“Does not matter when a life is in danger.”
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, still too far away. I stepped forward. “If you do not hand me those keys right now, you will answer for reckless endangerment.”
For a long second, she held my gaze. Then, astonishingly, she tightened her grip. “I will not have this community descend into chaos,” she whispered.
That was the moment I understood something chilling: Angela Whitmore wasn’t protecting safety. She was protecting control. I reached out, pried the keys from her rigid fingers, and moved.
The metal of the driver’s side handle was hot enough to sting. I unlocked the van, yanked the door open, and thick smoke spilled outward. Lily’s face was flushed and streaked with tears, her breathing shallow.
“I’m here,” I told her, unbuckling the harness as fast as I could.
The flames had reached the SUV beside us. Heat blistered the air. My lungs burned. I lifted her into my arms and turned away just as firefighters screeched into the lot, hoses already unfurling before the truck fully stopped.
Commands were shouted. Water thundered against flame. I carried Lily beyond the safety perimeter and knelt down, holding her close until her breathing steadied.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
