Chapter One

Smoke curled around Tara Morrison, a sinuous serpent of ember and ash. On the beach, a bonfire roared, its flames licking the star-filled sky. Moonlight danced and shimmered on the obsidian waves crashing onto the shore, but the beauty and peace was lost in the acrid haze.

She turned, seeking escape, but the smoke followed. It clung to her skin, seeping into her sinuses and burning her lungs. She stumbled to the far side of the fire, her eyes stinging, throat raw.

Through the haze, faceless figures perched on driftwood logs, unmoving, unbreathing. Their silence screamed louder than the crackling flames.

Why weren’t they choking? Why didn’t they run?

The smoke thickened, morphing into a living thing. It writhed and whispered, carrying half-heard voices on its tendrils. She tried to call out, but her words turned to ash in her mouth.

Beneath her feet, the beach warped and stretched, unbalancing her. The fire grew impossibly large, swallowing the sky. She began to fall…fall…fall…

Tara gasped awake, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. Blinking to clear the film from her eyes, she sank into her plush mattress and inhaled to calm herself. The dream faded like morning mist, but one sensation lingered. What should have been the scent of pineapple coming from the little air freshener next to her bed had been replaced by the acrid stench of burning wood, impossibly real in her darkened bedroom.

What the hell?

If the smoke had followed her into the real world, then the source wasn’t an imaginary bonfire from her dreams. In her nineteen years of life, Tara had only ever been to a beach bonfire once, and it had been on the shores of Lake Michigan.

She sniffed the air only to be greeted with more smoke. Had her brother and his friends decided on a late-night gathering around the firepit in the backyard?

No, that didn’t make sense. All the windows were closed, and the air conditioner was on.

A growing sense of unease replaced her annoyance. Throwing back the blankets, Tara leaped to her feet and snatched her cell from the nightstand.

Even if it’s nothing, it’s better to know for sure.

Tara ticked through the possibilities for the smoky smell. At three in the morning, there was no way anyone in her house was cooking. There was a fireplace in the living room, but it was powered by natural gas, not wood, so it wouldn’t smell like smoke even if someone had turned it on. Could her younger brother, Darrell, be doing something that created smoke?

There were a million what-ifs, but none of them were helping. The home had smoke alarms, but they weren’t going off.

Why? They’re battery-operated.

As she started toward the bedroom door, her heart sank.

The smoke alarm wasn’t buzzing because Tara had gotten the bright idea to make homemade fried chicken a few days ago. Long story short, the oil she’d used had begun to smoke, and it had triggered the smoke detectors in the entryway, living room, and hallway.

Rather than opening the windows to air out the burned grease smell on a ninety-degree day, Tara and her mom had popped the batteries out of the annoying devices. Though they’d made a mental note to reassemble them, she wasn’t sure either of them had done so.

Shit.

Tara swallowed against the tightness in her throat and took the final few steps to the door. God, she hoped there wasn’t a fire.

Do we even have a fire extinguisher? Crap.

Her heart hammered against her chest. She had no idea. If there was one, she had no clue where it might be. She’d never actually seen one—and she didn’t know the first thing about how to use it.

By now, the smoke was just short of stifling, filling the space above her head and sinking fast. The stinging odor took hold in her sinuses. If she didn’t get out of her room soon, she’d risk losing consciousness.

But what about her parents? What about Darrell? Were they still in the house? Were they even awake? She wondered if she’d slept through her family calling out to her.

The unanswered questions sent a renewed jolt of panic through Tara. But she couldn’t have…or they’d still be screaming her name.

Fire safety had been drilled into her head when she was in elementary school, but she’d never expected to have to use the knowledge. All these years later, could she recall any of the details?

Stay low. I’m sure I’ve heard that advice somewhere.

Come on, Tara. Get your shit together and do something.

“Okay. Okay.” Though she wanted to take a deep breath, she knew the smoke would only singe her nose and lungs, making the situation worse. She crouched down as deeply as she could without sitting on her heels. After all, she needed to be able to run if necessary.

