Randall Lenz sat in the motel room he’d rented for himself, an ice pack pressed against his throbbing temple. His team had converged on the house and pulled him out of harm’s way just as the tornado Adara had called began to tear off pieces of the roof, and had tried to load him into their van before any of the neighbors ventured out to see what was going on. However, even with the considerable resources he had at his disposal, Lenz knew it would be difficult to completely cover up Lyssa Grant’s death, and so he’d ignored their offers of first aid and had run into the kitchen, turned on the gas in the stove, and lit one of the candles he’d spotted sitting on the small round table in the dining area. Sure enough, even as the van sped away and the tornado began to dissipate, the gas ignited,
