Leah scrambled to her feet, panicky tears springing free. Hobbling to the front door, she put her eye to the peephole and squinted through the distorted lens. There was no sign of the two men.
Fuck.
The security light hadn’t turned on. Instead, she heard the muffled sound of smashing glass and a low murmur of voices.Leah pressed an ear to the front door, knees throbbing and scalp prickling, but it was too thick to reveal what was happening on the other side. She crept across the foyer and peered around the edge of the bay window in the living room.
A towering shadow loomed beyond the glass. She muffled the scream on her lips. Wide-eyed and wheezing, she realized the smaller of the two men had been given a boost by the bigger one. He was doing something to disable the security camera. Dropping neatly back onto his feet, he peeled off, back down the porch steps, lifted one of the containers, and disappeared out of sight.
Further down the driveway, the light outside Hazel’s front door had been triggered. As Leah watched, a faint glow lit up the single bedroom of the carriage house. She held her breath but the uninvited guests didn’t notice.
Call the police, Hazel!
Moments passed while Leah’s heartbeat lashed in her ears. She rattled through her limited options, listening intently with the taste of fear gooseberry-sharp on her tongue. Then, cutting through the silence of the night, she heard the slop of liquid, as if a bucket of water had been chucked over the porch. It was followed immediately by a furious and distinctive yowl.
Handyman Stan!
Leah reacted on instinct, without any further sensible thought. Skidding through the hallway, her fingers closed around the handle of a paint can Jackson had left on the floor. She flicked the lock and wrenched at the doorknob in one reckless movement. Freshly planed, the front door flew open suddenly and noiselessly, catching the man on the top step completely by surprise.
Her appearance in the grainy swathe of moonlight triggered a chain of events and four things happened at once, perfect in their choreography.
A second arc of liquid, tossed by The Tank from a jerry can, soaked Leah from the thighs down as she rushed forward. Gasoline burned at the grazes on her knees, the pungent stench bringing tears to her eyes. “Fuck, that hurts!” she squealed.
Leah launched the half-filled can of paint into the air at the same time as the man reeled back in shock. More by luck than judgment, her aim was spot on and it caught him smack in the middle of the chest with a satisfying thump.
Handyman Stan, still leaping and spitting, darted between The Tank’s legs. Arms wheeling, he tripped over the cat, staggered and teetered for a second on the top step, before losing his footing completely and tumbling backward off the porch. Hitting the most rotten section halfway down, his weight sent him crashing through the boards, until he came to rest, shoulders first, feet in the air, inside the wooden crater. His pained and rasping groan morphed into a string of curses.
Over by the corner of the house, a match—already released from the shorter intruder’s grasp—sailed through the air and rolled across the decking. With a hollow whoomph, orange flames spread over the gasoline-soaked lumber, licking at the surface of the weathered wood.
Even in the dark, Leah could tell this other guy was barely out of his teens. Adrenaline pumping and surfing on a temporary wave of invincibility, Leah stormed past the entombed Tank to confront the arsonist, panic tamping down the fear. She barely felt the bite of gravel beneath her bare feet.
“What the fuck are you playing at! Intimidation not enough for you anymore?” She slammed her hands into his chest. “Thought you’d try for murder now?”
Dropping his own jerry can, the kid backed away with jerky steps, his eyes horrified. “No! It’s not like that. A little fire—that’sall! Just the porch. We were going to put it out. Take it or break it. That’s what Uncle Landon says!”
“Not acceptable, even in kindergarten, asshole.” She shoved him again with each alternate word. He looked like he might cry. Her knees were shaking. So was her voice. “And you nearly killed my cat!”
The young guy held her off. “I love cats. We didn’t know he was there. Honest!”
The flames were spreading, taking hold. Smoke forced its way into Leah’s throat; it clogged her nostrils, bittersweet and pungent. She hacked a cough, which turned into a moan. “The whole house is going to go up!”
“Put your hands where I can see them and no sudden moves.” They both jerked and spun when the demand cut through the night, but Leah, at least, had the benefit of recognizing Hazel’s voice. The old lady emerged from the dark, a handgun trained steadily on the arsonist. “Leah, get away from the fire!”
It was sensible advice, soaked as she was in gasoline, and Leah backed up a few paces. The sudden sound of sirens drawing closer threatened to drain the last of the strength from her legs. But behind her there was another scuffle from inside the wreckage of the splintered steps and a guttural groan. As the fire truck led two police cars down the drive, red and blue lights flashing, Leah ran forward again, reaching into the hole to grasp The Tank’s flailing hands. She couldn’t leave him in danger, even if he was a cat-torturing scumbag.
Within minutes, more people came to help and stronger grips grabbed hold of his clothes, dragging him free. Unspooling a huge hose, the firefighters tackled the flames while Leah hobbled over to Hazel, moving right out of the way. Glancing down at her pajama shorts and tank top, she grimaced. Not the outfit she’dhave chosen for company. But then, nothing about this night had gone as planned.
Chief Martinez arrived and took complete charge of the scene, coordinating swiftly and efficiently with the firefighters. Establishing The Tank was only battered and dazed, not physically injured, he had the man cuffed and driven away in one of the SUVs. Dougie Taggart threw Leah a hoodie from the trunk of his car before loading the kid into the back seat. The gesture brought a lump to her throat.
There was something compelling about the focused attention of Roman Martinez. He was an intimidating presence and Leah immediately wanted to tell him anything and everything, but her exhausted brain and haywire emotions let her down. Fortunately, Hazel had no such issue. She rambled happily and extensively, filling in the police chief on all she knew about Landon Peake and the arson attack. Behind them, the last of the flames sputtered out. Thankfully none of them had reached the main structure of the house.
“So rather than wait for the police, you took on two would-be arsonists in the middle of the night with a can of paint?” Chief Martinez turned razor-sharp eyes on Leah. His face was lean and angular, the sliver of a scar running along his jawline.
She swallowed. “The cat helped.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten the cat.” Florence’s brother scrubbed at the stubble on one cheek, a wide silver band on his ring finger glinting in the light.
Like an arrow from a bow, a car hurtled out of the dark. The Aston Martin came to a sliding stop behind the fire truck and Jackson bolted from it, leaving the driver’s door swinging wildly behind him. His long legs ate up the ground until he stood before them, hair unkempt and face haunted.
No wonder—he stood to lose everything if the damage was extensive.
