Something tickles the back of my throat. I cough again, harder this time, and that’s when I notice the smell.
Gasoline…and smoke.
Thin gray tendrils of smoke coil down the basement stairs like a sentient fog searching for victims to suffocate.
The house is on fire.
The fucking house is on fire.
My head whips back to Rooke. “What—” I’m wracked by another cough. “What did you do?”
Rooke tilts his head.
“What needed to be done.” He studies me with a bemused light in his dark eyes. “The question is, what areyougoing to do, Fox?”
“You’re insane,” I rasp.
“Sociopathic is more accurate.” Rooke shrugs. “But I’m not particularly interested in your opinion of me, one way or the other.”
He turns and retrieves something from the workbench behind him. I take the chance to scan the basement, trying to figure out if there’s a way I can get out of this chair.
No windows. No other doors. Just the set of stairs leading up.
There’s the hum of an air conditioning unit, but I don’t see it anywhere. There’s a bank of what appear to be inverters and batteries for what I assume is Rooke’s off-grid setup and?—
Photographs.
Massive, letter-sized photographs stuck to the wall directly across from my chair. Because Rooke had been standing in front of me this entire time, I didn’t see them until he turns away.
Rooke faces me again, something black and bulky in his hand. It takes me a moment to recognize it through the growing haze of smoke creeping in under the door.
A gas mask.
He dangles it from one finger, watching my face.
“You have a choice to make,” he says, his voice still maddeningly calm as smoke thickens around us. “Door number one ends with you walking out of here alive.”
“And door number two?”
Rooke’s warm, charismatic smile doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.
“I leave with this.” He waggles the gas mask. “Don’t worry. You’ll undoubtedly suffocate before you burn to death.”
My lungs are already fucking burning. Each breath feels like inhaling fiberglass.
“Door number one,” I manage between coughs.
“There’s my good boy.” His grin turns smug. The fucker knew what I’d choose—because who wouldn’t choose life over death?
He crouches in front of me, close enough that I can see the glow of the lightbulb reflected in his dark eyes.
“You arrived, took a look around, got knocked out. That’s it. This conversation never happened.” He grabs my chin, tilting my head down. “I need to know you’re stillcompos mentis, Fox.”
“Got it,” I grate out.
“Excellent. Now, this has obviously been a traumatic event for you. You will take a leave of absence from the force. At least three months. Stress leave, compassionate leave, however you want it to appear in your records. But you willnotinvolve yourself in the coming investigations beyond what’s required by law.” His eyes narrow in warning. “Mine,orKai’s,orHaven’s.”
“Gotcha.”
