Chapter 2

Tribeca, New York City.

The penthouse.

The heated floors were a comfort.

My parents were already sound asleep in their room.

Down the hall, in the home theater, my four kids were curled up on the sofa, watching cartoons and eating popcorn.

We were completely safe here.

I sat alone in the pitch-black security room.

An 80-inch HD screen covered one wall.

Twelve hidden night-vision cameras.

A 360-degree, flawless view of the Aspen chalet, hundreds of miles away.

2:14 AM.

A red light flashed on the screen.

A figure stumbled into view through the blizzard.

It was Caleb.

He was wearing a cheap, ragged winter coat. His face and hair were caked with snow.

In his right hand, a gun. In his left, he dragged two huge red plastic cans.

Gasoline.

He wanted to make sure we were all good and dead.

He didn't even stop on the first floor.

He went to the front door. Pulled out a heavy chain.

He wrapped it around the handles, again and again.

Then, click. He snapped a padlock shut.

Seeing that chain pulled tight, my blood ran cold.

The memory hit me like a physical blow.

That feeling from my past life.

My lungs burning, choking on thick smoke.

Last time, that chain had sealed my fate.

It had cut off any chance of escape.

I remembered pounding on the door until my hands were raw.

The roar of the fire outside.

My parents’ faint screams next door. My children crying, "Mommy, it's so hot..."

I had woken up too late.

The smoke was too thick.

I didn't even have the strength to crawl to my children.

I could only lie there. Waiting to die.

But not this time.

Now I was sitting in a fortress, miles and miles away.

Swirling a glass of red wine.

I could faintly hear Spongebob's goofy voice from the other room.

My eyes were glued to the screen. To that man who was both a stranger and my husband. And all I felt was a raw, bloodthirsty excitement.

Burn.

You're not burning us tonight. You're burning your own life to the ground.

He grabbed the gasoline cans and crept upstairs.

The master bedroom and our three children's rooms were on the second floor.

I watched on the monitor as he smirked. He twisted the cap off a can. He started dumping gasoline everywhere, soaking the wool carpet in the hall.

He paused at our little Lily’s door. He poured extra there. Making sure it soaked the crack underneath.

Once he lit it, a wall of fire would erupt. It would seal every door. No one could get in. No one could get out. Trapped. Left to suffocate. To burn alive.

"Ten years..." he muttered, sloshing more gasoline. "It took me ten years to make VP. And they kicked me out like a dog. All for a few fucking pictures."

"And Chloe... that bitch! The second she saw my cards were frozen, she grabbed my last stash of cash and told me to get lost!"

I watched the pathetic clown on my screen. And hit Record.

He didn't have the guts to go after his company. He didn't have the guts to hunt down his mistress. No. He could only sneak here in the middle of the night. To take out his rage on his wife and children. Pathetic.

He dropped the empty can. He stood right in front of the master bedroom door.

"I have nothing left, Ava," he snarled at the door. His eyes were bloodshot. On the infrared camera, his face was a twisted, ghoulish mask. "Why do I freeze out here while you pop champagne?!"

He shoved the gun in his pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo.

"A family," he whispered, "should stick together."

Flick. A blue flame sparked to life.

But he didn't throw it. Not yet.

He took a step back.

Reared his foot back.

And kicked the bedroom door open with a loud BANG.

He wanted to see my face. My terror.

He wanted to hear me scream.

"Surprise!!!" he screamed, holding the lighter high, his voice echoing toward the empty bed.