Chapter 1.
Chess ran, his breath ragged, his legs aching. He hadn't stopped since the flames began to spread, curling hungrily up the walls of his grandmother's shop. The smell of burning sawdust clung to his clothes, his skin, even his hair. He could still hear the crackle of the fire in his ears, even as he stumbled across fields under the cover of night.
The world was quiet now.
Too quiet.
The darkness swallowed him as he ran—fields blending into forests, dirt paths turning into nothing but a blur beneath his feet. The fire wasn't his fault. Not really. But that didn't matter. No one would see it that way, not after the car. Not after everything else he'd done.
His father would rage, his mother would cry, and everyone in town—Amish or not—would whisper about him. Chess Braithwaite, the troublemaker. The one who crashed a stolen car into his grandmother's shop. The one who set the place on fire.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand. His legs burned, and his lungs felt like they'd been scraped raw.
He didn't even know where he was going at first, not until Jared's name popped into his mind.
Jared was different. He wouldn't turn him in. He wouldn't hate him like everyone else.
The thought pulled Chess forward, his direction finally clear. He didn't know Jared all that well, but what little he did know told him that Jared would keep quiet. Jared didn't judge people—he wasn't like the others.
By the time Chess saw the faint outline of Jared's house through the trees, he was beyond exhaustion. Sweat had dried to a chill against his skin, and his shoes were caked in mud.
The small barn next to the house loomed like a shadow, the doors left slightly ajar. Chess let out a breath of relief. He'd made it. Slipping inside the barn, he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
It smelled like hay and animals, better than smoke, though the fire still clung to him like a curse. He swallowed hard, taking in his surroundings.
The barn was quiet except for the soft snuffling of horses. Chess climbed the wooden ladder to the loft, hauling himself up with weak arms.
The loft was empty, just old hay bales and a thick layer of dust that made his nose itch. He sank into the hay, his chest still heaving. The darkness here felt safer somehow, even if his thoughts wouldn't let him rest.
The fire had started so fast. One second, everything was fine, and the next, flames were licking up the walls. It must've been the candle.
He'd been so careful at first, lighting it when he sat there with his cat, needing the warmth as the evening air turned cold. He rubbed his face hard, guilt clawing at him.
Stupid.
What would his father say? What would Iris think? And his grandmother—Don't think about that.
Don't think about the shop.
It would've been burnt to the ground by now. Chess couldn't go home now. He'd already caused too much trouble.
First crashing the car, now this. The police would think he'd done it on purpose. Arson, that's what they'd call it. And once that word was out there, it wouldn't matter if it was true or not.
He curled up tighter in the hay, wrapping his arms around his knees. The loft was freezing, the night air creeping in through cracks in the wood, but he didn't care.
He couldn't sleep anyway. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames again.
They're going to hate me.
