I turned it over. Spada’s letterhead was at the top. I eyed the rope, shone the light on it. There was blood seeped into the fibers. Darby’s blood? He’d have had to be restrained before he was killed. “This is Spada, which means it is for me. He’s gloating.”

The two simple words weren’t a confession, they were a taunt, but why even that when we were scrambling around, looking for evidence to put him away? I looked at the car again. Its presence here bothered me. The bloodstained rope, the blood possibly Darby’s, might also have trace evidence of his murderer on it. The note, too, might hold fingerprints, mine now, too. Why was Spada being so cavalier, so reckless? I sniffed, froze. “Do you smell smoke?”

Whip sniffed, too. “Yeah.”

We wheeled around, sniffing harder, trying to get a bead on the source of the smell. “There.” I pointed at the front door, at the black smoke beginning to billow in underneath.

“Well, that ain’t good,” Whip said.

Suddenly the floor, which had given off the faint smell of gasoline when we came in, began to smolder. We exchanged a panicked look and ran for the door, but when we reached it, the knob was already scorching hot and we couldn’t touch it. The smoke flooded in, the stench of gas grew stronger. Whip wrapped his hands in the hem of his T-shirt and tried turning the hot knob, his boxer’s muscles straining. No go.

“Locked from outside. Your picklocks?”

I eyed the dead bolt. The smoke was forcing its way in now, thick and fast. It now covered the tops of our shoes. There was no way I could get anywhere near that door. I shook my head, pointed to the overhead door. “Try this.”

We raced over and together tried raising the metal door, but it wouldn’t give, not an inch. Black, acrid smoke now slithered its way along the oily floor, undulating, crawling like a devilish snake, spreading outward, staking its claim. We gave up on the overhead, beginning to cough, wheeze, both of us desperate now for an out.

“That’s it for doors,” Whip said.

The smoke pushed us back toward the center of the room. My eyes began to water, my throat burn. I flicked a look at Whip. He was in the same boat. Flames suddenly shot up from the smoke and latched onto the front wall, the fire’s tentacles clawing its way toward the ceiling, one horrifying inch at a time.

“Cell phone?” Whip croaked.

“Yep . . . in the car . . . yours?”

“In my jacket.”

I glanced over at him. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

“In the car.” He coughed. “Next to your phone.”