My stomach turned at the sound of my sister’s voice.

Wyatt moved silently, his boots making no sound on the damp concrete floor.

We reached the bottom of a wooden staircase that led to the main level.

A yellow beam of light danced across the ceiling above us.

“If the police find those ledgers, we are done,” my mother said, her voice shaking slightly.

“They won’t find anything if there’s nothing left but ash,” my father replied.

I heard the plastic gurgle of a gas can being tipped over.

Wyatt looked at me, his eyes dark in the shadows, and raised three fingers.

He pointed his flashlight toward the top of the stairs.

“Stop right there,” Wyatt called out, his voice booming in the empty building.

He flicked the beam of his heavy flashlight upward, illuminating the three of them.

My father froze, holding a red plastic jerrycan over a pile of old cardboard boxes.

My mother gasped, dropping her leather handbag onto the dusty floor.

Melanie stepped back, her eyes wide as she shielded her face from the bright light.