“If you touch the door handle and it’s hot, that means there’s fire on the other side. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. But if it’s cool, then it’s safe to open…”

With her cell in one hand, she reached for the door handle with her other, bracing herself for the sear of superheated metal.

To her surprise, the handle was cool to the touch.

“Okay. That’s good. Maybe. Probably. Yeah, okay.”

Steadying her nerves and finding resolve she didn’t know she had, Tara yanked open her door. It took her a fraction of a second to realize what a terrible mistake she’d made.

Like an unwelcome visitor, a huge wave of smoke rolled into Tara’s room.

Eyes stinging, Tara coughed at the sudden onslaught and ducked at the last second. There was more smoke than she had ever witnessed, but where the hell was the fire? The hallway wasn’t ablaze, and there was no glow, no embers, just a maddening distant roar. She slammed the door shut and backed into the middle of her room until she bumped up against her bed. A bed she couldn’t even see now.

Shit. Now what?

Had she called 911 yet? Her mind was so jumbled from the sheer panic flooding her system, she had a difficult time recalling what she’d done since she woke up.

Or perhaps the smoke inhalation was beginning to take a toll.

“No. Call 911!” Squeezing her eyes shut, Tara blinked back tears as she unlocked her phone and tapped in those three crucial digits.

“911. What is the address of your emergency?” The man on the other end of the line was as calm as Tara was hysterical.

Address. Tell them your address.

Without preamble, Tara rattled off her home address. “Um, I-I’m…I…there’s a fire in my house.”

That’s an understatement.

“What is the phone number you’re calling from?”

Again, Tara recited the requested information, which was followed by a request for her name and its spelling.

“Tara Morrison. T-A-R-A and M-O-R-R-I-S-O-N.”

The operator recited back, “Taran Morrison.”

“No! Not Taran. Tara. No N. Oh my god. My house is on fire. Please just send help.”

“Do you know where the fire is?”

“I-I don’t know. Everywhere, I think. It-it’s smoky, and I can hear it crackling from my bedroom door. I’m in my room on the second floor, and I don’t know what to do.” Some of the panic bled into Tara’s tone, and she hated that it bothered her. Her entire house was on fire, and a stupid part of her brain was still concerned about what the 911 operator thought of her.

“Okay, the fire department is on the way. Are there other people in the house with you?”

Mom. Dad. Darrell. Shit!

“Y-yes, my parents and my younger brother. I-I don’t think my parents are awake. They both take sleep aids because they have trouble sleeping. And the smoke alarm didn’t go off…oh no, no, no.”

Deep down, Tara seriously doubted her parents were awake. On the rare occasion when she’d tried to wake one of them in the past, it had been nearly impossible. If they had woken, they’d have come straight for Tara and Darrell. Tara was the closest to her parents’ room, and Darrell was closest to the stairs.

A distant voice seemed to be telling her what to do.

“…Keep…ur bedr…door closed and…low to the ground.”

Her parents would risk everything for her, so how could she not do the same? She couldn’t just…what? Curl up in a fetal position and accept her fate? No, she’d never be able to live with herself.

The dispatcher on the other end of the line spoke, but Tara couldn’t make out a single word. Down the hall, a smoke detector started blaring.

“…Is your bedroom…dow open? You need…it op…”

“I can’t hear you! My parents and my brother are in the house. I have to go find them!”

The dispatcher’s words were gobbledygook in her mind. Only the calm tone was coming through.

“…If…fire ladder, attach it to the… If you don’t, you’re…out feetfirst and drop down. Lower yourself…as you can…letting go of the sill…”

Over the roaring fire raging somewhere nearby, Tara could’ve sworn she heard her brother screaming. And then it stopped.

Was Darrell okay?

Heart in her throat, Tara opened the door again. The smoke would rise, so maybe if she hunched lower to the ground like she had earlier and covered her face with her shirt, she could avoid the worst of it.

