MY FATHER GAVE MY SISTER THE DINER I SPENT NINE YEARS SAVING. THEN HE HANDED ME A BROKEN SPATULA IN FRONT OF SIXTY PEOPLE.

I thrust the parchment deed and Julian’s letter into my coat, zipped it tight against my chest, and lunged for the iron ladder.

I scrambled up the rungs three at a time, bursting through the trapdoor into the pantry.

The sight that met my eyes stopped the blood in my veins.

Myron lay sprawled across the pantry floor, his lip split and bleeding, his wooden cane snapped in two pieces beside him. Standing over him were two men in heavy security jackets, both carrying crowbars.

Beyond them, in the dim glow of the kitchen, stood Eleanor Vance-Keller.

She was no longer wearing her tailored wool coat. She wore a black tactical jacket, her ice-blue eyes sweeping over the kitchen with cold, calculating efficiency. Marcus Vance stood beside her, holding a five-gallon red plastic jerrycan of gasoline.

"You really shouldn't have dug under the floorboards, Benny," Eleanor said quietly. Her voice was serene, devoid of emotion, like an executioner reading a routine warrant. "We knew grandfather hid the original conveyance down there. We just didn't know which section of the foundation he used. Thank you for doing the heavy lifting."

"You killed my mother," I said, stepping out of the pantry, my eyes fixed on Eleanor. "And you tried to kill me thirty-two years ago."

Marcus chuckled, unscrewing the cap on the gasoline can. The sharp, nauseating stench of fuel filled the kitchen, mingling with the smell of woodsmoke and clean pine.

"Ancient history, kid," Marcus said. "Nobody cares about a thirty-year-old probate squabble. When this place burns to the water tonight, the records burn with it. The fire department will report a tragic woodstove accident. Old Myron fell asleep with the hearth damper open. You tried to save him. Both of you perished."

"Where is Grace?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, my feet balancing on the balls of my toes, feeling the familiar grip of the kitchen floorboards.

"Grace was paid off," Eleanor said dismissively. "Ten thousand dollars and a bus ticket to Minneapolis. She was more than happy to sign an affidavit stating that Myron was senile and that you were threatening to burn the diner yourself for insurance money. She’s a Vance, after all. She knows which side the bread is buttered on."

"She’s not a Vance," I said. "She’s a coward. Just like you."

Marcus’s eyes hardened. He swung the gasoline can, splashing five gallons of raw fuel across the prep counters, the butcher block, and the floor surrounding the hearth. The liquid hissed as it splashed against the warm firebrick of the chimney.

"Enough talk," Eleanor said, checking her gold wristwatch. "Do it, Marcus. We have a flight out of Cherry Capital Airport at midnight."

Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter. He flicked the wheel. A bright yellow flame danced in the dim kitchen.

"Goodbye, cousin," Marcus said, raising his arm to toss the lighter onto the fuel-soaked floor.

I didn't lunge for Marcus.

Instead, my right hand dropped to the prep table beside me, where the twelve-inch high-carbon chef’s knife lay where I had set it hours before. With a single, fluid motion born of nine years of muscle memory, I hurled the knife.

The blade spun through the air with a razor-sharp whistle.

It didn't hit Marcus. It struck the copper gas line running directly behind the Vulcan commercial range, severing the low-pressure pilot tube.

A roaring jet of blue ignition gas shot out from the wall, striking the open flame of Marcus’s Zippo instantly.

*BOOM.*

The backdraft slammed into Marcus like a solid wall of iron. The fireball engulfed his jacket, sending him screaming backward into the prep shelves, pots, pans, and cast-iron lids crashing down on top of him in an avalanche of clattering metal.

The gasoline on the floor ignited in a terrifying wave of orange fire, racing toward the pantry.

"Get him!" Eleanor screamed, stumbling back toward the dining room doors, her composure finally shattering into panic.

The two security guards lunged at me with their crowbars.

The first guard swung low, aiming for my knee. I stepped inside the swing, grabbed the iron handle of the forty-pound stockpot on the back burner, and swung it with all the leverage of my torso.

The boiling beef broth and five gallons of scalding liquid hit the guard full in the chest. He shrieked, dropping the crowbar and clutching his face as he collapsed into the grease trap.

The second guard hesitated, his eyes wide with horror as the fire spread across the wooden rafters above.

"Myron!" I roared, diving into the burning pantry.

I scooped the old man up into my arms. He was light as a child, his ribs pressing against my forearms. The smoke was already black and blinding, thick with the poisonous fumes of burning linoleum and gasoline.

"Benny... leave me..." Myron choked out, coughing violently against my neck. "Save the deed... save yourself..."

"Shut up, old man," I coughed, the heat scorching the skin of my face. "You saved me thirty years ago. I'm taking you home."

I turned toward the back exit, but the flames had already consumed the rear door, turning the wooden frame into an inferno.

There was only one way out.