up from the smoke, and the world became a hazy blur.
But knowing the fire had finally silenced Catherine felt good.
He went to the window and opened it, letting the smoke out. He blinked, watching the street outside through his teary eyes. Someone ran toward the house. As his sight focused, he saw the gun in the man’s hands.
“Daniel, cops!” he shouted.
“I can see them,” Daniel said, standing by his side. “Listen, I have to run. If they catch me here, it’ll be over. You know that, right?”
Of course he knew that. Daniel was a wanted man. “Go! I’ll stall them.” He slammed the window shut.
Daniel dashed to the guest room. Good, he could leave through the window. Get as far away as possible. But he needed time.
Was the door locked? He stepped toward it and stumbled, tipping the bottle of cooking oil as he tried to gain his balance. The oil spilled on his pants.
And the flames rose.
Tatum reached the door a second before O’Donnell, and gave it a solid kick. He heard the wood crack, and the door swung open, filling the air with smoke. The fire roared, feeding on the oxygen from the doorway, the heat driving Tatum to stumble backward, hand protecting his face. His eyes teared up from the billowing clouds of soot and ash, glimpsing vague shapes of furniture—an upturned chair, a couch, a coffee table.
Deeper inside, a voice screamed in pain. Finch.
“Run!” Finch shouted. “Daniel, they’re here! Get out!”
Tatum stumbled into the room, coughing. Through billowing columns of smoke and hazy hot air, he saw Finch flailing, his clothes on fire.
“Run!” Finch screamed again.
Tatum lunged at Finch, felt the shock as he collided into the man, knocking him to the floor. Finch twisted and rolled, screeching in pain, the flames that had caught his clothes flickering. Tatum swatted at the flames on the man’s pants, putting them out, vaguely feeling the scorching heat on his own skin.
“Tatum!” O’Donnell coughed behind him.
“The windows!” Tatum roared at her. “Cover the windows. Glover is making a break for it!”
She ran back outside. Tatum peered through the hazy air. Was Rhea Deleon here?
Sykes ran into the house, holding a red fire extinguisher. The air filled with particles of white foam as he sprayed. The flames died around them, the air becoming almost impossible to see through.
“Watch your back,” Tatum said, coughing, peering through the haze.
“Is Glover here?” Zoe shouted behind him.
“I don’t know,” Tatum croaked. “Get out of here! Check outside.” He got up, pulling Finch with him, forcing the man to his feet. He shouted at Sykes, “Cuff him! I’ll check the rest of the house.”
Heart pounding, he went through the first door, gun muzzle sweeping the room, his eye catching quick details beyond the clouds of smoke. Broken furniture. Bloodstains on the floor and the walls. One window, latched from inside. Glover hadn’t gotten out through there. “Clear!”
Sharp burning pain on his palms and arms crept through his adrenaline-addled brain, and he forced himself to ignore it. He kicked through the next door, swiveling as he thought he heard something. It was another bedroom, with a single bed and a small nightstand. A large window, also shut and latched from inside. “Clear!”
Third door. Kicked it open, forced himself to sweep the bathroom, even as he saw the woman slumped in the bathtub. There was no one else there. He coughed again, this time not because of the smoke but because of the stench. The room buzzed with insects. He crouched by the tub, felt the woman’s neck for a pulse. She was stiff and cold, her skin pale and sickly, flies crawling all over her.
“Is it Rhea?” Zoe asked behind him, her voice hoarse.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s long dead.”
His entire body burned with agony. The fire had burned his legs, his arms. He kept coughing, his lungs full of smoke. He retched and doubled up, vomiting.
But Daniel had gotten away. He’d given him enough time; he was sure of it.
A man made him stand up, walk over to an ambulance. People were walking into his house, talking about backup, and techs, and dispatch. Police talk.
For some reason, no one was helping the woman out. He glanced back, thought he could still see her beyond the smoke. She nodded at him, almost a friendly nod.
“You should get her help,” he croaked.
“What are you talking about, freak?” the man barked at him.
“The woman. I think she needs medical help.”
The man looked at him, incredulous. “She’s dead, you maniac.