With all the panic flooding through her veins, Tara was surprised she could think clearly enough to formulate even the basic plan. It was as if two voices were inside her head—one that was screaming and crying, the other that was calmly handing out directions but from a huge distance.

Find Mom and Dad. Wake them up and get to Darrell down the hall, then get the hell out. We can all go feetfirst, lowering down or whatever if we have to.

Immediately, her thoughts shot to her fear of heights—a snapped spine and lifelong paralysis she was sure would be her destiny if she jumped.

Better to be in a wheelchair than a coffin, dumbass. Get to Mom and Dad!

Slumping until she was crawling, Tara set off down the hall as quickly as she could toward her parents’ bedroom. It was at the far end of the hallway away from the stairs. Still clutching her phone in the hand she used to hold her shirt over her nose and mouth, she began her rescue mission.

For the first few feet, it seemed like her idea to remain lower to the ground might actually work. The breaths she pulled in through her shirt weren’t as agonizing as the smoky air she’d inhaled right after opening her bedroom door for the second time.

A surge of optimism spurred her forward until she reached the doorway of her parents’ room. As Tara reached for the door handle, she prayed to anyone listening that the metal lever would be cool. That there wasn’t a fiery hell storm raging on the other side.

“…Hello? Tara, can you hear me? It’s…don’t open doors to other… You don’t want to feed the fire. Tara? Hello…?”

She swatted at what sounded like her subconscious speaking to her again and braced herself for the searing pain of a burn and tapped the handle.

Nothing happened. The metal was cool.

Her head throbbed in time with her pulse. The full force of the smoke inhalation was starting to take its toll, her shirt was no longer filtering out the smoke. A wave of dizziness made her stumble.

Squeezing her eyes closed against the stinging smoke, she turned the handle and shoved open the door.

A wave of smoke blew past her face. She ducked and crawled. Everything was so dark. Her hope flared at the sight of her parents sleeping peacefully in their bed before it was replaced by the reality of what she’d done.

The room swirled with acrid smoke, the dark cloud morphing into a monstrosity that sought to swallow them whole.

As much as Tara wanted to fight through it, she could only hold her breath for so long. Her lungs ached, and her throat burned like it, too, had been set ablaze.

Come on. Just make it inside. Wake them up, and we can get Darrell and jump out the window. Dad will know what to do.

Forcing herself forward, Tara tried to take in a shallow breath, but all she got was more black air. Tears streaked down her face, and not all of them were from the smoke.

Hold your breath. Just a little farther. Come on.

Her stomach began to churn, and she thought for sure she’d be sick. Something in her head started to pound to the rhythm of a war drum. Over the roar of the fire—the glow of which had yet to reveal itself—the thud-thud of her pulse was the only sound. As she clawed her way forward, her lungs screamed in protest. Tara didn’t want to breathe, but she had to breathe.

When her pulse hammered her head again, lightning crackled at the edge of her vision. Her terror soared as the heat intensified. The pain in her sides had gone from an ache to what she’d expect from being stabbed with a dull blade.

She couldn’t hold her breath. Not anymore.

Rather than inhaling the life-giving oxygen her body needed, she might as well have sucked in wet cement. Faint starbursts at the corners of her eyes exploded like fireworks on the Fourth of July, and her churning stomach sent bile racing up the back of her throat.

The hammering in her head was a cacophony of heartbeats. She couldn’t recall what she was there to do, but she reached out and felt the lightweight comforter dangling off the side of her parents’ bed.

Mom…Dad…wake up…

A distant voice called out, but the words were tinny and small. Like an ant shouting up at a giant.

“…Tara…firefighters…one minute out. Tell me your location in the home…direct them to you.”

Perhaps the speaker was the rational Tara. She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t care. She just wanted all the noise to stop.

Sleep. She was so tired, and her throat was scratchy and dry. Maybe a nap will help my headache.

