Playing with Fire by Tamara Morgan Page B

the phone. Normally, the sound of Neil’s hysterical voice on the phone indicated some sort of prank was on its way—a headless chicken in his truck’s cab or peanut butter in his running shoes. But Neil didn’t joke about work. Not like this.
    “Calm down,” Ian said, keeping his voice low. He rose and moved closer to the room’s sole window. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”
    When Neil didn’t answer right away, Ian felt a brief surge of relief. Maybe it was a joke. But when sirens started going off in the background, all hope fled.
    “Neil? Talk to me.”
    “It’s the lab.” His voice was barely distinguishable, but Ian could just make out what his friend was saying. “Get here as fast as you can. It’s gone. Ian—can you hear me? She burned it to the ground.”
    “Wait—what?”
    Agent Harding looked up from her desk, an inquisitive quirk to her brow, but Ian held out one hand to stop her.
    “The firefighters are saying it was intentional.” Neil lowered his voice, which sounded suspiciously thick. “They’re saying it was caused by a single heat source, unnaturally hot and fired fast. In and out and gone. They want to know if we can determine who or what might have caused that.”
    Ian’s stomach clenched. No. She wouldn’t have.
    “Can we, Ian? Can we determine who might have done that?”
    “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Even though the room spun like it might tip on its side at any moment, Ian tucked his phone away and turned toward Agent Harding. He needed to get home. He needed to find Fiona.
    “Change of plans,” he said.
    “I’m afraid that’s not how this works, Mr. Jones. Your lab is about to become official government property.”
    He laughed bitterly. “You guys can have it, Agent Harding. In fact, I’ll take you there myself.”
    …
    The place where Ian’s lab once stood—where his childhood home once stood—was nothing but a charred mess. A pair of firemen—ones he didn’t recognize from his consulting work with the unit—doused a few lingering flames. Agent Harding and her various men in black also stood nearby, conferring quietly among themselves. For the first time, Ian didn’t care what they were saying or what they intended to do to his work. It didn’t matter.
    It was strange, seeing his whole life crumbling before him, smelling the acrid, heavy scent of this kind of destruction. Fire. It was so final, so dangerous.
    “She’s not here.” Ian’s voice was dull and empty even to his own ears.
    Neil stood next to him, taking the same calm survey. He’d been surprisingly silent since Ian and the fleet of sleek, unmarked sedans had pulled into the street.
    “With any luck, that bitch went down with the house,” Neil muttered.
    “Is that really where you want to go right now?” Ian asked. He didn’t move, but the unspoken threat hung between them, filling the space that once contained nothing but easy camaraderie.
    “Relax, Ian.” Neil shook his head. “They did a sweep when they first got here. There was no one inside. More’s the motherfucking pity, if you ask me.”
    “What the hell is your problem, Neil?” Ian squared off to face his friend, his hands fisted. “What is so wrong with you that you would wish death on another human being?”
    “You mean, aside from the fact that she’s the one who destroyed every last bit of our work?” Neil dropped his swagger. Surprisingly, it made him look taller, so much more like the twenty-seven-year-old man he was than the thirteen-year-old he acted. “That girl has always had some weird kind of mind fuck over you, Ian. Look around. Your house is burned down. You left a woman capable of shooting fire out of her hands—a woman we had the potential to lock away forever—alone in our lab for hours. I think the better question is, what the hell is your problem?”
    Ian screwed up his face, his sense of honor battling with the cold, hard facts. There was no way to deny it: Fiona had every