The explosion shook the air.

Blood splattered up her neck.

Paul dropped to the ground. He was screaming. The sound was feral, frightening. He clutched at his knee, or what was left of his knee. The hollow-point bullet had disintegrated his kneecap and ripped apart his ankle. White bone and strips of tendon and cartilage dangled down like bloody pieces of frayed string.

She told Paul, "That was for me."

Claire shoved the gun down the back of her jeans. She grabbed the foil blanket. She started toward the house.

Then she stopped.

Fire had taken over the left side of the house. Flames were clawing at the kitchen wall. Sparks jumped up at the ceiling. Glass shattered in the intense heat. The telephone had melted. The linoleum was black. Smoke hung like white cotton in the air. Orange and red flames had filled the den as they trudged toward the hallway.

Toward the garage.

It was too late. She couldn't go in. Trying to help Lydia would be madness. She would die. They would both die.

Claire took a deep breath and ran into the house.

TWENTY-THREE.

"I'm in the garage!" Lydia pulled uselessly at her restraints as bright red flames licked at the mouth of the hallway. "Help me!"

She had heard gunfire. She had heard a man screaming.

Paul, she thought. Please, God, let it be Paul.

"I'm here!" Lydia cried. She strained against the chair. She had given up hope until the phone rang, until the gunshot.

"Help!" she screamed.

Did they know about the fire? Were the police handcuffing Paul when they should be running into the house? He had left the door to the house open. She had a front-row view to the changing nature of the fire. The gentle flicker had turned into white-hot flames that were chewing through the walls. The carpet peeled up. Chunks of plaster melted off the ceiling. Smoke and heat roiled through the narrow corridor. Her hands felt hot. Her knees felt hot. Her face was hot.

"Please!" Lydia screamed. The fire was moving so fast. Didn't they know she was in here? Didn't they see the flames shooting through the roof?

"I'm in here!" she yelled. "I'm in the garage!"

Lydia pulled uselessly at the restraints. She couldn't die like this. Not after what she had survived. She needed to see Rick one more time. She needed to hold Dee in her arms. She had to tell Claire that she had really forgiven her. She had to tell her mother that she loved her, that Paul had killed Sam, that her father had not taken his life, that he had loved them all so much and "Please!" She screamed so loudly that she strangled on the word. "Help me!"

There was a figure at the end of the hallway.

"Here!" she yelled. "I'm here!"

The figure got closer. Closer.

"Help!" Lydia cried. "Help me!"

Claire.

The figure was Claire.

"No, no, no!" Lydia panicked. Why was it Claire? Where were the police? What had her sister done?

"Lydia!" Claire was running at a crouch, trying to stay below the smoke. A foil blanket was over her head. Fire roiled behind herbrick-red and orange flames that lapped up the walls and dug chunks out of the ceiling.

Why was it Claire? Where were the firemen? Where were the police?

Lydia frantically watched the door, waiting for more people to rush in. Men in heavy fireproof jackets. Men with helmets and oxygen. Men with axes.

There was no one else. Just Claire. Crazy, impetuous, idiotic fucking Claire.

"What did you do?" Lydia screamed. "Claire!"

"It's all right," Claire screamed back. "I'm going to save you."

"Jesus Christ!" Lydia could see the fire curling the paint off the walls. Smoke was filling the garage. "Where is everybody?"

Claire grabbed the knife off the table. She cut through the plastic ties.

"Go!" Lydia pushed her away. "I'm chained to the wall! You have to go!"

Claire reached behind the chair. She twisted something. The chain fell away like a belt.

For a moment, Lydia was too stunned to move. She was free. After almost twenty-four hours, she was finally free.

Free to burn alive in a fire.

"Come on!" Claire headed toward the open door, but the fire had already consumed their only way out. Flames melted the plastic slats on the wall. The shag carpet curled like a tongue.

"No!' Lydia screamed. "God dammit, no!" She couldn't die like this. Not after living through Paul's torture. Not after thinking she was going to get away.

"Help me!" Claire ran at the roll-up door. The metal made a clanging sound that rattled Lydia's eardrums. Claire tried to run at the door again, but Lydia grabbed her arm.

"What did you do?" she screamed. "We're going to die!"

Claire jerked away her arm. She ran to the wooden shelves. She swept the videotapes onto the floor. She wrested the shelves from their brackets.

"Claire!" Lydia yelled. Her sister had finally gone insane. "Claire! Stop!"

Claire grabbed the pry bar off the floor. She swung it like a bat at the wall. The hammer stuck into the Sheetrock. She wrenched it out and swung again.

Sheetrock.

Lydia watched dumbly as Claire took another swing at the wall. Like everything else in the garage, the concrete-block wall was for show. The actual garage walls were made of Sheetrock and wooden studs and beyond those studs there would be siding and beyond that would be freedom.

Lydia snatched the pry bar out of Claire's hands. Every muscle in her body screamed as she lifted the ten-pound metal bar over her head. She put her full weight into the swing, bringing it down like a hammer. She swung again and again until the Sheetrock was gone and hard pieces of foam chipped out like snow. Lydia took another swing. The foam was melting. The metal bar cut through like butter.

Claire yelled, "Use your hands!"

They both grabbed handfuls of smoldering foam. Lydia's fingers burned. The foam was returning to its liquid state, releasing pungent chemicals into the air. She started coughing. They were both coughing. The smoke was thick inside the garage. Lydia could barely see what they were doing. The fire was getting closer. Heat blistered at her back. She frantically pulled at the boiling insulation. This wasn't going to work. It was taking too long.