Another aching thud pounded inside her skull, and then another and another, until Tara finally found silence.

Chapter Two

As Special Agent Amelia Storm stepped into the conference room, she squinted at the vibrant sunlight spilling through the wall-spanning window to her right. The fifth floor of Chicago’s FBI building—home to the Violent Crimes Unit—was an optimal location to bask in early afternoon sunshine, and Amelia was beginning to wonder if she should wear sunglasses indoors.

Though Amelia had worked at the Chicago field office for more than a year, her role on the VC team was much newer.

Before Violent Crimes, she’d been a part of the Organized Crime division, where she and her fellow agents had pursued the various criminal enterprises of Chicago and northern Illinois. However, after a year of dealing with deep-rooted corruption and even being targeted by the mob, Amelia had reached her limit.

To her, chasing after mafiosos and their bought-and-paid-for lackeys was like playing Whac-A-Mole. Anytime she took down one kingpin, at least two more were waiting to take their place.

Not that Violent Crimes was a piece of cake. Serial killers were an entirely different breed. And the havoc they wreaked on innocent people was no less devastating than that of the mob.

Shielding her eyes, Amelia strode over to the blinds and tugged on the cord.

“Thanks. I was starting to think I should’ve brought my sunglasses.”

With a grin, Amelia glanced over to the doorway as the speaker, Special Agent Sherry Cowen, stepped into the room. “You and me both.”

As Sherry set her laptop on the table, the door swung inward to reveal another familiar face. Dean Steelman’s sapphire eyes shifted from Sherry to Amelia and back as he sipped from the paper coffee cup in his hand.

“Sherry, Amelia. How’re you doing?” A hint of Dean’s native Southern accent tinged his words, though the drawl wasn’t as pronounced as some of the other Southerners.

Sherry lifted her shoulder. “Doing all right, I suppose. As well as I can be after reading through these case files.”

At the mention of their newest assignment, an air of seriousness settled over the room.

Frowning, Dean pulled out a chair next to Sherry’s. “Yeah, can’t say I blame you. Four different arsons are a bit daunting.” He turned to Amelia, one eyebrow raised. “How often did you guys deal with arson in Organized Crime?”

Amelia pulled out a chair across from Sherry. “Here in Chicago? Personally, I haven’t dealt with any. From my experience here and the year and a half I spent in Boston, revenge is the most common motive for arson, but we see a variety of other motives, too, like vandalism, insurance fraud, and crime concealment.”

Before Dean could react to Amelia’s statement, the door swung open again. Layton Redker stepped into the room, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling as he offered everyone a welcoming smile. Like always, Layton’s stylish yet modest faux hawk gave him an air of youthfulness, despite the silver strands amid the dark brown near his temples. The man was close to fifty, but he didn’t look much past his mid-thirties.

On Layton’s heels was a second man with whom Amelia was less familiar. He stood only an inch or so shorter than Layton’s tall frame, but his muscular, broad-shouldered build made him look bigger.

Supervisory Special Agent Barry Burton had overseen the Violent Crimes Unit of the Chicago field office for close to seven years. Before then, he’d spent nearly two decades as a field agent in the same department.

Word around the office was that, put simply, SSA Burton knew his shit. His case closure rates during his twenty-year tenure in the field were among the best, and even though the opportunity for a promotion had been presented to him more than once, he’d always opted to stay in his wheelhouse.

Amelia had a healthy respect for the decision. In a way, it reminded her of her former SSA’s decision to step back into the role of field agent. These days, former Organized Crime SSA Spencer Corsaw was usually teamed up with Amelia’s boyfriend, Special Agent Zane Palmer.

Though Amelia sometimes missed working cases with Zane, she was grateful to have him in her life in a more permanent capacity.

Her move to Violent Crimes had been the best choice for both her mental health and for their relationship. It gave her peace of mind to know he was always nearby, but the constant stress of being targeted by the mob had abated.

I bet Zane would be thrilled to work an arson case.

