“I saw her yesterday,” Oliver complained, tossing the book down on the chair.

“And you’ll get to see her again today.” Logan slid on his coat and grabbed his keys, waiting for Oliver, who wasn’t moving.

“Can I stay with Cassie?” he asked.

“I don’t mind,” I told Logan. “We’ll go over to my place and make some lunch for when you get back.”

“I want to work in the attic!” Oliver flew off the couch and snatched his coat from my hands.

I laughed at his enthusiasm. Logan had hired a crew of men to turn my dank old space into a full-blown office, with a corner library and ping-pong table in the center. He made me proud when the big reveal came earlier than expected, portraying ten times what I’d pictured.

“All right, stay with Cassandra.” Logan walked over and gave his son a hug, then moved back to the door. My arms snaked around his neck, and I kissed him so deeply I knew he’d want to hurry home.

“I’ll come back and get him if Julia really needs him there. I hate to drag him out if it’s for some silly reason.”

“I doubt it’s silly if she said it was an emergency.”

His head dipped as a chuckle escaped from his mouth. He looked back up, meeting my scowl, and his thumb stroked over the crease on my forehead. “Julia doesn’t know the meaning of a true emergency. I’ll be back soon. You want me to walk you guys over to your place?”

“No, get going, we’ll be fine.” I handed him his cell phone.

He nodded, and with one more kiss was out the door.

“Go get Scout, and we’ll head over,” I told Oliver as I went back upstairs to get dressed.

With Scout in tow, Oliver raced inside my house the moment I opened the door, making a beeline straight for the back stairs Logan had installed.

It was still surreal. I had an upstairs—a gorgeous one. The furniture in the room comprised items I’d marked in the catalogs we’d looked at while decorating Julia’s home.

I was shocked Logan had even noticed. I’d marked dozens of items through the various magazines, and placed dreamy little smileys beside the ones I liked for myself. I swore sometimes he could read my mind.

Oliver grabbed a paddle and a ball, situating himself in front of the ping-pong table while I set up the board in the center that allowed him to play solo.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” I told him, climbing back downstairs.

Oliver was already too enthralled in the game to respond, which was fine with me. I headed to the kitchen, and was debating between chicken and dumplings or beef stew when I smelled something.

I whirled around from the sink, where I stood washing my hands, and froze at the smell of gasoline that seemed to be growing stronger by the second.

With deliberate, cautious steps, I ambled to the pantry, where the scent was most pungent. As I reached for the handle, I felt in my gut that something was terribly wrong.

I flung the door open, meeting a wild roar of angry flames shooting around the inside. Smoked rolled in across the ceiling, fire crawling up the walls.

Oliver!

My adrenaline kicked in at the sight, my feet carrying me so fast up the stairs I barely touched the ground. Oliver’s stricken face met mine, and I caught the way his nostrils flared.

“It smells funny,” he said, his eyes growing wide as they caught the smoke billowing up behind me. He dropped the paddle.

“We need to go.” I grabbed him in a rush, lifting him up and pressing his head against my shoulder to shield his face.

Starting back down, I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth. Forcing myself to ignore the heat spreading around us, I took precise steps through the darkening clouds of smoke.

I’d never been more terrified in my life. Oliver gripped me more tightly, his sobs cutting through the crackle of the flames, pushing me to move faster.

Once I was out of the hall, I jerked back at the sight of the flames that devastated my grandmother’s kitchen, now beginning their destruction to the edges of the living room.

Oliver began to cough and his body rustled in my arms, driving me faster through the chaos. I was determined to get him out safely.

Time stopped with every dreaded step until my hand finally hit the door. I yanked it open and raced outside, nearly stumbling from my speed. Once across the lawn, I placed Oliver down and bent over, gripping my knees, replenishing my dry lungs with clean air. I coughed, clearing out the smoke that had managed to sneak in, and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

Oliver sank down onto the grass, staring at the house. Smoke was billowing out the side where my kitchen had been.

And that was when I saw it: a slight movement in the trees not far away, and then a flash of dark hair getting caught on a tree. I knew exactly what I was chasing when I took off, calling back to Oliver to stay there and not stopping until my body was pouncing on a wide-eyed Natasha, who reeked of gasoline and liquor.

“You bitch!” I slammed her down, my hands clutching her shoulders as I straddled her frame, pressing her deeper into the snow.

“Get off!” she screeched, throwing her arms up, ready to attack.

My adrenaline was at full throttle, which made grabbing her arms and pinning her in place easy.

“How could you do this?” I screamed back, squeezing her wrists. “You could have killed—”

“This is your fault!” Natasha spat, rolling wildly from side to side, trying to buck me off. “You took everything from me! Always in the way! Always so sweet! So fucking perfect!” Her laughter was bitter and cruel. “Well, look at your home sweet home now. How’s it feel to have shit stolen from you?”

Shaking with rage, I pushed off from her arms and leapt back to my feet, staring down at a pitiful excuse for a woman—for a mother.

She was a mess. Her clothes were dirty and disheveled and her hair knotted. Dark bags hung under her eyes. She looked like death, and it only made me pity her.

“I never stole from you. You left Logan and Oliver,” I said, seething.

Inhaling rapidly as my heart pounded against my ribcage, I shook my head slowly and stared past her into the forest. She was clinically mad—in need of a straightjacket and daily tranquilizers. I peered back at her after catching my breath, my nerves traumatized.

“You wanted to put Logan in prison, Natasha. Do you understand that alone proves you don’t love him?”

“No.” She sat up on her elbows. “I just wanted him to need me—to show him I could be there for him and take care of Oliver.” Her words blew out frantically, jumbled together in one massive breath. She pulled herself to stand, narrowed eyes sparking with rage and cast on me.

“I would have set Josh up…made sure he took the fall for it. I wanted him to just slip Kurt a few pills to make him sick, because I knew everyone would accuse Logan. I never told him to kill the guy. He must have given him too much.” Her head shook violently. “Josh did this—not me! I just wanted Logan to see he could count on me when he needed someone. But he wouldn’t let me in—wouldn’t let anyone in but you! So yes, I’d rather take my son and leave Logan rotting in prison than let you have him!”

My mouth hung open. I was stunned at how little regard she had for the people I loved, as well as what was best for her son.