My chest burns, aching to take a breath, as I fight back. I reach for Easton’s eyes, but he bites down hard on my left hand. I open my mouth, trying to scream as his teeth sink deeper, but his hands keep the scream trapped in my throat.
I try to pull my hand away from him, but the ice pick in my shoulder cuts into another muscle, sending out a fresh burst of pain. Instinctively, I reach up with my right hand and rip it out. More horrific pain.
But this is my only chance.
I aim for his face, watching his eyes go wide as blood spills from his mouth.
The ice pick hits him in the cheek, right below the eye. The tip scrapes down over Easton’s cheekbone and exits through the skin under his jaw. He howls with pain, and I rip my hand back from him. His grip around my throat is gone, and I suck in a deep, burning breath laced with the smell of gasoline.
I scramble away from him, hacking and gasping. The ice pick is still in my hands. Easton keeps screaming slurred obscenities at me as he holds a hand against the blood spilling from his jaw.
Behind him, Valencia is screaming, too. She’s standing by the door to the dock, and so is Miles. He must have gotten her free during the scuffle between me and Easton. But both of them are shouting something I can barely hear over the pounding in my head. Valencia is pointing as Miles tries to pull her away, toward the door.
I manage to slow my gasps for breath long enough to focus on where she’s pointing.
The river of gasoline moving across the floor.
And where it ends.
That’s when I recognize one word through the rush of blood in my head.
“Fire!”
The gasoline reaches the kerosene heater. And now I know why Easton had it lit. His plan at the end of the day was to fill the boathouse with gasoline and let it burn to the ground. Because without even touching the heater, the gas ignites.
Fifty-Three
Whatever gasoline was left in the canister explodes immediately. It bursts from the seams in the handle and sprays a wall of fire across the room, separating Easton and me. He stumbles out of the way. It’s spreading.
There’s plenty of water below the boathouse, but the steel ring on the removable floor panel on my side of the room is covered in burning fuel. The one on Easton’s side is untouched, but a wall of flame blocks him from reaching it. He’s trapped.
But so am I. I spin around, trying to find a free path or place where the flames aren’t so high so I can jump to Valencia and Miles, who are by the door. But the fire is too strong.
Valencia yells something at me, but I don’t hear it over the roar of the flames.
Easton leers at me, then starts walking along the wall of spreading fire, trying to find a place to jump over. But it’s too high. And the flames are too hot.
We’re both going to die here.
Black smoke fills the boathouse rafters, and it makes my already raw throat burn even more.
Valencia moves closer. “Fire extinguisher! Workbench!” She points.
I open the cabinet under the workbench and there it is—a small white fire extinguisher for putting out engine fires.
I pull the pin and spray the flames separating her and me. Aiming at the floor.
Once there’s a spot large enough for me to jump through, she waves me over. I leap to her side, and she pulls me tight against her, squeezing. It hurts so bad, but I can’t help but wrap my arms around her, too. Then I pull her back toward the door, but she stops.
“Mom!” Easton calls out. He holds a hand against his jaw where the ice pick exited his chin, and he sounds like a slurring drunk. “Mom, please!”
Valencia looks at me. Then takes the fire extinguisher.
“No!” I say, reaching for it.
But she doesn’t listen to me. She walks over to him. Behind me, Miles is pulling at my arm, trying to get me out of the boathouse. But I have to stop Valencia. She can’t let Easton go. He’ll kill us all.
I run over to her, but she puts her hand out to stop me.
