Then, a sound broke through the roaring fire.
It wasn’t the sirens. It wasn’t the crackle of burning wood.
It was a heavy, metallic crash from the back of the house. The sound of the kitchen window shattering.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Had the police broken in through the back? But the sirens were still down the street. It couldn’t be them.
Through the thick barrier of fire and smoke in the hallway, I saw a silhouette appear at the end of the corridor.
The flames illuminated the figure clearly. It wasn’t a police officer in tactical gear. It wasn’t a firefighter.
It was a tall man, dressed entirely in black, wearing a heavy leather jacket. He didn’t seem bothered by the fire. He walked through the smoke with a slow, deliberate stride, a wet cloth held over his mouth. In his right hand, he held something heavy and metallic. A crowbar.
He stopped at the edge of the fire, looking directly through the flames into the bathroom, straight at me.
I couldn’t see his face through the smoke, but as he stepped closer to the edge of the blaze, the firelight caught his eyes. They were cold, calculating, and completely familiar.
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