Fireproof

released the ankles he gave one last shove, flipping the person over.
    That’s when Cornell saw why there had been no resistance.
    He felt the acid rise from his stomach. He stumbled backward, tripping over his feet, scrambling then kicking, gasping and retching at what he saw.
    The face was gone, a bloody pulp of flesh and bones. Raw jagged holes replaced an eye and the mouth. Matted hair stuck to the mess.
    Cornell pushed to his knees just as the soup and grilled cheese came up his throat in a stinging froth mixed with whiskey. He tried to stand but his legs wobbled and sent him back down to the pavement right in the middle of his vomit. His eyes burned and blurred but he couldn’t pull them away from the mangled mess just a few feet away from him.
    In his panic he hardly noticed the smoke filling the alley. He tried to wipe himself off and saw that it wasn’t just his vomit he’d fallen into. A slick stain trailed into the alley, as if someone had accidentally leaked a line of liquid all the way to the Dumpster.
    That’s when he realized the slick stain that now covered his knees and hands was gasoline. He looked up and saw a man at the entrance to the alley, pouring from a gallon can. Cornell slipped and jerked to his feet just as the guy noticed him. But instead of being startled or angry or panicked, the man did the last thing Cornell expected. He smiled and then he lit a match.

CHAPTER 2

    NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA
    Maggie O’Dell tried to push through the black gauze, her head heavy, her mind still swimming. There had been flashes of light—laser-sharp white and butane blue—before the pitch black. A steady throb drummed against her left temple. Soft, wounded groans came out of the dark, making her flinch, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were too heavy, weighed down. Her legs numb. Panic fluttered through her.
    Why couldn’t she feel her legs?
    Then she remembered the electric jolt—the memory of searing pain traveling through her body.
    More panic. Her heart began to race. Her breathing came in gasps.
    A gunshot blast and her scalp felt on fire.
    That’s when she smelled it. Not cordite, but smoke. Something actually was on fire. Singed hair. Burned flesh. Smoke and ashes. The sound of plastic crinkled under fabric. And suddenly at the front of the darkened room Maggie could see her father lying in asatin-trimmed coffin, so quiet and peaceful while flames licked up the wall behind him.
    She had had this dream many times before but still she was surprised to find him there, so close that all she had to do was look over the edge of the lace to see his face.
    “They parted your hair wrong, Daddy,” and Maggie lifted her hand, noticing how small it was but glad to finally be able to move it. She reached over and pushed her father’s hair back in place. She wasn’t afraid of the flames. She concentrated only on her fingers as they stretched across his face. She was almost touching him when his eyes blinked open.
    That’s when Maggie jerked awake.
    Flashes of light, tinged blue, came from the muted big-screen television. Maggie’s eyelids twitched, still heavy despite her desperate attempt to open them. She pushed herself up and immediately recognized the feel of the leather sofa. Still, her head and heart pounded as her body pivoted, looking for shadows, expecting the embodiment of the wounded moans in the corners of her own living room.
    But there was no one.
    No one except Deborah Kerr, who filled the TV screen. Deborah’s face was as worried and panicked as Maggie felt. She was running on a beach in the middle of a storm. Somewhere Robert Mitchum was hurt, injured.
    Maggie had seen this movie many times and yet she felt Deborah’s panic each time. Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison . It was one of Maggie’s favorites. She had just defended it to her friend Benjamin Platt during one of their classic-movie marathons. Which had prompted her to pull it out. But tonight she was alone. At the moment, it was just her and Deborah.
    She sat up. Leaned back against the soft leather and rubbed her left temple. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. Her heartbeat started to settle down but the familiar throb continued. Under her fingertips she could feel the puckered skin on her scalp. The scar no longer hurt even when she pressed down on it like she did now. But the throbbing continued. All too predictably it would lead to a massive headache, a pain that started as a sharp pinpoint in her left temple but