The sirens in the distance grew sharper, rising in pitch as they cleared the ridge.

They were coming from the north highway, the sound bouncing off the concrete retaining walls of the subdivision.

“They’re too fast,” Harris muttered, looking at the blinking screen of his phone. “They shouldn’t be here yet.”

“You said we had ten minutes,” Julian said, his eyes widening.

“I said they were dispatched ten minutes ago,” Harris snapped. “They must have had a car at the intersection.”

He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, leaving a dark smudge on his skin.

I stood perfectly still by the edge of the island, my fingers curling against the cool granite.

Three feet away from me lay the heavy cast-iron skillet I had used to brown the shallots.

It was a twelve-inch lodge pan, seasoned until the black surface was as slick as glass.

The grease inside had begun to congeal into a pale, cloudy film.

“Clara,” Julian said, turning his head toward me.

His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated under the bright LED strip lights of my cabinets.