Page 66 of Burning Secrets

He stepped out into the yard, glanced at the security, raised a hand to someone, and then headed out across the yard.

Toward the guest cabin.

What—

Oh, okay, breathe?—

He reached the cabin, and a lock rattled on the door. So, Viper had padlocked her in.

Then, footsteps.

Porcelain shattered against the wall—the plate from the meal Viper had brought her earlier.

Then the door banged against the wall and footsteps pounded out.

Maybe, right now, they’d think she’d escaped. Would search the compound.

Which bought her some time.

She scrambled across the space and up into the cabin.

The plate had broken into a number of pieces, bacon grease slathered over the top. A fuel.

She grabbed the cot, ripped the fabric from the frame, and shoved it out the window.

Then she grabbed the plate pieces and slipped back under the cabin, toward the back, and parted the weeds. Nothing back here but more weeds, and farther, the tall, barbed-wire fence.

She gathered up debris—the pine cones, the paper, even the fabric, which turned out to be an oily canvas work shirt—and pushed it out of the weedy border. She rooted around until shefound a piece of glass the size of her hand, probably from the old window, and then she climbed out of the cabin, crouching.

The sun still hung high enough to pour down into the yard, simmering.

She crouched in the light, building a nest of kindling—the pine cone, the twigs—and scraped the bacon grease onto the paper.

Then she found the light and angled the glass to catch it, to focus it on the bacon-greased paper.

C’mon.

Shouting from across the compound.Don’t look.

C’mon.

Smoke lifted from the tiny mound, and she leaned down, blew on it. Kept the light focused.

Flame, so small it nearly flickered out, but she fed in more paper, and it grew. It popped to life, growing, grabbing the pine cone, and bam, she had fire.

She held the shirt to the flame, and it caught.

Grabbing it up, she peeked around the side. There, on the ground, the cot fabric.

She tossed the flaming shirt onto the fabric.

It caught, the fire devouring the fuel, and smoke rose, dark and oily. It might even catch the cabin on fire if she were lucky.

No, not lucky. Protected.

And as if God might be confirming, suddenly the blaze caught on an old greasy tire hidden in the grass. It flamed up, consuming the grease.

The area clogged with black smoke.

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