I lean back against the wall and breathe deeply, smelling lavender, and running my fingers over the taut, burned skin on my cheek. Whatever Ryan says, I don’t believe he acted alone. He may have lit the match and burned his own hands in the process, but he was doing someone’s bidding. I think of Michael’s warning, the sense that he knew something I didn’t. And I’m certain it wasn’t just Ryan, it was Kap-O. One way or another, they have to be involved.

In the office, the mood is jovial. Even Amy gives me a begrudging nod, and Oliver offers to buy me a drink later. But Teddy is gone, and their congratulations aren’t meant for me, not really. They’re for Oliver, for picking up on signs the rest of us missed. And they’re out of relief, that there’s not some maniacal fire starter on the loose. Just a scared kid who wanted to fit in and now will spend anywhere from one to twenty years in prison.

Despite the fatigue and flames chasing me, enclosing the walls of my car, and racing across my skin, I make it to my parents’ house. But by the time I reach the porch, my legs are shaking so violently that I have to steady myself against the railing.

I open the front door and hope I can make it up the next flight of stairs to my room without them realizing I’m home.

“Marlitt, is that you?” My father’s voice from the kitchen. I take two steps toward the banister, but he peeks his head around the corner.

“How was your day? We brought back some biscuits—” He drops the book in his hands. “Helena,” he yells as he closes the gap between us. “Come quick!”

My teeth are chattering. Hilfe, I think. I’m holding Craig dying on the sidewalk, yelling for help, clawing at my skin, ripping off my jacket like it’s on fire, scratching at my throat as if I could open my airways by force. “Ich atme nicht,” I say, and then everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, I’m in the living room, my head propped up on a yellow pillow, blinking at the Japanese maple semiobscured by curtains.

“Helena,” my father whispers. “She’s awake.”

“What happened?” I ask. My mouth’s dry and tastes of ash.

“You, um…” My father clasps his hands together. And suddenly I’m mortified.

“You stumbled into the house,” my mother says behind him. “And then you passed out.”

“I fainted?” I scoot my shoulders against the couch corner, trying to sit up straight. “Like some nineteenth-century heroine?” I’m furious at myself and my body for betraying me.

“Well, first…,” my mother begins.

My father shakes his head knowingly. See what you’ve started, his look says.