I reversed, speeding backward down the street. The garage door would be the weakest point. It was an industrial garage door, reinforced from the inside, but it was still weaker than the walls. I’d have to hit it pretty hard. I aimed for the pale rectangle of the door and stepped on the gas. The van rocketed forward, picking up speed.

Mad Rogan stepped between the van and the garage door.

I slammed on the brakes, but there was not enough time to stop. I would hit him. I saw him with crystal clarity—his body, turned sideways to me, his striking face, his blue eyes—as the van skidded at him.

He raised his hand.

The van hit a cushion of air, as if we plowed headfirst into viscous honey. We slid to a soft stop a foot before his fingertips.

Mad Rogan faced the garage door. It clanged and crashed to the ground. Smoke billowed out, black and oily.

I jumped out of the van and ran inside. The smoke scoured the inside of my nose and scraped against my throat like fine-grade sandpaper. My eyes watered. The acrid stench choked me. I coughed and stumbled, trying to see through the dark curtain.

A human shape lay prone on the floor. Oh no.

I lunged forward and fell to my knees. Grandma Frida lay on her stomach. I flipped her, grabbed her by her arms, and pulled her across the floor. Mad Rogan congealed from the smoke, picked my grandmother off the floor, and headed for the exit.

The smoke ate at the inside of my mouth. It felt like someone filled my throat with crushed glass, and it was cutting into me. My head swam. I stumbled after Rogan, trying to find the exit. Suddenly the smoke ended and I shambled into fresh air. My lungs felt like they were on fire. I bent over and coughed. It hurt like hell.

Mad Rogan lowered my grandmother to the ground. Mom dropped by her. We couldn’t lose her. Not yet.

“Grandma,” I croaked.

“We’ve got a pulse, but it’s weak.” My mother pulled my grandmother’s mouth open and began doing CPR.

Please don’t die. Please don’t die, Grandma.

My mother began chest compressions. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Grandma Frida was always there for us. She was always . . . What would we do . . .

A fire truck rolled into the street.

Grandma coughed. A word came out, creaky, like an old door. “Penelope.”

Oh God. Oh thank you. Relief washed over me like a cold shower. I exhaled.

“Mom?” Mother asked.

“Get off of me.”

My stomach constricted. I crouched, trying to get a hold of myself. Mad Rogan’s shoes came into view. Mad Rogan. The man who told me I would regret it if I walked away from him and who now conveniently showed up to be the hero. The fear and nausea boiled together into anger inside me. We almost lost Grandma Frida. Someone came into our house, someone chained our doors shut, and then someone tried to kill her. Someone did this, and I would make them pay. The fury drove me up. I stared into Rogan’s eyes. Something broke inside of me like a chain falling apart. My magic shot out, savage and raging like an invisible thundercloud, and locked onto Mad Rogan.

He strained, his teeth gritted. I felt him fighting me, but my anger was whipping my magic into a frenzy. I had questions. He would answer them, damn it.

I spoke and heard my own voice, inhuman and terrible. “Did you order someone to hurt my grandmother?”

His will fought mine, steel-hard and unyielding, but I was too angry. He refused to bend, so I chained him in place and squeezed.

He unlocked his jaws. The answer was a growl. “No.”

Truth.

I compelled him to answer. I had no idea how I was doing it, but I would do it some more. “Did you order someone to set this fire?”

“No.”

Truth.

“Did you set it yourself?”

“No.”

Truth.

My hold was slipping. He was too strong. It was like trying to twist a railway tie into a knot. “Do you know who did?”

“No.”

Truth.

I released him. He moved. His strong fingers fastened on my wrist, sending an electric shiver of alarm through me. His face was terrifying. His voice was suffused with quiet, barely contained aggression. “Don’t do that again.”

I should’ve been scared, but my grandmother had almost died and I was too furious and too tired to care. “Don’t like when the shoe is on the other foot? Let go of me.”

He opened his fingers.

There were only two people in my life right now who could have done something like this arson, and I had just eliminated one. Parents and sisters is something you do when you are five. They’re pulling you down and you’re letting them. No. Adam couldn’t be this stupid, could he? Did that bastard actually try to kill off my family?

Paramedics loaded my grandmother into an ambulance. It must’ve come while I’d been interrogating Mad Rogan. The first responders tried to keep the oxygen mask on my grandmother’s face. She wasn’t having it. My mother walked over to me.

“The last thing she remembers is getting the lug wrench. There is blood on the back of her head.”

“Someone hit her.” I would make them pay.

“Looks that way. I’m going to ride with her to the hospital.”

“I’m good,” I told her. “Go.”

She gave Mad Rogan an evil eye and climbed into the ambulance.

A fireman emerged from the workshop. The smoke had mostly dissipated. The fireman nodded at the inside of the warehouse. “Looks like someone left a lit cigarette near a can of gasoline. Ought to be more careful.”

“Thank you, we will.” I turned away from him to hide my expression. Unfortunately that put me face-to-face with Mad Rogan. An unspoken question hung in the air as the fireman walked away.

“My grandmother doesn’t smoke,” I said quietly. “All gasoline is stored in the metal cage. All munitions are stored in the other cage. Before I left for lunch, the warehouse had no chains on its doors.”

An SUV pulled up. Two men in dark pants and dark polo shirts exited. One was in his forties, dark-skinned, his short hair barely touched with grey. He was carrying a large, dark suitcase. The other man looked Latino and was about ten years younger. They moved like soldiers. I’d been around enough of them to recognize the walk, the unhurried but efficient stride of people who had a definite objective and had to get to it. They halted a few feet away.

“These are mine,” Mad Rogan said. “They’re arson specialists. If you give them permission, they will examine your warehouse.”

I nodded. I still didn’t trust him, but he had nothing to do with the arson.