My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I wasn’t just afraid of dying; I was afraid of the sheer senselessness of it. To survive decades of trauma care, to survive the death of my husband, only to be incinerated by a junkie in my own sanctuary.

But the physical threat wasn’t the deepest cut. That particular wound was reserved for the figure standing in the corner, watching the scene unfold with the dispassionate gaze of a stranger.

I looked past the flame, locking eyes with the person who should have been my protector. Travis’s thumb slipped on the lighter, the flame flickering out for a split second before he struck it again, bigger this time. He lowered it until the heat warped the air above the fuel. “Last chance, Martha,” he hissed. “Count of three. One…”

“Two…” Travis growled, his hand shaking so badly the flame danced wildly.

I didn’t look at the fire. I looked at Lisa.