"Move!" Lydia backed up as much as she could and ran at the wall. She felt her shoulder crunch against the wood siding. She backed up and ran again, angling her body between the studs so she could get to the outside part of the wall.

Lydia backed up to make another run.

Claire screamed, "It's not working!"

But it was.

Lydia felt the boards crack against her weight. She backed up again. Daylight showed through the splintered wood.

Lydia ran full-bore at the wall. The wall buckled. Something popped in her shoulder. Her arm hung uselessly at her side. She used her foot, kicking with every ounce of her remaining strength until the wooden slats popped off their nails. Smoke funneled toward the fresh air. Lydia turned around to get Claire.

"Help me!" Claire's hands were full of videotapes. The fire was so close that she looked luminescent. "We have to get them out!"

Lydia grabbed her sister by the collar and pushed her toward the narrow opening. Claire couldn't fit through the gap with the tapes. Lydia slapped them out of her hands. She pushed Claire again. Her feet slipped. Her shoes were melting into the concrete. Lydia made one last push. Claire went flying outside. Lydia was right after her. They both landed hard on the driveway.

The sudden fresh air shocked Lydia's system. Her collarbone had cracked against the concrete. She felt like a knife had jammed into her throat. She rolled onto her back. She gasped for air.

Videotapes rained down around her. Lydia swatted them away. She hurt so bad. Everything hurt so bad.

"Hurry!" Claire was on her knees. She was reaching her hands back into the garage, trying to save the videotapes. One of her shirtsleeves caught on fire. She shook out the flame and kept reaching in. Lydia tried to push herself up, but her left arm wouldn't work. The pain was almost unbearable as she lifted herself with her right hand. She grabbed Claire by the shirt and tried to pull her away.

"No!" Claire kept reaching for more tapes. "We have to get them." She used both hands to gather the tapes the same way she used to gather sand to make castles. "Liddie, please!"

Lydia got on her knees beside Claire. She could barely see more than a few inches in front of her. Smoke was furling out the opening. The heat was suffocating. She felt something drop on her head. Lydia thought it was a spark from the fire, but it was rain.

"There's just a few more!" Claire kept pulling out the tapes. "Get them away from the house!"

Lydia used her good hand to toss the videos out into the driveway. There were so many. Her eyes scanned the dates on the labels, and she knew the dates corresponded to missing women, and that the women had families who had no idea why their sisters, their daughters, were gone.

Claire fell backward as flames shot out from the garage. Her face was black with soot. The fire had finally engulfed the garage. Lydia grabbed her collar and pulled her away from the house. Claire stumbled as she tried to stand. Her melted shoes fell off her feet. She banged into Lydia. The jolt sent pain straight up into Lydia's shoulder, but it was nothing like the hacking coughs that wracked her body. She bent at the waist and let out a stream of black water that tasted like piss and cigarette ash.

"Liddie." Claire rubbed her back.

Lydia opened her mouth and let out another foul black stream that made her stomach spasm. Mercifully, there wasn't much more. She wiped her mouth. She stood up. She closed her eyes to fight the dizziness.

"Lydia. Look at me."

Lydia forced open her eyes. Claire stood with her back to the garage. Fire and smoke raged behind her, but she was looking at Lydia, not the fire. She had her fingers pressed to her mouth. She looked stricken.

Lydia could only imagine what her sister was seeing: the bruises, the welts, the electrical burns.

Claire said, "What did he do to you?"

"I'm okay," Lydia said, because she had to be.

"What did he do?" Claire was shaking. Tears cut white tracks into the soot on her face. "He promised he wouldn't hurt you. He promised."

Lydia shook her head. She couldn't do this now. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I'm going to kill him." Claire's bare feet pounded into the ground as she stalked around to the back of the house.

Lydia followed, holding her useless left arm as still as she could. Every step sent her collarbone clashing against the base of her throat. Her joints had filled with gravel dust. Rain had turned the soot on her skin into a wet, black ash.

Claire was just ahead of her. She had a revolver stuffed down the back of her jeans. Lydia recognized the gun, but not the fluid way Claire pulled the weapon, cocked the hammer, and trained the sights at the man crawling on the ground.

Paul had pulled himself about twenty feet away from the house. A streak of dark blood showed his progress through the wet grass. His right knee was a bloody pulp. His ankle was shattered. The bottom half of his leg hung at an unnatural angle. Bone and sinew and muscle glistened in the light from the still-roaring flames.

Claire had the gun pointed at Paul's face. "You fucking liar."

Paul kept moving, using his elbow and hand to pull himself away from the fire.

Claire tracked him with the gun. "You said you didn't hurt her."

Paul shook his head, but he kept crawling.

"You promised me."

He finally looked up.

"You promised," Claire said, sounding petulant and devastated and furious.

Paul managed a shrug. "At least I didn't fuck her."

Claire pulled the trigger.

Lydia screamed. The noise from the gun was deafening. The bullet had torn open the side of Paul's neck. His hand clamped down on the wound. He fell onto his back. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," Lydia breathed. It was all she could say. "Jesus Christ."

"Claire." Paul's voice gurgled in his throat. "Call an ambulance."

Claire trained the gun at his head. She looked down at him with an utter lack of emotion. "You lying piece of shit."

"No!" Lydia grabbed Claire's hand just as she pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. She could feel the recoil travel through Claire's hand and up her own arm.

Claire tried to aim the gun again.

"No." Lydia forced her hand away. "Look at me."