“Shut up, Mr. Pike,” the deputy said, pushing Dorian down onto the hood of the truck.

The second deputy walked to the back of the truck bed.

He shined his flashlight into the black metal toolbox bolted behind the cab.

The lid creaked open.

A heavy, chemical smell floated across the clearing.

It was the sharp, oily scent of kerosene.

“Got something here, Sheriff,” the second deputy called out.

The sheriff, who had just stepped out of his vehicle, walked over to the truck bed.

He leaned over the side, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

“What do we have, Miller?” the sheriff asked.

“Three five-gallon plastic canisters,” Deputy Miller said.

“They’re full of kerosene.”

“And there’s a bundle of heavy cotton rags next to them.”

“Plus two boxes of long-reach strike matches.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

He was going to burn the cabin down tonight.

He was going to destroy the physical records my father had kept hidden in the floorboards.

“You planned this,” I said, looking directly at Dorian.

Dorian spat on the gravel near my boots.