The screen lit up with the name “DARROW” flashing in bright green letters.

Beatrice’s eyes darted down to the vibrating phone.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Answer it,” Liam said, his voice low and tight.

“Shut up!” Beatrice screamed.

She did not look at the phone again; her gaze snapped back to me, full of venom.

The yellow flame of the lighter danced near her fingers, inches from the gasoline-soaked floor.

The smell of fuel was thick, choking my throat and stinging my eyes.

My skin began to crawl, the old burn scars on my shoulder tightening as if the heat were already there.

The memory of the last fire rushed back, a wave of suffocating black smoke and the sound of wood cracking.

My knees trembled, and the iron pipe in my hand felt suddenly too heavy to lift.

“You think you’ve won, Audrey,” Beatrice whispered, her thumb tensing on the metal wheel.

“Beatrice, don’t do this,” Liam warned, taking a cautious step forward, his leather shoes scraping on the concrete.

“Stay back!” she shrieked, swinging the lighter toward him.

This was the moment.