Instead of being away on a money laundering case like he was now, she pictured his reaction to a case involving a serial murderer using arson as his weapon, giving Amelia a mental laugh. Exasperated, he’d throw up his hands and assert that serial killers didn’t make any damn sense. Then he’d speculate how at least the mob always had clear-cut motives—money and power.

And he was right. Amelia had learned a great deal about serial killers and their various mental health dysfunctions over the past months, but she was self-aware enough to realize her knowledge wasn’t complete. Part of the appeal of the new role was the opportunity to learn new things.

Which brought her to the case before them.

Forcing herself not to think about her boyfriend being hours away, Amelia turned her attention to SSA Burton as he took a seat at one end of the oval table.

The SSA’s reddish-brown hair was mostly devoid of gray, but he made no effort to hide his receding hairline. His neatly trimmed beard, on the other hand, was streaked with silver, giving him a distinguished air.

Burton’s gaze swept over the four agents. “Sorry for the short notice, everyone. This case was just given to me, and I notified you as soon as I could review it. I realize I just sent it over, so it’s fine if you haven’t had a chance to go through much of it yet.”

Amelia woke the screen of her tablet and found the spot in the case file where she’d left off reading. “Only a few pages, but I’m very interested in learning why this is an FBI case.”

Nodding, he planted his palms on the table with a grimace. “We had another arson attack last night. I thought a short briefing was the fastest way to review the case so you can organize and get to the scene. This appears to be the work of someone who’s already struck three previous times. I’ll hit some of the highlights so you know what you’re walking into. Our arson specialists and the Crime Scene Unit are already there to back up Chicago PD.”

Amelia had been pulled aside by Sherry as soon as she’d returned from her lunch break, and they’d only had about fifteen minutes to begin reviewing the case before the briefing. She scanned the document as she listened.

“All right, we’ll start with the bigger picture.” SSA Burton snatched a small remote from the center of the table before glancing at Layton. “Can you hit the lights?”

Layton flipped a switch. Thanks to the blinds Amelia had drawn earlier, the room dimmed into enough darkness for the overhead projector.

After tapping a few keys on his laptop, SSA Burton pressed a button on the remote to bring a map of Chicago to the whiteboard on the other side of the room. He tapped another key, and the map zoomed in to the northwest portion of the city. “As of today, we have four different arson scenes and a total of fifteen victims. Nine fatalities and six survivors.”

A low whistle came from Layton. He appeared as disgusted as Amelia felt.

The SSA looked at each agent in turn. “But as you can see here,” he gestured to the map, “all four of these fires were set in the same general area. So far, we have two fires in Falcon Point and two in Highfield, all northwest of the city proper. Falcon Point is part of the greater Chicago area, sure, but it’s…affluent, I suppose is the word.”

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek to keep the frown from her face. After growing up in one of Chicago’s more impoverished communities, she still harbored a disdain for the disconnect between the wealthy and the lower class. Odds were, if the spree of arsons had occurred in her home neighborhood of Englewood, the larger media outlets wouldn’t give a shit. But the second the same crimes sprang up in a wealthy neighborhood, all hell broke loose.

As if he could read her mind, SSA Burton held up a hand and sighed. “Look, I don’t like the sound of it any more than you guys do. I’m just letting you know what to expect. News coverage of this thing is going to spread like…well, I was going to say wildfire, but that seems inappropriate, given the circumstances.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You get the picture.”

Dean’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Folks unaccustomed to crime in their neighborhood are suddenly worried about some of Chicago’s ‘crime epidemic’ landing on their doorstep, yeah?”

The SSA rubbed his temple. “More or less. But regardless, there are people dying here. We work this just like we would any other case. Only difference is there’ll be more of a media spotlight on everything we do.”

Well, that’s always helpful.

Amelia kept the sarcastic comment to herself and peered at the map. Four red dots marked the scenes of the crimes. “Since all four fires were in the same relatively small area, is it safe to say our perp lives around there?”

