My blood turned cold.
“What did you just say?”
“I’m at the house,” he continued, laughing again. “You wanted to keep it from me? Now nobody gets it.”
I grabbed my keys and ran.
During the entire drive home, images filled my mind—yellow paint melting under flames, the call I would have to make to my father, Derek standing smugly in the driveway.
When I turned onto our street, I saw the smoke first.
Thick gray clouds rising above the houses.
Then flashing emergency lights.
A fire truck blocked part of the road. Neighbors stood outside filming with their phones while heat shimmered above the pavement.
In my driveway, a yellow sports car was engulfed in flames.
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