Chapter 2

The phone rang once, twice, three times before he finally picked up.

"Phillip," I gasped, my voice breaking with relief. "Thank God. There's a fire—a massive wildfire at Eagle Point. Your parents, your sister—they're camping there!"

The background noise on his end was deafening—cheers, music, the unmistakable whistles of fireworks still being launched into the night sky.

"What are you talking about?" His voice was slurred, irritated. "Whitney and I are in the middle of something important."

"Phillip, listen to me!" I screamed, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I was still driving, racing toward the mountain, praying I wasn't too late. "The emergency scanners are going crazy. Multiple units responding. The fire's spreading fast—straight toward the campground where your family is staying!"

There was a pause, and for one hopeful moment, I thought he'd finally heard me.

"Rose," he said, his voice suddenly cold and dismissive. "I know what you're doing."

My heart froze. "What?"

"This jealousy act is getting old," he continued, each word like a knife. "Just because Whitney and I are having fun doesn't mean you need to invent emergencies."

"Invent?" The word came out as a whisper. "Phillip, check your phone. Look at the alerts. Call the station!"

"You're pathetic," he spat. "Always have to be the center of attention, don't you? Whitney needs me right now, and I'm not going to let you ruin this for her."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone in disbelief, then hurled it onto the passenger seat. Tears blinded me as I floored the accelerator, flying around curves, ignoring the speed limit signs flashing by.

Too late. I was too late.

---

The scene at Eagle Point was chaos incarnate. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances—all flashing their lights against the hellish orange glow that had consumed half the mountainside. Officers blocked the road, turning away civilians, but I showed them my ID.

"Mrs. Thompson," one said solemnly. "The chief is already up there."

I nodded, unable to speak, and pushed past him.

The smell hit me first—smoke, ash, and something worse. Something I'll never forget.

They found them an hour later. Three bodies, huddled together in the charred remains of what had been their tent. They'd tried to run, the firefighters said. Made it almost to the trailhead before the fire overtook them.

I was standing there, numb, when Phillip arrived. His face crumpled when he saw me, then hardened.

"No," he whispered, stumbling toward the bodies covered with sheets. "No, no, no."

He fell to his knees beside them, his hands shaking as he reached for the edge of a sheet. I wanted to stop him, to spare him that image, but I couldn't move.

"Phillip," I started, my voice hollow.

"This is your fault," he hissed, not looking at me. "If you hadn't called, distracting me—"

"Stop," I said, finding strength I didn't know I had. "This is not my fault. This is not their fault. This is yours."

He stood up slowly, his face transforming from grief to something darker. "No," he said firmly. "This was an accident. Unknown causes. That's what happened here."

The lie was so blatant, so absurd that for a moment I thought I'd misheard him.

"Unknown causes?" I repeated. "Phillip, the entire town saw Whitney's livestream of you setting off those fireworks!"

"We'll handle this," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "I'll take care of everything."

---

The funeral was a blur of black dresses and sympathetic murmurs. I stood apart from Phillip, who played the grieving son perfectly—the strong fire chief maintaining dignity in the face of unimaginable loss.

It wasn't until after the service, when we were alone in the empty church, that he approached me.

"We need to get our story straight," he said, his voice low and urgent.

I stared at him, not comprehending.

"About the fire," he clarified. "People are asking questions."

"Like how you ignored safety protocols to please Whitney?" I asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed. "No. Like how your parents' illegal campfire got out of control."

The blood drained from my face. "What?"

"They were there too, weren't they?" he said, a cold smile forming on his lips. "Conveniently forgotten that detail? The investigation will find evidence soon enough."

"You're going to frame my parents?" I whispered, horrified.

"I'm going to protect what's left of my family," he corrected. "And you're going to help me. Unless you want everyone to know exactly what kind of person you really are."

I looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since the fire. This stranger wearing my husband's face.

"No," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I won't do it."

His smile vanished. "Then you'll regret it."

As he walked away, leaving me alone among the flowers and photographs of his dead family, I realized something had broken inside me—but it wasn't my heart.

It was the last chain binding me to him.