. Too far, it seemed now. Much too far.
Tatum sprinted for the house, the wind shrieking in his ears, praying they would get there in time. He glimpsed something bright and orange through a crack in the shutters. Flames.
“The back!” he shouted at Koch. “Cover the back of the house!”
Koch changed his direction, running toward the back of the house. Sykes slowed down and suddenly turned back. Tatum had no idea what the man was doing. He pointed his gun at the window, the muzzle wavering as he ran. He hoped Zoe had stayed in the car. This could turn into a firefight. Reflexes kicked in, his mind processing the scene, his own backup, the possible dangers, eyes intent on the windows, searching for movement.
One of the shutters shifted slightly, a figure beyond it.
Tatum changed his direction, staying away from the window, sprinting for the front door.
Smoke curled through several windows now. Flames flickered behind the shutters.
The smoke was thick in the living room, and he was coughing hard. He went over to the bathroom and closed the door, not wanting the woman to suffocate. He should open a window, let the smoke out. But Daniel had told him to keep the shutters closed ever since they’d taken the woman.
“Daniel, I’m opening a window!” he cried, though his voice cracked as he doubled over, coughing helplessly. The living room table had caught fire and was now blazing. It was hot and almost impossible to breathe. His eyes teared