Sam was nearly swept along. But he held on to Astrid, held on to her and looked at her face and saw the bruises. “Who?” he demanded. “Sam, it doesn’t matter; it’s over,” Astrid shouted to be heard above the roar of wind and fire. “Who?” he demanded again. “Drake. He wasn’t dead. He may still not be dead. But Sam, there are police now, and—” But Sam had broken free. He walked into the swirling smoke.
