CHAPTER 1
The heat inside the house wasn’t just temperature; it was a physical weight, like a giant hand crushing my chest.
“Jack! Roof’s gonna go! Get the hell out of there!” Captain Henderson’s voice crackled in my earpiece, distorted by the roar of the fire.
I ignored him.
I was crawling on my hands and knees through the hallway of a split-level on Elm Street. The smoke was so thick I could taste the burning plastic and drywall through my mask. Visibility was zero, but I didn’t need eyes. I needed instinct.
Something told me to check the closet.
Standard protocol says you sweep the bedrooms first. But my gut—that twisted, painful knot that hadn’t uncoiled since the day I buried my own little girl two years ago—was screaming at me.
Left door. Check the left door.
