My father stood on the porch, holding a thick manila folder and a heavy metal canister of gasoline.

“He’s going to burn it,” Wyatt said, his voice tight.

He threw his car door open before I could stop him.

The cold, damp air rushed into the cabin, smelling of wet asphalt and impending rain.

I scrambled out after him, my boots slipping on the wet gravel of the driveway.

“Richard Davis! Police! Step away from the container!”

Detective Harper’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and commanding.

She stood by the open door of her unmarked sedan, her service weapon drawn and pointed at my father.

My father froze on the porch, the heavy red metal canister dangling from his right hand.

The porch light caught the hard, desperate lines of his face.

For a second, I thought he was going to pour the gasoline right there on the wooden steps.

Instead, he turned on his heel and bolted back inside, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

“Wyatt, stay back!” Harper yelled as she sprinted toward the house.