She eyed my outfit—strapless, fire-engine red maxi dress, split to the thigh, finished with red low-top Converse—and frowned as she stepped out of the Jeep.
“Fitting,” she said, sipping again. We both wore clothes that were not remotely appropriate for what was ahead. But this wasn’t a training session for me. It was revenge. Closure. Destiny. And I was going to look hot as hell while I created it.
“What’s with the water?” I asked, nodding at the bottle still at her lips. “You packing vodka in there?”
She snorted—then immediately spluttered, liquid spraying from her nose and mouth. I doubled over, laughing.
“I wish,” she choked, hands braced on her knees as she let it drip off her face, careful not to ruin her makeup. “Just plain old water. Every time I want a cigarette, I take a sip instead.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun. What else have you tried replacing smoking with?”
“Crying,” she said honestly, standing upright and smoothing down her jacket. “Didn’t go over well with the kids.”
A hoot burst out of me. “Oh dear. Still, you picked a good night to bring water.”
I linked my arm through hers and patted her hand. We made the trek down the long road towards Bellamy Children’s Home. Vehicle parking was part of the safety precautions that had been taken in the weeklong prep to reduce the risk to participants if things got out of hand. I didn’t care though. The walk was useful for gathering my thoughts, and I realised it was the first time I had travelled this road without a rising pain in my stomach.
The sky was dark, and a partial full moon was appearing from beyond the clouds as it began to rain. I laughed and looked up, letting the drops fall on my face, and June laughed beside me.
“Think the rain gods want us to stop?” I asked.
“Nah. They know I really need a fucking cigarette,” she replied, pulling me closer.
The air was cool, but I couldn’t feel it. I was running on pure adrenaline—I think I had been since my world crumbled less than two weeks ago.
“The guests of honour,” Denis Gavellin greeted us as we slipped through the open gate. He gave our outfits a once-over but said nothing. Good man. Someone had clearly trained him well.
He wore a navy-blue service jacket and slacks—the kind of formal uniform you’d expect at a funeral. It stood out among the others in turnout gear.
“You're not going in for the training tonight?” I asked as the bear-sized man swayed slightly on his feet. I hoped I’d concealed my relief.
“Supervising,” he said, tapping the two-way clipped to his chest. “Are you ladies ready to get started?”
Any problem with him making orders on that thing and make no doubt, I’d be yelling commands into it. June and I both looked at each other. I could see the mixed feelings in my sister's eyes, and I felt them myself. The familiar dread of being here. The excitement of the evening. Add to that the grief of everything that had come out over the past couple of weeks and the determination to finish this right.
“Absolutely,” I said, hoping to reassure him for the last time.
Denis led us over to a large table that several important looking people hovered over papers at. People precariously balanced umbrellas between their knees. From what I could tell, the training was divided into three areas: domestic house scenario, fire behaviour, and fire investigation.
None of the officials looked up when we approached. A twitchy woman in a brown pantsuit stood to the side, scribblingnotes. June’s hot pink heel tapping on gravel and the energetic swigging of her water bottle caused the older woman with the box dye brown hair to look up, noticing us for the first time.
She looked from June to Denis, to me, her eyes making a not so well-hidden criticism of our outfit choices.
“You two must be our guests of honour,” she smiled, and the braces on her teeth glinted in the portable LED lights that had been brought in for the occasion. Turns out vanity didn’t have an age limit.
“This brick house of a man has already used that line,” June snapped. “Tell me where we need to be.”
Three heads lifted at once, mouths agape like she’d just called the Pope a pagan.
“I apologise for my sister.” I let my perfectly executed winged eyes narrow as my mouth curved. “She’s giving up cigarettes.”
The woman with the brown hair and braces stood up and turned to June, her face transforming into the same expression mine does after running distance on the treadmill.
“You have my condolences,” she said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “One year, one month, twenty-two days. They say it gets easier.” She shrugged.
I didn’t turn to look at June—she was either feeling deeply validated or fully crushed by that information.
One of the suited men finally stood and extended a hand to each of us.
