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“Turning on the heat for Steven,” she calls over the hood of the car, the headlights flashing as the battery comes on.

“It’s, like, forty degrees out here,” I yell at her. “He’s not going to freeze!”

“Well . . .” She disappears for a second as she fiddles with the dashboard of the car, then pops back out. “He likes to listen to audiobooks, and I don’t want him to be too stressed out.”

A melodic British voice emanates from the car, and one of Steven’s ears flicks backward.

“I love your family,” Bristal says.

“Shut up,” I tell her. “Also, thanks.”

“Yep,” she says, her one good eye sliding closed.

“Mom, stay with her,” I say as I see the ambulance pulling in at the end of the drive. I run past the firefighters and cops, give a nasty look to the neighbors who are gathering on either side of the lawn, and grab the first medic who gets out of the ambulance.

“We’ve got one injury—a decent cut on the leg and some blood loss,” I tell him. “She’s up by the house and probably needs oxygen. She should also be checked for a possible concussion and a contusion on her left cheek.”

“’Kay,” she says, motioning her partner to follow her as they head back toward the house.

There’s a gush of water from the fire hose, and the first fire disappears, then the second. Steam rises from where they stood, and Dad wanders into the yard, covering his nose as he approaches them. I jog over, hand over my face as we inspect the first one. It’s a warped and twisted piece of metal, but it’s easy to determine that it was originally an octagon. Another blast from the hose extinguishes the last of the fires, which all appear to be the same thing.

“Stop signs,” I say to Dad, coughing as a whiff of singed metal hits me in the face. “Somebody stuck a bunch of stop signs in our yard and set them on fire.”

“I guess the message is pretty clear,” Dad says, nodding. “Only question is—is it meant for me, or for you?”

The sheriff turns on his spotlight, illuminating the entire yard brightly. Six burned signs tilt at crazy angles, still smoking, large patches of yard burned and dead underneath them. The low-hanging branches of an old oak are twisted and smoldering, and glass covers the front porch.

“If it’s for me, it didn’t work,” I tell Dad.

“Yeah,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Me neither.”

Twenty-Four

Steven has finished his audiobook, and Mom has downloaded the second one for him by the time we get the all-clear to go back inside the house. Mom grimly grabs a broom and begins creating piles of shattered glass. I pull down the curtains and toss them in the washer, even though I know we’ll never get the smell out of them. There’s a fine, dark film on the walls from the accelerant-laced smoke that I’ll have to go at with a bucket of bleach water and a sponge. Dad surveys the scene and announces that he’s going to go get duct tape and a tarp to cover the front window.

“You did tell the police about the Facebook threat, right?” I ask Mom.

“Yes,” she says. “But I’m not telling you who sent it. For all we know, this is totally unconnected.”

“Right,” I say. “You’re threatened, and then your yard is burned. Unrelated.”

Mom whacks the broom over the trash can, and the tinkling sound of glass follows. “They didn’t threaten to set anything on fire,” Mom says. She’s evading, but her eyes cut to Steven, and I gasp.

“They said they were going to hurt Steven!? I’m surprised you didn’t—”

“They said if your dad didn’t stop defending Lytle, I’d have as many legs left as my cat,” Mom blurts, then covers her mouth with a hand. “Don’t repeat that.”

“Okay, well . . . not to be a jerk, but technically you already do have the same amount of legs as your cat.”

“Yep,” Mom agrees. “Which is why I didn’t take it very seriously, and I’m not sure the cops did, either. They know who sent me the message, and they said they will check it out. But I think that person was just letting off some steam.”

“You’re sure Bristal was fine?” I ask. Mom had driven her home once Bristal was finished giving her statement to the cops about the man she’d chased—and caught, only to get a black eye for her trouble.

“She insisted she was,” Mom says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe she refused medical attention.”

“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have health insurance,” I tell Mom, running a finger along the wall. My skin comes away greasy and dark.

“I guessed that might be an issue,” Mom says. “I told her we’d pay for everything, but she said she’s allergic to charity.”