He broke it down. Three minutes per house. That seemed really unlikely, even if each house didn’t have an alarm system. He tried to remember which houses had the little stickers in their windows, but he was coming up with nothing. Alarm systems or not, two houses on the court had dogs. Dogs would have sounded their own type of alarm.

Unless the dogs had been taken care of ahead of time? He remembered his neighbors standing outside, screaming for their dog. Had the animal succumbed to the fire—or had someone else gotten to him first?

Ignoring alarm systems and dogs, this still seemed like a big job. This would have taken planning.

Maybe that’s what you sensed in the woods every night.

It hadn’t just been Chris. It couldn’t have been—last night had proven that. Michael had been ready for an attack on his family. He’d sat outside, ready to wake them if he sensed true danger, so they could fight or run.

He hadn’t been ready for an attack on the whole neighborhood.

Guilt, quick and sudden, slammed into Michael. Maybe he should have been ready. Calla had set fires at a school carnival last month, just to get the attention of the Guides. She wanted a war. Her carnival fire hadn’t started one, and Michael wasn’t willing to do anything to draw more attention to his family. Had she given up on patience and turned to killing more people?

He needed more information. He wondered if the fire marshal would give him any. He fished the card out of his pocket and started to dial.

No. That was stupid. The fire marshal thought he was a suspect. He wasn’t going to say, “Hey, sure, Mike, take a look at my files while you’re at it. Want to walk through the crime scene?”

Michael ran a hand down his face. God, he needed some sleep.

His cell phone chimed.

Is this Michael Merrick?

He stared at it for a long moment. He didn’t recognize the number, but the area code wasn’t from Maryland or D.C. Sometimes landscaping customers would send him a text, but those had never been from an out-of-state cell.

Another bubble of text appeared.

We should meet to talk about last night. Free for dinner?

Wait. Was this the fire marshal? Was this Calla? Michael didn’t move.

Another bubble.

It’s in your best interest. I’m not sure I could limit a fire to five apartments.

Michael was on his feet in a heartbeat, letting the blanket fall. He sent power into the ground, seeking information. He needed to wake his brothers. They needed to move. They needed to move now.

The phone vibrated again.

Good idea. Run. One truck is definitely a more convenient target.

Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He searched the trees for movement, for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing. The air was still and cold. The earth warned him of nothing.

Another message.

Relax. I’m not your enemy. But I could be.

Michael slid his fingers across the phone.

Who is this?

No message appeared, but instead, a photo.

Michael, sitting on the back porch of the Merrick house. Last night, before the fire.

Then another photo, taken from a distance.

Of him standing right here, looking at his phone.

Michael looked up, searching the trees on the other side of the pond. He begged the ground for information, but the earth returned nothing but contented vibes.

His phone vibrated with another message.

Dinner. Yes or no?

Michael wanted to punch his phone into the side of the building. He started forward, ready to search the woods himself. A new message appeared.

Don’t go too far, Michael Merrick. Wouldn’t want to leave your brothers alone, would you?

He froze. He had no idea if this was one person or several. If he walked away from this apartment building, would it go up in smoke like the house had last night?

New awareness shot off a flare in his head. Wasn’t that exactly what had happened? He’d walked away, leaving them vulnerable?

He typed back with shaking fingers.

This isn’t a game. What do you want?

I just told you what I want. Let’s say 7 p.m.?

Who are you? Is this Calla?

No. Bring her if you like. I think she’ll appreciate what I have to say.

Michael couldn’t think. Lack of sleep and an abundance of adrenaline didn’t help.

He looked out at the trees, then slowly slid his fingers across the face of his phone again.

You’re obviously here. Why don’t you come talk to me right now?

I think a crowded environment would be better for this meeting.

Interesting. Something about that statement dialed Michael’s anxiety back a notch and fed him confidence. Photos taken from a distance weren’t half as intimidating when you considered that it meant someone wasn’t drawing close.

Was this mystery texter afraid of him?

Should I come alone?

Your choice.

What if I choose to bring the cops?

Go ahead.

Michael frowned.

Another message appeared.

As I said, I am not your enemy. Bring anyone who makes you feel comfortable.

And what if I don’t come?

I’ll be forced to make my point another way.

More pictures appeared, in frighteningly rapid succession. Homes on fire. Car crashes. Tornado damage. A bloated body, floating in murky water. Terrible images, but nothing personally terrifying.

Then more photos: Hannah in her fire gear, kneeling over him last night, her face exhausted but focused. Another of Nick, stopping the CPR efforts. Another photo of an ambulance in the cul-de-sac, Chris sitting on the bumper.