Page 52 of Jamie

I don’t need to burn tonight because observation is enough. Right?

I need to burn. I need to fix things. I need to feel.

I’d promised I’d talk to Rio first—he’d knowwhether I should act or hold back, but Rio didn’t return to the apartment until midnight. When he finally stumbled through the door, he was bruised and bloody, his knuckles split from a fight, his eyes wild and too bright. A huge guy was dragging him in—bigger than him, which was saying something. All muscle and menace, the kind of man who looked like he bench-pressed small cars for fun. Rio never had anyone small fucking him into the mattress—only ‘roided out monsters.

He grabbed a bottle of something strong and disappeared into his room with his latest hookup, the slamming of the door like a punctuation mark.

And I was left alone. With the noise. With the fire.

I lasted an hour.

I told myself I was smart and that holding back was part of the plan. That discipline was control. But at one a.m., adrenaline roaring and my thoughts on a razor’s edge, I followed that lead from the Lassiter research. One of the ghost properties. A condemned house tied to one of his shell LLCs, funneling money through fake tenants and bogus contracts. Paperwork so clean it almost gleamed. Almost.

I crouched in the dark, the boards of the second floor groaning under me, eyes trained on the space below. No one was coming. That wasn’t the point. Iwas here to watch. Observe. Document. Strategize. Control.

Except my brain wasn’t controlled. It was chaos, sparking behind my eyes like a fuse waiting for the match. My breaths came too fast. My hands itched.

The tools were in my pocket. It wasn’t a complete kit because I wasn’t here to burn. I carried the tight roll of jute twine soaked in accelerant, and a tiny bottle of clear alcohol-based gel that burned hotter than it looked, the way other people carried mace. For me, along with my lighter, it was a source of comfort. The smell of it, even unlit, calmed me down. It promised something.

I rolled the lighter between my fingers, thumb brushing the ridges. Didn’t open it. Didn’t strike. Just let the weight anchor me while my eyes flicked over the room’s corners, noting exits, signs of squatters, and possible security setups. The place was empty, condemned; it wouldn’t hurt to destroy it and send another message, another warning.

I was doing what I was told. Waiting. Watching and being useful.

“Because that’s all I’m good for, right? Sit still, look pretty, and let the grownups handle the big decisions.” The words slipped out bitter, and I felt as if I was about to fucking shatter.

I hadn’t planned anything. Hadn’t scoped exits. Hadn’t observed routines. I was so fucking angry. My fingers shook as I pulled out the soaked jute twine. I coiled it loosely in the far corner, where the floor dipped and the wall had disintegrated. The gel followed, streaking across the baseboard and onto the cloth—just enough to catch.

This wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t careful. It was compulsion.

I struck the match.

The flare bloomed like it knew me. It welcomed me back.

It whispered in the crackle of dry wood catching flame, in the curl of smoke twisting toward the ceiling, in the way the shadows shifted and danced. I crouched low, watching the fire grow, a hollow peace carving out the chaos inside me. It was beautiful—golden, hungry, merciless.

I didn’t move. Not even when the flame licked up the side of the wall too fast. Not even when the beam above popped with heat.

The structure was weaker than I thought.

I stepped back, and my foot went through a crumbling patch of floor, the brittle wood splintering with a groan. My leg dropped into the dark, a flash ofthe basement gaping beneath me before I yanked myself free.

Acrid smoke filled my lungs. It clawed its way down my throat, stinging my eyes, and still I didn’t panic. I didn’t run. Not yet.

The fire was beautiful.

I stood there briefly, watching it consume the walls. The structure would go. No one lived here. No one would die. It was fine. It was controlled.

Only seconds after the fire had taken hold, I turned to leave, but the fire was tricky—it had crept behind me, silent and sly, curling up the wall and across the floorboards as though it knew exactly where I’d go. It hemmed me in, licking at the edges of my escape, painting the doorway in searing orange and hungry gold, a halo of flames transforming my exit into a furnace mouth. Smoke thickened, hot and clawing, and I coughed once, staggered back, eyes watering as panic began to spark under my skin. I didn’twantto die. The house cracked—a sharp, splintering sound above me like a rib breaking. Then the groan of collapsing timber. I threw my arm up a second too late. The beam hit me, a brutal thud to my shoulder that knocked me sideways. Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and I hit the floor hard, coughing, choking, gasping as the world tilted.Flames roared in my ears. My head spun. I scrambled up, dragging myself toward the window, but the fire had changed—faster now, hungry, alive. It wanted me.

How can I keep my family safe if I’m not here?

“You promised me, Jamie. Stay alive. That’s the deal.” Rio’s voice wasn’t real—not really.

This is like Stockton.

“Fuck! Jamie!”

Then someone shouted my name, yelled, pushed, and shoved, and I gripped hard as I was propelled out of the room.

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