Around midnight, they returned home without having spoken to Happy. Once, Foss had stood right next to him during a game of pool, but he hadn't known what to say. And when they finally made eye contact, the biker had looked right through him. Definitely not a social guy, Foss had noticed. He hadn't talked to nearly anyone.

Foss didn't even realize he'd let out a deep sigh until Nash asked him what was wrong.

"I think we've talked to the whole club except for him."

"Yeah, he seems like he's got a tough shell. Makes you wonder what's underneath. Probably a whole lot of fuzzy feelings. Maybe your mom was his one true love. I'd love to know what happened between them."

"Maybe nothing but a quick fling in the dark," Foss muttered, though he didn't really believe it himself.

"Bet it's super tragic."

Foss stayed quiet. Judging by Nash's tone, he was already figuring out how to spin it into his story.

"We've only got a few days. Should we send him an anonymous tip?"

"Did you see that guy? His stare could freeze a whole lake. He'd just shrug off the warning and go on with his life."

Nash was probably right. "So what then?"

"Hmm." Nash walked ahead, lost in thought for a moment. "We could burn down his house."

Foss tripped over a loose paving stone and barely caught himself on a streetlamp. "What?"

He waited a few seconds for Nash to burst out laughing. It didn't happen.

Nash turned to face him, his expression dead serious. "Isn't that what your mom does all the time? Sneak into houses and shoot assholes like him? She wouldn't do it in the middle of the street. Not in the clubhouse either. So, if we make sure she can't get into the house, he'll have to sleep somewhere else. That gives us a few extra days."

Foss's first instinct was a hard no. It was a stupid plan. A dangerous plan. If they got caught, that guy would probably pull their guts out and string them up with them. Whether Foss was his son or not.

But if they didn't get caught... Well, it might work. At the clubhouse, he'd noticed the men had their own rooms, likely for when the club was under attack, or they didn't feel like taking their conquests home, or when they were too drunk to get home safely.

"Ha!" Nash smacked him on the shoulder. "You think it's a good plan, don't you?"

It was definitely a plan he'd never come up with himself. "You realize if we get caught, we're dead, right?"

"A little thrill makes life worth living," Nash replied with a wink. "We won't get caught. We just toss a couple Molotov cocktails through the windows and bolt. That Happy guy has to have plenty of enemies."

Foss shot a quick look around to make sure no one had overheard. The street was empty. "I need at least one night to think this over."

Nash clapped him on the shoulder again, then pushed him away from the streetlamp. "This is going to work. I got this."

A phrase Foss had heard a few too many times in his life, and it was rarely true.

Still, the idea intrigued him—especially since he had no better options.

This was his father they were talking about. Losing a house was still better than losing his life. Especially if Foss was the one who had to live with the outcome of that choice.

. . .

When Vicky told them that Happy had only bought the house two months ago, Foss had to swallow hard. Was he really going to go through with this?

It felt like fate was giving him a push.

In the apartment complex where Happy had lived before, they never could've carried out this plan without endangering other lives. Now, there wasn't a single house attached to his. A small patch of yard surrounded the property. That didn't surprise Foss—Happy struck him as a man who valued his privacy.

Yesterday, they'd gone back to the clubhouse, chatting with various members and old ladies. Foss had been curious about which women were together with which men. Through that, he learned that Happy had no partner and no kids.

The house they now stood in front of was empty. Even in the dark, it was clear the place needed a lot of work.

They'd bought three sturdy wine bottles and filled them with gasoline. The overgrown weeds made it easy to crouch in the bushes, hidden, while they pulled the corks, stuffed rags into the bottles, and soaked the cloth in fuel. The sharp smell stung Foss's nose and made his stomach churn.

"Will you circle the house?" Nash asked. The day before, they'd done a quick inspection. There were three windows on the ground floor. They'd throw a bottle through each one, hoping at least one would hit something flammable.

Foss nodded. "Don't forget to check if the street's clear."

It was 10:30, not absurdly late, but Foss worried Happy might come home if they waited much longer.

With a bottle in hand, Foss walked around the house to the window overlooking the yard. His heart felt like it weighed a ton, pounding heavily against his ribs.

