“Yeah.” Whoever had been wearing this boot had stepped in something flammable, and Joe would be willing to bet it’d match the warehouse print, right down to the trace of gasoline in it, tying the two fires together. Which meant that without a doubt, the warehouse fire had not been an accident at all.

Nor had this one.

At home, Joe fell on his bed and crashed. He slept like the living dead until near dawn, when the dreams came.

Creative Interiors II was on fire, flames leaping into the night, burning so hot he couldn’t get close. He stood back, watching in horror as the firefighters pulled Summer through the window.

Only suddenly it wasn’t Summer surrounded by the flames, but him. His skin prickled with the heat. Sweat poured into his eyes. And then in a blink, the fire was gone and he was climbing into Summer’s window. He stood by her bed, bruised and battered from his father’s fists, breathing too harshly, tears that he refused to shed burning in his throat as he stared down at the only person in the world who’d ever given a shit about him.

She didn’t sit up and hug him. She didn’t hand him her extra pillow and cover him with the throw cover on the foot of her bed.

Nothing.

“Red,” he whispered.

She didn’t move.

“Red?” Reaching out, he nudged her shoulder, then turned her over.

She began to scream, writhing in agony as she burned, just as if she were that kid in that horrific house fire the other night, melting into the sheets—

With a gasp he sat straight up in bed.

His own bed.

And he was no longer a kid.

And neither was Summer.

Drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf, he picked up his phone and dialed before he had his thoughts together.

“’Lo,” came Summer’s sleepy voice.

“Hey.”

“Joe?” She went from sleeping to alert, as always reading him better than he could read himself. “You okay?”

“Sure.” He lay back, his legs still trembling. He knew why he’d dreamed badly. It was his suspicions about the two fires. It was that she could have died. It was the bone deep, gnawing fear. Fear for her. “Just checking on you.”

She was quiet a moment. “You had a bad dream.”

“No, I—”

“You did.” Her voice was soft and warm and wrapped around him like a blanket. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Uh huh. And I don’t have panic attacks.” She snorted. “We’re pathetic, you know that? I’m coming over. I’ll bring something good and fattening.”

“Don’t even think about it.” He let out a low laugh though, feeling better already. “Seriously, don’t.”

“But—”

“Have a good day, Red.”

“Joe. Are you sure?”