The living room has dust flying all around and some smoke as well. But more importantly, the cabin is trashed. Shelves have been knocked over. Books are scattered all over the floor, my glasses have all been smashed against the wall, and my furniture has been slashed. There is the fire, and then there is whatever this is. I don’t know what to make of it at first. Picture frames that were once on the wall are all broken and scattered around on the floor.
Onyx stops beside me, and I hear him say one word. “Brennan.”
That’s when I see what he sees and stop dead in my tracks. Thick red letters have been spray-painted across the wall. The lines are uneven, raw, and cover the better part of the wall. Whoever did this wanted me to know it was him. It’s the word snitch. That’s all. It takes a second for my brain to stop pretending it isn’t what I think it is.
My stomach twists with anxiety as I hear the fire trucks arrive. Suddenly, everything is wet, seemingly all at once. Within minutes, I’m not worried about the flames because they’re all gone. Now, I have to worry about not slipping because everything in the entire cabin is wet.
I press a hand to the wall for balance and move through the wreckage into the bedroom. The smoke is lighter here, but it clings to everything. My fingers close around the fireproof lockbox from under the bed. It’s where I store everythingprecious to me—photos, legal docs, tax paperwork, and other items too numerous to name. I even keep my mom’s old chain with the tiny locket she wore until the day she died. I hand it off to Onyx and just nod.
I turn to gather more stuff, but Onyx’s hand lands on my shoulder. “You can’t stay in here,” he says. His voice is steady, but his face is tight.
“I’m almost done,” I say, but my hands are still shaking, and it’s clear to both of us I’m not thinking straight. Onyx’s free hand finds mine, and this time when he pulls, I go. I don’t want to. Every step I take out of the bedroom feels like I’m leaving behind something I can’t replace. But I go because I have no choice.
The word is still there on the wall when we pass it. I don’t look at it again.
Outside, the cold air hits my lungs too fast. I stumble, drop to a crouch in the dirt, coughing smoke until my eyes water.
Onyx doesn’t say anything. He stands over me, steady, holding the bag like it weighs nothing.
I look back towards the cabin and realize this was never about the fire. It was about the message left in its ashes. Onyx is right about it being Brennan. Who else could it be with a message like that?
Hours later, when the fire trucks leave, the fire’s down to steam and smoke. What’s left is a damp, muddy mess. And this is the story of how I lost everything in the blink of an eye.
Onyx and I walk around outside my cabin trying to survey the damage. Mud sucks at my boots as I move through what’s left of the yard, making every step seem like a herculean effort. Black streaks run down the siding on the porch. The roof’scollapsed over the living room. The bedroom’s half-exposed, open to the sky. Water drips from every corner. I doubt it’s salvageable.
The brothers hang back. Some are still working, clearing debris from around the house, keeping watch on the embers. Others are just standing near their bikes, talking in low voices. No one says much to me. I hesitate to wonder how many of them saw what was written on the wall.
Jasper’s at the edge of the driveway with his phone pressed to his ear. He’s talking low and gesturing with his free hand towards my cabin. He meets my eyes once and gives me a quick chin jerk by way of acknowledgement.
Onyx stays close, but he doesn’t speak either. He hasn’t said much since he pulled me out. Just helped where he could. I’m glad he had the presence of mind to make me leave; otherwise, I might have been hit with falling debris when the ceiling collapsed.
***
Detective Morgan pulls up twenty minutes later in an unmarked cruiser with his lights off. His expression doesn’t change much as he steps out and takes in the damage, but his mouth flattens when he sees the word still drying in red.
Jasper walks over to meet him. They talk for a minute, their heads tilted in. Those two seem thick as thieves for a detective and the president of a motorcycle club. They have the kind of easy familiarity that comes from being involved in too many situations where they had to pick up the pieces. Eventually, Morgan glances towards me and walks over.
“Are you alright?” he asks grimly. His eyes are already scanning the wreckage behind me.
“No,” I say, because I don’t have the energy to pretend otherwise. “That was my home.”
“I know,” he says. “Were you still living out here?”
“She’s staying at the clubhouse,” Onyx says, stepping forward. “Good thing, too.”
Morgan glances at him, then back at me. “You tell anyone you were there?”
I shake my head. “No one knows but the club.”
He doesn’t write anything down. Just squints towards the scorched roofline, jaw flexing.
“Looks like someone used an accelerant. The message inside confirms this is arson.”
He continues, “We’ve been keeping an eye on Brennan since the break-in charges were added, but we had to call off the watch when he was taken off house arrest. I’m guessing this was his way of letting you know he didn’t appreciate you talking to us.”
My stomach twists. I look away before I can give anything else away. “I told the truth. I told the police what happened. But that gave him a reason to do this, and now the place my grandfather built with his own hands is a pile of wet rubble.”
Morgan glances towards the road like he’s already half gone. “We’ll pull footage from the highway cams. See if we can see his vehicle. Doubt he was smart enough to cover his tracks.”
