No One Is Guilty Here

The Greyhound hissed to a stop at the Hollow Creek bus depot, a cracked concrete slab tucked beside a shuttered diner and a forgotten gas station. It was almost midnight. The lights flickered above the bay, humming like old ghosts.

Nathan Rourke stepped off the bus with nothing but a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and the weight of a funeral pulling at his spine.

The air smelled like wet soil and faded memories. The kind of air that stuck to your lungs and whispered, You shouldn’t have come back.

A voice broke through the silence.

“Rourke?”

Nathan turned. A tall, older man in a faded sheriff’s jacket stood by an old Crown Vic, chewing a toothpick like it owed him money.

“Grady.” Nathan didn’t offer a handshake. “You still wear the badge.”

“And you still look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Nathan shrugged. “I usually am.”

Grady eyed him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“He was my brother.”

Grady spit the toothpick into the dirt. “We’re real sorry about Mark. It was sudden.”

“No. It was something else,” Nathan said. “He called me the night before. Said he had something I needed to see.”

“You two talked?” Grady asked, face tightening.

“Not often. But yeah, he left a message. Sounded spooked. Said they were watching him.”

Grady looked off toward the woods like he expected them to speak. “Mark was... under a lot of stress.”

“He ever tell you what kind of stress makes a man hang himself in a barn?”

Grady’s jaw tensed. “Some wounds don’t bleed where we can see.”

Nathan’s fists tightened around his bag. “I don’t buy it. Not for a second.”

A beat of silence.

Grady exhaled. “You’ll be stayin’ at the old family place?”

“Yeah. Marlene’s still there.”

“She’s strong. Like her father.”

Nathan nodded. “She’ll need to be.”

Suddenly, a sound sliced through the quiet night. A low, distant boom—then a scream. Shrill. Panicked. Female.

“What the hell was that?” Nathan asked.

Grady was already looking west. His radio crackled to life.

“Fire—south end—near the Carter property—structure’s fully involved—repeat, we’ve got flames—”

Grady muttered, “Shit,” and bolted toward the cruiser. “Get in. You want Hollow Creek? Here she is.”

Nathan threw his bag in the back and climbed into the front seat.

As they peeled out, Nathan’s heart thumped against his ribs.

“Carter property?” he asked. “That’s near the river.”

“Yeah,” Grady said. “Old shack. Foster home. Buncha kids.”

Nathan stared ahead. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Grady didn’t answer.

They reached the scene in minutes.

Flames roared through the trees like angry gods. A small house, completely engulfed. Fire trucks were on the way, but nothing was stopping this blaze. Heat rolled across the road, warping the air.

People gathered nearby, watching helplessly.

“Anybody inside?” Grady yelled as he jumped out of the car.

A woman screamed. “Jace! Jace was in there!”

Nathan’s eyes followed her pointing finger. A figure stumbled from the woods—clothes torn, face smeared with soot, eyes wide and glassy.

A teenage boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Thin. Dirty. Scared.

He fell to his knees.

Grady rushed him. “Where were you, son? Were you inside?”

The boy shook his head violently. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t—”

“Didn’t do what?” Grady asked.

The boy looked right at Nathan.

“They made me watch.”

Nathan stepped closer. “Who did?”

But the boy was already being pulled to his feet by two deputies.

“His name’s Jace Carter,” Grady muttered. “Kid’s been trouble since he could walk.”

“Did you see what he said?” Nathan asked. “He didn’t start the fire. He watched.”

“Could mean anything,” Grady said. “Could be shock.”

Nathan turned back toward the house.

The fire screamed as the roof caved in.

Behind him, Jace started sobbing.

“They said it had to burn,” he whispered, voice cracking. “They said it was time.”

Nathan’s spine turned cold.

They said.