The phone woke me like a fist.
“Brie,” Dad’s voice was rope-raw. “Orla’s house—fire. She called. She’s out but the neighbors say someone threw a Molotov. They’re saying arson.”
The world tightened to a single line: move.
We hit the street like an animal on a scent. Dominic in the passenger seat, shoulders rigid, jaw set as if he had a blade under it. Tyler drove with hands that didn’t stop shaking. Gage rode shotgun, still bruised and wired but cursing with a grin that managed to be brave and tired at once. Dad called the station and looped the sheriff’s public line; we kept the private chaos to ourselves—no more leaks, no more staged cameras.
The neighborhood where Orla’s family lived smelled like childhood and quiet things — trimmed hedges, a dog-tether, a porch swing that creaked wh
