One of them was already catching fire, the edges of the white paper curling into black ash.

Celeste held the silver lighter in one hand and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other.

She turned her head toward the doorway as we entered.

Her face was illuminated by the growing fire on the desk.

“You should have gone to the security room, Elena,” she said.

She tipped the bottle.

A stream of clear liquid splashed onto the wooden floorboards near the curtains.

The flame jumped from the desk to the floor.

A wall of yellow heat rose between us.

Ethan let out a small gasp.

Through the rising smoke, the telephone on the desk began to ring.

The phone kept ringing.

Its shrill tone pierced through the crackle of the growing flames.

I pulled Ethan further behind my back.

“Answer it, Elena,” Celeste said, her voice tight and cold.

She threw another medical folder into the rising fire.

The white paper flared bright orange.

I saw the label on the folder as it burned: *Hawthorne Medical – Archive Records*.

“You don’t want to do this, Celeste,” I said.