As he strode toward them, I headed for the broken front gate and lifted my right hand, as if warding off the heat of the fire consuming the little car. The flames flared briefly, as if in protest to my drawing the heat from them, then quickly faded until only the pungent smell of burned rubber remained. I turned my attention to the fire biting through both the remnants of the rear wall and the dividing fence. Its heat swirled around me, through me, and I briefly closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation before I drew it in and snuffed out the flames.

But that enjoyment had come at the cost of a life. Rinaldo, I thought grimly, was going to pay for all these deaths. One way or another, no matter how long I had to fruitlessly search for the bastard, I was going to make sure of that.

The fires had now disappeared, but I had no idea if any other threat remained. I stopped several feet away from the area where the front door had once been and surveyed the huge pile of rubbish—all that remained of the house and the person who’d lived here.

I couldn’t go into that. I wouldn’t. I’d seen death in many disguises, but if there was anything left of Janice beyond a splash of blood or the shredded remnants of flesh, then I didn’t want to be the one to find it.

I spun around and walked across to Janice’s Honda instead. Aside from the melted tires and the dents and scrapes that were a result of being tossed through the fence, the car had actually come through relatively intact—at least when compared to the house.

I knelt down and peered in through the driver’s side window. Heat still radiated from the front portion of the car, but there was no scent of leaking fuel; hopefully, the thing wouldn’t blow up in my face.

There didn’t seem to be much more than the usual assortment of rubbish and clothing that accumulated inside cars over time, but I nevertheless tugged my sleeve over my hand and—after a bit of a tussle—wrenched the door open.

“You’re worried about leaving fingerprints?”

The unexpected comment made me jump. I swung around and slapped Jackson’s arm. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry.” He sounded—and looked—anything but. “The question stands, however.”

“The handle was hot, and we’re being watched.” I looked pointedly at the gathering crowd. He might have managed to keep them at a distance, but some of them had cameras, and there would no doubt be videos posted on YouTube sooner rather than later.

“The handle wasn’t glowing with heat, so no one would have given two thoughts about your opening it with bare hands.”

“I’d still rather be safe than sorry, thanks.”