Free Set Me Free by London Setterby

a bad idea. Owen wouldn’t want to see me right after getting into a fight with his girlfriend—especially a girlfriend who’d come to this party to pick up someone else.
    I jerked to a stop, chewing on my lip, but they had already seen me. I took a few nervous steps towards them.
    “How’s it going, Miranda?” Rusty slid off the rock he’d been perching on and tipped his fedora in my direction. “Good luck with everything, man,” he added to Owen, and shambled away, puffing on his cigarette.
    Taken aback, I watched Rusty go until I couldn’t avoid looking at Owen any longer.
    He stepped closer to me. When I snuck a glance up at him, the moonlight was playing on his lips.
    “I just saw Jenny,” I said.
    “So she did come.”
    “You didn’t come here together?”
    “No. We didn’t.”
    I was painfully aware of his height and size, and also his scent—his nutmeg soap and something else. The scent of his workshop, perhaps, like wood dust and varnish.
    “We broke up,” he said.
    “Oh. I’m sorry.” My pulse quickened.
    “Don’t be.”
    “When—?”
    “On Monday. After you left. That was why I had to go meet with her.”
    “Oh.” I felt flushed and light-headed. He broke up with her after I left. He broke up with her because of me?
    Owen stepped closer, reaching for me. The square of moonlight vanished behind him. His cheekbones and strong jaw were sharp angles, casting shadows deeper than the night. He looked different from the man who had tenderly bandaged up my leg and showed me his workshop—a harder man, a colder man.
    “You flinched,” he said, drawing back. “Why?”
    I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. I didn’t know how to describe the tension that spiraled inside me all the time. Anything that made me think of Rhys—Scott grabbing my arm, a hand raised in the darkness—terrified me, until my bones shook and my lungs felt crushed.
    I wanted to explain. I thought he’d listen, if only I gave him a chance. But I hadn’t told anyone about Rhys. Not my dad, my friends, Claire…not even Kaye, who now knew my other, most jealously guarded secret. I couldn’t. To say it out loud would mean owning up to the mess I’d made of my life. And how scared I was, still, by what I’d done.
    Owen was turning away—I had to tell him, so he would understand. I said his name, but then I realized what he had turned towards: a flare of cadmium orange atop a pulse of bright yellow light, stark and shocking against the night sky.
    When the wind shifted, I could smell it, acrid and electric and unmistakable. There was only one explanation; only one building stood just off East Beach.
    The Artist’s Lodge was on fire.

Chapter 9
    I called 911 as we raced up the beach. The dispatcher promised to send help, though he sounded almost as shocked as I felt. Stuffing my phone back into my bag, I jogged up the stairs to the Lodge and almost bumped into Owen when he stopped short. My face tilted upwards involuntarily to mirror the column of yellow and gold stretching above us. The fire was tearing the left side of the house apart, hurling burning debris down onto the front porch, roaring like a wild creature.
    “What if Matthew’s in there?” I cried out over the cracking shingles.
    Owen glanced at me, his mouth tightening. He took off towards the house, jogging past the smoldering front porch and crossing through the scrub towards a side door.
    I ran after him. “Don’t—it’s dangerous!”
    With each step, the air grew hotter and denser with ash; the flames could have licked my skin. Owen reached the side door and pressed his palms to the wood.
    “Wait!” I shouted, but he ignored me and shouldered the door open. Black clouds billowed out after him. He disappeared inside while I watched in horror. Didn’t he realize how dangerous this was? Didn’t he care? And where the hell was 911?
    I did the only thing I could think of and called Kaye. “Where’s Muscles? He’s a firefighter, isn’t