Gasoline.

A soft, mocking chuckle echoed from the dark gallery stairs to our right.

“You always did have a habit of running into burning buildings, Audrey,” a cold, sharp voice said.

The scratch of a match struck in the dark, and a small, yellow flame flared to life, illuminating Beatrice’s cruel, smiling face.

The match flame flickered in Beatrice’s hand, casting long, dancing shadows across her face.

“Put it out, Beatrice,” Liam said, his voice flat and dangerous.

He moved a half-step in front of me, his hand slipping toward the inside pocket of his coat.

“I wouldn’t do that, Liam,” Beatrice said.

She reached down with her other hand and lifted a large, red plastic jerrycan.

“This place is dry as tinder.”

“One drop of this match, and the floor goes up in seconds.”

I looked down and saw the dark, wet sheen on the floorboards between us.

The chemical smell was thick enough to burn my throat.

“She’s your own daughter, Beatrice,” I said, my voice trembling as I looked toward the wings.

Chloe was still thrashing in the wooden chair, her muffled cries vibrating with terror.