Chapter 7 - Fire and Ashes
Z
Before Miller could pull the trigger, Claire lunged.
She didn't tackle Miller to save me; she went straight for his gun arm, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the wooden support beam. The gun discharged with a deafening BANG, the bullet tearing through the roof tiles above our heads. Dust and drywall exploded into the air.
"You idiot!" Claire screamed, clawing at Miller’s face. "If you shoot him here, the police will trace it straight to you!"
I didn't wait to see who would win the struggle.
I dived forward, tackling both of them into the pile of storage boxes. Papers, photo albums, and baby clothes flew everywhere. Miller grunted as his head hit the floor, the gun slipping from his grasp and sliding across the dusty floorboards toward the open attic hatch.
I scrambled on my knees toward the weapon, but Claire grabbed my ankle, her nails digging into my skin through my jeans.
"You're not leaving with that tape, David!" she shrieked.
I kicked backward hard, my boot connecting with her shoulder. She let go with a cry of pain. I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold steel of the handgun just as Miller slammed his weight onto my back, pinning me to the floor.
His large hands clamped around my throat, shutting off my airway.
"I'm sorry, David," Miller gasped, his face inches from mine, his eyes wild with terror and rage. "I really liked you. But twenty million dollars changes things!"
I thrashed against him, spots of black exploding across my vision as oxygen was denied to my brain. I reached wildly behind me, my fingers searching for anything—a tool, a board, a box.
My hand closed around the silver lighter Claire had thrown onto the cardboard box.
With the last reserve of strength in my body, I flicked the lighter open and pressed the flame directly into the sleeve of Miller’s jacket.
The fabric ignited instantly.
Miller screamed, letting go of my neck as flames licked up his arm. He rolled away frantically, beating at his sleeve. I collapsed onto my elbows, coughing violently, gasping for air as fresh oxygen surged back into my lungs.
"Fire!" Claire screamed.
The dry cardboard and decades-old paper in the attic caught instantly. A wall of bright orange flame roared up toward the rafters, casting long, horrifying shadows against the walls.
Miller scrambled backward toward the stairs, his arm charred, screaming in pain. "The hell with this!" he yelled, tumbling down the attic ladder and disappearing into the hallway below.
Claire looked at the growing inferno, then at me, and finally at the blue folder lying on the floor surrounded by flames.
"My money!" she shrieked, reaching blindly into the fire to grab the documents.
"Claire, leave it! The whole roof is going up!" I shouted, grabbing the digital voice recorder from the floor and backing toward the escape ladder.
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She didn't listen. She snatched the burning folder, her clothes catching fire as she did. She screamed—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony and madness—as the flame engulfed her arm.
I reached out to grab her coat, trying to pull her away from the blaze, but the ceiling beam above us cracked with a sound like thunder and collapsed, showering the attic in a waterfall of burning timber.
