But he didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He plugged the headphones into his ears, turned his back, and ran.

Gabriel hoped Michael would be gone by the time he got home, but his brother’s red pickup truck was still sitting in the driveway when Gabriel stepped out of the woods behind the house.

He had half a mind to fall back into the trees.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Layne.

Gabriel hadn’t even recognized her at first. Her hair had been down, a spill of chestnut brown that fell almost all the way to her waist, with a few damp tendrils curling around her face. No glasses. Skintight gray pants that left nothing to the imagination, with knee-high leather boots. Hell, if she wore that getup to school, she’d have half the male population trailing her in the halls. Even her maroon jacket had an athletic cut, fitting snugly along the curve of her waist. The black ribbed turtleneck had pretty much been the only familiar thing about her.

So what? She pities you.

He walked around to unlock the front door quietly, hoping Michael would be in the shower, or even better, still sleeping. At the very least, in the kitchen, hidden from view.

Nope. Michael was sitting on the staircase, a cup of coffee on the step beside him.

Gabriel couldn’t make himself shut the door. The sunshine was a welcome weight against his back.

“Don’t run,” said Michael. His voice was even.

Gabriel scowled—but he didn’t take his hand off the door. “I’m not running from you.”

“You look like you’re ready to bolt.”

“Yeah, well, you look like a—”

“All right, stop.” Michael held up a hand. “I didn’t wait here to pick a fight with you.”

“So what do you want?”

“That girl Hannah—the firefighter?”

“What about her?”

“Her father is the county fire marshal.”

He must have looked blank, because Michael added, “That means her ‘unofficial’ visit might have been pretty damn official.”

Gabriel waited, unsure what response would be safe. Really, saying anything could be a mistake. Michael had almost seen through him last night. He kept hearing his brother’s accusation on the porch. I want to know if you’re starting these fires?

Michael picked up the coffee mug and stood, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

Gabriel kept his hand on the doorknob, as if letting go would leave him trapped, a prisoner to half-accurate accusations. “Look, I’ve got school—”

“This will only take a second.”

Gabriel sighed, but followed.