Fuck it, I can’t wait. If Aida’s in there, I have to get her out now.
I run toward the house, trying to stay low. I’ve got my Beretta with me and I draw it. I’m leery of actually using it in the dark, without knowing where Aida is. Even a stray bullet through a wall could accidentally hit her.
I go around the back of the house, trying to peer in the windows. I can’t see shit. So, I try the back door, finding it unlocked. The moment I open it, a cloud of thick, black smoke comes rolling out, and I have to drop even lower, stifling my cough in the crook of my arm.
The infusion of fresh air invigorates the fire. I hear it sucking up the oxygen, expanding in heat and size. The kitchen is ablaze, the cabinets, countertops, floor, and ceiling all burning.
As I try to skirt the fire, I trip over something on the floor. It’s relatively soft. For a second, I hope that it’s Aida, but then I realize it’s just an old mattress.
I want to call out for her, but I can’t risk alerting Oliver, wherever he might be. I try to search the main level as best I can in the smoke and darkness. I can’t go anywhere near the kitchen, or the hallway beyond.
She’s got to be upstairs. She’s got to be, because otherwise this whole place is going to burn down before I find her, and I can’t think about that.
So I pull my shirt partly over my face and run up the stairs, thinking only of Aida.
I let my guard down. I’m not holding my gun up.
As soon as I reach the head of the stairs, Oliver charges me from the side, with all the speed and technique of the athlete he once was. He barrels into me so hard that we slam into the opposite wall, smashing into the drywall. My gun goes spinning off down the hallway, hitting the doorjamb and disappearing into one of the rooms.
Oliver is hitting me with both fists, throwing wild haymakers and body shots. By bad luck, one of his blows lands directly on my amateur appendectomy, ripping open the stitches and making me roar with pain.
He’s an inch shorter than me, but probably thirty pounds heavier. Plus, he’s been in plenty of frat-boy brawls.
He’s not a trained fighter, though. After the initial shock and the wild onslaught, I get my hands up and block several of his punches, before hitting him in the stomach and jaw.
The hits barely seem to faze him. His face is almost unrecognizable—his hair is a tangled mess, he’s got a manic gleam in his eyes, and dried blood has run from his nose down around his mouth and chin, like some macabre goatee.
“Where is she, you fucking psychopath?” I shout, fists up.
Oliver swipes the back of his hand across his face as fresh blood seeps from his nose.
“She belonged to me first, and she’ll belong to me last,” he growls.
“She was never yours!” I shout.
Oliver dives at me again, grabbing for my knees. He’s so reckless and inflamed that he knocks me backward down the stairs. We go tumbling end over end, the side of my head slamming against one of the bare wood steps.
Oliver gets the worst of it, though. He’s on the bottom when we crash down on the landing. It knocks him out cold—or, so it appears.
The smoke in the air is thicker than ever, and I’m breathing hard from the fight. I double over with a fit of coughing, hacking so hard that I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, like I just popped one out of place. Or Oliver broke it when he threw his giant body at me.
I drag myself back up the steps, shouting, “AIDA! Aida, where are you?”
The shouting scratches my smoke-filled throat. I cough harder than ever, tears streaming out of my eyes.
Oliver seizes my ankle and yanks, pulling my feet out from under me. I fall straight down on the top stair, my jaw slamming against the wooden edge. I kick out hard with my foot, wrenching it out of Castle’s grasp and ramming the heel of my dress shoe directly into his eye. Oliver goes tumbling backward, back down to the landing.
I’m scrambling up the steps again. The upper part of the house is filling with smoke and I can feel the heat rising up from the kitchen. The fire must be all across the first floor now. I don’t even know if we’ll be able to get back down the stairs. Assuming Aida is even up here.
She’s got to be up here. Because if she’s anywhere else in the house, she’s already dead.
I run down the hallway, opening every door and looking in every room as I pass. Bathroom. Linen closet. Empty bedroom. Then at last, at the end of the hall, I find the master suite. It’s devoid of furniture like all the rooms, the house cleared out for sale. But there’s a figure laying in the middle of the floor, hands tied in front of her, feet bound with rope, head propped up on a pillow. Nice. I’m glad he made sure she was comfy before he tried to burn her alive.
I run over to Aida, lifting her head and turning her face so I can make sure she’s alright.
I press my fingers against the side of her throat. I can feel her pulse at least. As I tilt up her face, her lashes flutter against her cheek.
“Aida!” I cry, stroking her cheek with my thumb. “I’m here!”