Layton perked up. “More than likely. Serial arsonists are similar to other serial killers in that they’ll tend to operate in areas that are familiar to them.” Though much of Layton’s FBI experience was in Cyber Crimes, he had moved over to the Behavioral Analysis Unit after obtaining a doctorate in psychology. He’d transferred departments around the same time as Amelia, and ever since then, she’d interacted with him much more frequently.

SSA Burton centered the map and snapped his fingers softly. “It’s likely, yes. But there are plenty of media outlets trying to put a different spin on it. At any rate, we’re dealing with four different scenes so far.”

He tapped a key to highlight one of the dots. “The specifics of each fire, including the victims and survivors, are in the case file. To expedite things so you can get to the scene, let me just say that there are a lot of similarities that link these cases. At each scene, locks have been found on the windows on the first floor, shims were shoved along doorjambs, and survivors recall smelling gasoline.”

Sherry pushed a strand of ash-blond hair out of her eyes. “I saw where the survivor from the oldest fire jumped out a window. Melanie Osborne. Was that because of the locks?”

Burton’s expression sobered. “Yes, it was. Her son and husband, Heath and Dane Osborne, were both killed. All first floor windows were locked and all doors leading outside had shims jammed into the frames.”

Layton turned to the SSA, a perplexed expression on his face. “He’d have seen a shim, though, right? You’d just pull it out.”

“If the family members were in a panic, or if there was too much smoke, all they’d know is that the door wouldn’t open. Fires are chaotic and scary.” Burton nodded toward the screen. “CSI recovered shims at all the other scenes, along with a couple clear plastic window locks on each first floor window and wooden two-by-twos jammed into the tracks of the rear sliding glass door.”

Combined anger and disgust simmered in Amelia’s heart. “So you’re saying the arsonist went through the trouble of securing every available exit on the first floor?”

“That’s exactly what they did. They even jammed several shims above the door to the basement. Speculation is that the suspect didn’t want anyone to be able to escape through a basement window.”

“How does the perpetrator himself get out?”

“At the Morrison scene, a window was found with a shim shoved into the exterior sash instead of the interior.” The SSA’s tone was grave, his fifty-some years suddenly more apparent in the lines on his face. “Probably went out that way and stuck the shim in once he was outside.”

A short spell of silence was interrupted by the clicking of Dean’s pen. “They recovered parts of what was left of these locks on the windows, right? Did forensics manage to pull anything from them? Manufacturer, anything like that?”

Rubbing his bearded chin, SSA Burton checked his laptop. “A few were recovered without much damage to them, but most were melted. Some of the plastic window locks were found near shards of glass from windows blown out by the raging fire. And on windows that weren’t blown out, they were badly melted. But enough remained to determine it was the same type of device used at every scene.”

A criminal with this distinct a ritual might make them easier to find.

The SSA took a sip of water and glanced around at the attentive faces of the agents. “It appears they used two different types of blocks for the doors. The exterior doors that were not sliding doors were jammed with shims, while sliding glass doors were blocked with a two-by-two slat of wood. You’ll have to read into the lab report for all the details. As far as I can tell, there wasn’t anything distinguishing about them, but they’re still a lead.”

Layton crossed his arms. “That’s their calling card, then. They use these particular devices to block the easiest exits and trap the victims inside their burning house.”

“It would appear so, yes.”

Amelia shifted in her chair. What kind of sick bastard were they dealing with?

“All right,” Burton pressed another key, highlighting a dot east of the first. “Let’s take a quick look at the other scenes. November last year, almost exactly six months after the first fire. The Day household. Same M.O. Fire set in the middle of the night, all means of escape including the basement door blocked. Although there’s no sign of forced entry, it seems the easiest point of entry is the sliding glass door at the back of the home.”

Amelia scanned the report for the Day family file. These poor people. She couldn’t imagine the horror of their last few moments.

