We followed her through the shattered doorway, stepping over blackened beams and broken glass.

Inside, the air was freezing and thick with the smell of damp rot and fresh gasoline.

A flashlight beam flickered in the center of the ruined ballroom.

“Beatrice!” Holt called out, her voice echoing off the scorched stone walls.

The flashlight beam swung toward us, blinding me for a second.

“I knew you’d come, Maren,” Beatrice’s voice drifted through the darkness, calm and cold.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw Chloe tied to a rusted iron pipe in the corner.

Chloe’s face was tear-stained, a thick strip of grey duct tape covering her mouth.

Beatrice stood near her, holding a heavy yellow plastic jerrycan in her right hand.

Her left hand held a silver lighter, the small flame dancing in the draft.

“Let the girl go, Beatrice,” Holt said, keeping her gun leveled at Beatrice’s chest.

Beatrice laughed, a sharp, dry sound that made my skin crawl.

“And let her tell the police how her mother built her empire?” Beatrice asked.

She tipped the jerrycan, pouring a thick stream of gasoline onto the floorboards.