“It’s our family,” I said. “Our ancestors are buried on that ridge. You’d burn their memory to pay off your debts?”

“They’re dead!” Marcus screamed. “I’m alive, and I have people who will break my legs if I don’t get them their money by Friday.”

He lifted the gas can, tipping it toward a stack of cardboard boxes filled with old property ledgers.

A stream of yellow gasoline splashed over the dry paper.

“Stop!” Blake lunged forward.

Blake grabbed Marcus’s right arm, twisting the gas can away from the boxes.

Marcus cursed, swinging his left hand wild with the lighter.

I ran forward and grabbed Marcus’s coat sleeve, pulling him backward.

We struggled in the narrow space, our boots slipping on the wet stone floor.

Blake used his weight to pin Marcus against the brick wall, wrenching the plastic can from his grip.

The gas can clattered to the floor, splashing fuel across our boots.

The silver lighter slipped from Marcus’s fingers, falling into a puddle of rainwater near the door.

The flame hissed and went out instantly.