My stomach plummets.
“Please,” I beg the officer. “Her bedroom is at the back of the house. I—” Fear clogs my throat. “Sh-She was going to bed around nine-thirty tonight.” I know that because it’s the exact time I was heading out to meet Mya.
Ms. Baldwin, my landlady and one of the kindest people I’ve met since moving to Los Angeles, is in her early eighties. But she’s spry for her age and still keeps active. I remind myself of the times I went with her for a walk at a local park and all of the quilting meetings she goes to.
Ms. Baldwin could’ve made it out of the house. If she smelled the smoke. Or the smoke detector woke her up.
“Is she okay?” I ask the officer.
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I peer over his shoulder at the vehicles and people behind him. A group of firefighters direct a powerful stream of water from their hose to the house. Police officers yell at neighbors who’ve come outside of their homes to get back.
In the midst of the chaos, I spot an ambulance. The doors are open, but the inside is empty, from what I can make out.
If there’s an ambulance that’s a good sign, right? That means there’s someone to save.
The thought relieves me a little. I search around for the paramedics. Maybe they’re working on Ms. Baldwin right now.
“Where is she? Do the paramedics have her?” Though I don’t mean to, I push at the officer, my physical need to find her breaking past my mental inhibition to not put my hands on a police officer.
“You can’t?—”
“It’s okay, Tommy,” a second officer intervenes. “Ma’am, come with me,” he instructs. A hole opens up, and the first officer allows me to pass through.
“Ms. Baldwin?” I ask, running to catch up with the second officer who’s now walking farther away from the crowd. “She owns this house, and she was in there tonight before I went out.” A pang of guilt assaults my stomach.
Maybe if I’d been here, I could’ve stopped this somehow.
“You said you live here?” The officer’s voice is business-like, but it does hold a hint of something akin to sorrow.
“Yes.”
“Can I see some I.D.?”
I rummage through my clutch and pull out my wallet. “Here’s my temporary license. I just moved to California two months ago. I’m waiting for my permanent license in the mail.”
He shines his flashlight on the temporary license and frowns before nodding.
“Has she been taken to the hospital already?” I take my I.D. back. “If you let me know which one I can call an Uber.”
Ms. Baldwin doesn’t have any living family members, and the thought of her being alone in the hospital sits like a weight on my chest.
“We haven’t moved the body yet.”
It takes nearly a half of a minute to process his words.
“Th-The body?” my voice wobbles.
The officer’s eyes widen as if he wishes he could take back his comment.
“Shit.” He clears his throat. “I meant … it’s too early to confirm anything without a proper identification.” He pauses. “But there was someone found inside, and I regret to inform you that they are deceased.”
A sound of pure agony wrenches free of my lips before I clamp my hands over my mouth. My mind spins, and a wave of dizziness overcomes me. It was only a few hours ago that I saw Ms. Baldwin.
She insisted that we have dinner together once I told her about the new job. She prepared a delicious baked ziti, and as we ate, she told me about her days as an actress turned seamstress once she got married.
After dinner, I hung out in the separate she-shed that she’d built years ago on her property. Ms. Baldwin rented it out for considerably lower rent than I would’ve paid for a traditional apartment in L.A.
Once I was ready to head out for the night, I went over again to show off the sequined, dark blue, strapless dress she said looked beautiful against my brown skin tone.