Get a grip. It's just a little fire. He'd helped his mom move bodies, for crying out loud.

Foss pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicked it on, and held the flame to the rag until it caught fire. He hesitated. Would the flame go out if he threw it now? He couldn't risk it blowing up in his face.

The flame grew brighter, spreading quickly. No more waiting. He grabbed the bottle, hefted it, and hurled it through the window. Glass shattered loudly, and a second later, there was a dull thud as the bottle landed. Instinctively, Foss ducked.

A bit much, maybe. It wasn't like there was an actual shockwave. He crept closer to the window, peering through the broken glass. The bottle had smashed on the kitchen table. Flames danced across the wood and leaped onto the fabric of the chairs.

More shattering glass and the fiery outlines of two more bottles appeared before exploding on the floor, small bursts of flame scattering.

Something whined—a high-pitched yelp.

Shit. Foss's eyes widened. Was that sound coming from inside? Or was there a dog outside sensing trouble? He ran around the corner of the house, nearly colliding with Nash.

"That dog. Did you hear it?"

Nash nodded, his face pale. Behind him, Foss could see the curtain had caught fire. Crap. Their plan was working, at least.

"The other curtain hasn't caught fire yet," Nash muttered. 

They sprinted back to the rear of the house. Somewhere in the chaos, Foss realized they should be running. If they got caught, they were screwed.

But he couldn't live with himself if a dog died because of their dumb plan. Nash fiddled with the back door while Foss grabbed a rock, smashing it against the window until more glass broke free.

"Come little doggie!" Foss called, making coaxing sounds.

The dog didn't come. But the frantic whining grew louder, tugging at Foss's chest as he realized it was probably a puppy.

"I'm going in," he said, stepping through the gap. He avoided the jagged edges as best he could, though a sharp point sliced his arm. Ignoring the blood running down, he pulled out his phone to use as a flashlight.

All four chairs were burning now. One wall was ablaze, and the living room was choked with thick smoke. Foss yanked his shirt over his nose and mouth, cursing, and clicked his tongue.

"Come on, puppy!"

The puppy didn't budge. He followed the pitiful whines, heading toward the sitting area. Didn't animals have survival instincts? His eyes stung, and he fought the urge to take a deep breath, sticking to shallow breaths as he rushed to the couch.

A chair stood nearby. He shoved it aside and glimpsed something furry.

Heat pressed in on him as he grabbed the small dog and sprinted back to the window. Flames had already reached the sill. He managed to pass the puppy to Nash, but he couldn't climb out that way. The smoke clawed at his lungs, sending him coughing into the kitchen.

There—a door. He twisted the knob and stumbled onto the patio, gasping for air. His fingers trembled with adrenaline. I'm outside. No fiery grave for me. The oxygen burned his throat.

"Come on, we have to go." Nash nudged him.

"How are you, Foss? Are you okay?" Foss' voice was hoarse.

"You're still standing." Nash clutched the puppy, who lay limp, stiff with fear.

Or was it dead?

Nash leaned in closer, and Foss felt a wave of relief as the tiny chest rose and fell. What were they going to do with it? Leave it here and hope someone took care of it? 

Sirens cut off his thoughts.

Shit. Foss turned to run around the house, but a fit of coughing and dizziness stopped him. He leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Come on." Nash shoved him forward.

Would this pass? Or would he need a hospital? He didn't want to explain how smoke got in his lungs. He decided to push through, staggering toward the front yard.

The first fire truck screeched to a halt. Neighbors were already gathering on the sidewalk.

Foss's stomach churned. Slipping away wasn't an option anymore. He exchanged a glance with Nash before looking down at the puppy.

"We were walking by, saw the flames, and heard a dog whining," Foss whispered.

If they couldn't run, he'd rather be seen as a hero than a villain.

They watched in silence as firefighters tackled the blaze. Nobody seemed to pay them much attention—until the roar of engines filled the air.

Happy and a swarm of his brothers arrived, stepping onto the scene. Foss's stomach clenched as Happy stopped mid-step and fixed them with an unreadable stare.

"We saved his dog," Nash whispered. "He owes us. Big time."

Foss, however, felt as though the man was staring straight into his soul, fully aware of what they'd just done.