The next window looks onto a spotless kitchen, further proof that George lives here. Chefs are obsessive about their workspace, and this one is uncluttered and gleaming, with a floor clean enough to lick. A digital clock blinks on the coffee maker, but otherwise no movement, no one home...though the beast next door is still going strong.

Above me, a whoosh of temperature-controlled air followed by a familiar voice: “Yo, asshole.”

George’s cheeks are a little fuller than the last time I saw him, his head a lot shinier on top. Looks like he finally gave up on that receding hairline and shaved the whole thing off.

He leans both forearms on the second-story windowsill, tipping his chin to the grass I just walked through. “You do know this backyard is private property, yeah?”

“Yeah, but so’s my steak house.”

“So?”

“So there’s a detective looking at the security footage right now, and I gave him your picture.”

A double-barreled lie. There’s no detective, no picture, but it gets my point across. An accusation, bright and sparkling.

He tilts his head and frowns. “Why would my face be on your security feed? I haven’t set foot in the place for what—five? Six months?”

Four and a half almost to the day. George knows this as well as I do.

“Stop fucking around. If you did what Flavio and I think you did, then you’re going to jail. Arson’s a crime, and you better believe I’ll be sitting in the front row at your trial. I’ll be the one cheering when they cart you away.”

I try not to think about what suspected arson will mean, but it’s impossible. It means the insurance money will get tied up in subpoenas and courtroom drama. It means attorney fees I can’t afford to pay. It means long waits that end in jail time. My heart fires up, and my insides churn. I can’t afford any of this.

George’s frown digs in. “Mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about?”

“Oh come on. The fire. At the Bolling Way shop. The same shop you swore to burn to the ground.”

“There was a fire? For real?” His brow clears, and his lips spread into a smile. “How bad?”

“Why else would I come all the way up here?” I lift both hands, let them slap to my sides. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

I stare up at my former sous-chef, a crick tightening on the right side of my neck, the heat bleeding from my body in a single, bracing instant. When I drove here, I was operating on instinct and rage, but George was never that good of an actor.

The wind sends an icy blast up my back. “It’s torched, man. A total loss.”