A startled cry is forced from his mouth. Who did the killers just shoot? Was it Blazers, for handing the lighter to AT&T? Was it AT&T, for trying to light a fire? Could it even be Stanford, the girl holding his sister—or Moxie herself?

Gritting his teeth, Parker forces himself to scuttle into the back room. He can’t afford to let terror paralyze him. Should he close the door behind him? What if one of the killers catches sight of the movement? But if he doesn’t close it, they might see him. He eases it closed.

As he gets to his feet, Parker grabs the knife off the floor. He reaches back and slips the handle under the waistband of his pants. The small of his back is slick with sweat. He centers the blade so that it’s flat against his spine, camouflaged by his polo shirt.

A glass-fronted silver box set into the wall catches his eye. It holds a fire extinguisher. The killers could use it to put out the fire.

He opens the box and then wrestles the metal canister free from its clips. He needs to hide it. Maybe in the cupboards where he put Moxie. Just the glancing thought of her makes his knees go weak. But worry won’t keep her any safer, and he can’t afford to be distracted.

He forces himself back to the here and now. Maybe he should keep the extinguisher handy. It could be a weapon. Once he gets the fire going, he could wait for one of the killers to open the door, then spray the chemicals straight in his face.

Parker lets out a strangled bark of laughter. If you had told him this morning that by the time the day was over he would be lighting fires and thinking about the best way to damage someone, he would have thought you were crazy.

After he sets down the extinguisher, he spreads his arms wide to gather the gold cardboard boxes and stacks of brown paper candy cups into a pile in the middle of the cool marble worktable. He tears pieces of white wrapping paper off the roll and crumples them. He looks at the ceiling. A metal sprinkler jet is about eight feet above one corner of the table. He scoots the pile so it’s right under it.

Out in the hall, it’s been relatively quiet. At least there haven’t been any more shots.

Parker fumbles the lighter from his pocket. The metal wheel bites into his thumb as he spins it. When the flame appears, he moves too fast. It gutters out.