“Jewel and Jeremiah Day, ages twelve and nine at the time of the fire, survived. Their parents, Brian and Ingrid Day, forty-four and forty-two, were killed. The children escaped by breaking a window on the first floor with a heavy bookend. They’d tried the front door but couldn’t open it.”

Dean clicked his pen again. “Because it was jammed.”

“Right.” Burton slid his finger across his track pad to scroll farther down in the case file. “They both suffered significant smoke inhalation, plus cuts from the broken glass. Neither child recalled hearing someone break in, and, like Melanie Osborne, they smelled gasoline.”

Since Amelia had lost her own mother when she was only ten years old, her heart twisted for those poor kids. She’d been fortunate enough to still have her father, though he’d spiraled into a self-destructive cycle of alcohol addiction for nearly seventeen years after Amelia’s mother died. His addiction caused emotional scarring to Amelia and her two siblings, but he was still alive, a recovered alcoholic for four years now. She only hoped Jewel and Jeremiah had found stable family members to take care of them.

“The next fire hit the Marquez family. That was in March of this year.” SSA Burton gestured to the map, his voice pulling Amelia from her thoughts.

“Glenda Marquez, age fifty, and her daughter Roxanne, age thirteen, both perished in the fire. Glenda’s husband Carlos, fifty-one, and their oldest daughter Tania, fifteen, survived. Carlos and Tania reported having no indication anyone had been in their home, and they recalled smelling gasoline. They escaped by jumping out a second-floor window where the father attempted to catch his daughter.”

Layton lifted an eyebrow. “So the killer wants them to jump?”

Burton offered the BAU agent a shrug. “I’m not sure. All I’ve got are a couple guesses. He can’t secure the second floor without getting too close to where the majority of the victims would be sleeping. Maybe he wants to see how strong people’s survival instincts are.”

Layton tapped a finger against the table. “I’ll have to think about that some more. See if it might be significant in some other way.”

The SSA glanced at his watch. “All right. Hopefully, you have a better idea of what you’re headed into.” He removed his notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “The scene you’re headed to is the Morrison house.”

Three destroyed families is bad enough. Amelia braced herself for the incoming details of the fourth.

“Darrell Morrison, fifteen, is the sole survivor. His parents, Logan and Stella, fifty and forty-nine, died along with Darrell’s nineteen-year-old sister Tara. She’s the one who called 911.” He looked up from the notebook. “Darrell jumped out of his bedroom window on the second floor without his phone. By the time he woke a neighbor up, the fire department was on the scene. Other than a sprained ankle, a burned hand, and a little smoke inhalation, he’s mostly unharmed.”

Layton adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, his visage as solemn as the atmosphere in the room. “I realize we’re just looking at this for the first time, but considering that the increments between these fires are getting shorter, I think it’s safe to say this unsub is escalating.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. One more thing before I let you head out to the Morrison home.” Burton raised the remote. “A symbol was found at each of the four scenes. That’s what landed this case on our desks. It’s also become too much for the local investigators to deal with.”

Sherry shot the SSA a questioning look. “Where did they find this? And how was it intact?”

“In the basement.” With another click, the image on the whiteboard changed to a bizarre, circular symbol painted on a wall next to a breaker box. “Here’s the most intact of the three, which was found at the Marquez home back in March. You can see it was painted on a cement wall. The same is true for the symbol found at the Day house, but the first one was partially burned away on green board, a type of moisture-resistant drywall.”

Amelia frowned. “None of the case files indicate any accelerant was used in the basements?”

Burton shook his head before moving to the wall and flipping the light switch on, bathing the room in light. “You can dig into the symbol when you get back.” He waved a hand. “Right now, you’ve got a scene to canvass.”

Amelia sat staring at the blank whiteboard for a moment. After dealing with a killer who targeted social media influencers in search of his own fifteen minutes of fame—and to spread his demented “message” to the masses—the reason for the symbol seemed obvious to Amelia.

Whoever had set the fires wanted the world to know they, and no one else, were responsible.