Page 64 of Grant’s Flame

I’d rarely been more certain of a course in my entire life. It made overriding sense. If the boat were gone, I wouldn’t actually be leaving it behind, and I wouldn’t be leaving Grant behind.

And he would come back to me.

I raced around the room now, snatching up all the paper items I could find. Stationery from different marinas we visited, an old paperback mystery novel from the nightstand drawer, and a plain yellow notepad from an office supply store. On Grant’s side of the bed, there were a few days’ worth of Wall Street Journals and another mystery novel by the same author. I vowed to send the guy a check, feeling so guilty for what was about to happen to two of his books.

At once, I took it all to the bathroom.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and knelt before it. There was no way I could do all the necessary damage by starting something in the sink. Undoubtedly a smoke detector would go off and some do-gooder would rush in to save the day, fire extinguisher in hand. I rolled my eyes at the thought, even though I was alone, and assessed the space beneath the sink. This would have to be my spot.

Assembling the pyre was one of my favorite parts of starting a blaze. It was thrilling and ritualistic—ancient and celebratory. To an outsider, a fire was just destruction, vandalism, or danger. But to me, it was a creation of beauty and expression. Entire civilizations had been both controlled and destroyed by fire. The power in that notion was so intoxicating and irresistible it gave me chills just thinking about it.

I gave my head a little shake and looked down at my white matchbook. My heartbeat quickened. My blood warmed. No more shame now. Only anticipation and excitement. The matchsticks were lined up so neatly, reminding me of little baseball players waiting in the dugout for their turn to play.

“Batter up,” an imaginary umpire called, and a flurry of butterflies dominated my stomach. My team had to win, and we were in the home stretch…

Until my cell phone buzzed in my back pocket.

I quickly looked at the screen. It was a text from Elijah, wondering what was taking so long.

Goddammit. Fucking buzzkill.

I tapped a quick reply that one of the crew members was subjecting me to a chatty farewell. A smile breached my lips when realizing the lie actually gave me the excuse I needed. One last sentence to assure him I’d be out as soon as possible, before stuffing my phone back in my pocket. Definitely didn’t want to leave anything behind when I hurried out of here.

But now I was pissed at my sulfur-headed team. Nobody was connecting so far, and I didn’t have all damn day. Another player stepped up to bat. He had to deliver; otherwise there would be singed paper and other evidence under the sink in our cabin. The vessel’s owner would want answers.

I struck the little redhead on the flint strip. A surge of satisfying power hit my bloodstream as I watched it flare to life. The air inside the cabin was still, so the infant flame grew straight up, a miniature torch.

Calmly, I placed the fire in the middle of the debris and lightly fanned oxygen toward the flame.

“Ahh.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “That’s what I needed two batters ago.”

I struck another match, letting it flare. Already I could see the perfect spot to set it, and I crouched low to ensure I was getting it right now. Yes, yes. Grow for me now. Live for me…

A sound sliced into my transfixed high. A completely unmistakable sound. It made me freeze in place.

Was that…a baby?

What the hell?

I remained that way for two more seconds, listening intently.

Shit. Maybe I really was going insane.

I sat there and contemplated the issue for another long second. Another. During my existential inquiry—because apparently, the fate of nations really did rest on whether I was officially insane or not—the match burned onto its cardboard container and reached my fingertips. The heat took a few seconds to register in my jumbled brain, so when I instinctively shook my hand from the burn, the whole flame got snuffed out.

Mother. Fucker.

My only hope of saving Grant—snuffed out.

“Rio?” a familiar voice said. “Oh no, sister. What are you doing?”

“Abbi?”

I rubbed my eyes because I had to be hallucinating. But when I looked up, my judgmental sister-in-law was indeed standing in the bathroom doorway—and she had a little blue bundle cradled in her arms. My gaze flashed from hers to the swaddle and then to hers again. She was holding Kaisan. My nephew. Part of Sean’s legacy.

“Rio,” Abbigail gasped. “Don’t do it.”