“Ethan,” I whispered, keeping my eyes on Celeste.

“Stay close to me.”

“I’m scared, Elena,” he whispered back.

His voice was small against the roar of the fire.

Celeste backed away toward the French doors that led to the balcony.

She had what she wanted.

The drawer was empty.

The medical files were turning to black ash on the desk.

“Tell Alexander whatever you want,” Celeste said.

“By the time the fire department gets through the security gates, there won’t be any proof left.”

She unlocked the French doors.

A gust of cold night wind rushed into the room.

It fed the oxygen-hungry flames.

The fire doubled in size in an instant.

A gust of wind blew a burning ember onto the rug near Ethan’s feet.

He jumped back in terror.

In his panic, his foot caught on the edge of the heavy brass coal scuttle.

He stumbled backward, away from me.

“Ethan!” I screamed.

He fell into the corner behind the large oak desk.

The desk was already engulfed in flames.

A heavy wooden bookshelf above him groaned.

The heat had weakened its wall mounts.