"Trent," I growl.
The fucking bastard doesn't give a rat's ass his grandson is in the house, so long as he flushes us out or destroys us. The moment I get my hands on him, he's a dead man.
But I have to survive the next few minutes to do it.
I tug a washcloth from the rack and rush into the bedroom. The smoke is forming. It had been lit somewhere near the outside of the master bedroom, and already it's too thick. It won't take much to suffocate a baby. I scoop the wailing baby out of the bassinet by the bed, cradling him to my chest with one arm and test the knob on the bathroom door. I'm relieved to find it cool enough to the touch.
I twist the knob and soak as much of the washcloth as I can, not bothering to wring it out. Bryan's small chest heaves against mine and his anguished wail cuts at me. I have to get him out of here. Trent probably has both doors covered. But a bullet is a more merciful death than burning. I'll take it. Perhaps under the cover of night I can slip away before things get too dicey. Maybe Trent won't dare act in front of the first responders sure to arrive soon.
And maybe fucking Santa Claus would make an early trip. Trent wants a target? I'll give him one. But not until Bryan is safe.
I place the damp cloth over Bryan's mouth and nose. It's not perfect, but it should keep most of the ash and heat from getting to his tiny lungs. I drape the blanket around my shoulders and begin running.
The flames are licking along the insides of my house now, devouring the furniture and the paintings on the wall. The sofa Cleo and I made love on is gone, caught in the blaze. Before too long everything will be cinders. The heat batters me in waves and I take an involuntary step back. I'm going to jump through.
Backing up to the only wall that isn't burning, I gather all my strength and charge. My leap takes me over a smoldering armchair and deposits me into the kitchen again. There's less that burns here, and the back patio door seems clear. My fingers feel fat and numb and it takes me five tries to get the latch on the door to open. When I stumble out, the rain that pelts my face feels like ice water.
I draw the blanket in tighter and climb quickly and stealthily away from the house. There's no chance that anyone watching won't be able to spot me. The red-orange glow of my ruined house casts too much light. But if I can make it around the house and to the first responders, we'll be safer.
The whiz of the bullet is inaudible over the crackling roar of the fire. It falls short of its target, causing dirt to spit inches from my ankle. I jerk away from the sight as though I've just faced a rattler. It's just as deadly, and likely to kill me faster. One of Trent's men has us in his sights. I'd love to find him and knock his teeth in, but the only way out is to run. A moving target is harder to hit and that increases the probability of both of us surviving.
I'm not up to my full speed. Smoke I've inhaled from the bedroom is slowing me, and a hacking cough rises in my chest, bowing me forward. The air out here is saved from being noxious by the rain. The fire isn't out of control because nature acts as a sort of sprinkler system here in South Hollens. It's a wonder that Trent and his men could start a fire at all under these conditions.
Bryan shrieks his displeasure to the sky as I sprint toward the flashing blue and red light I can spy around the building. I'm almost to the corner of my house when the bullet grazes my leg. It feels like a searing hot knife slashed across my ankle. My left leg goes out from under me and I go down, turning just in time to keep from crushing Bryan beneath my weight. He ends up plastered to my front, still swaddled in the fireproof blanket.
Get up, you idiot,I berate myself.Get up. They're still shooting.
I gather up Bryan, tucking him beneath one arm like a squirming football. I can't put my weight on the injured foot, but I hobble in a half-crouch toward the waiting ambulance. Heather is there, shouting down a group of firemen. When she spots me, her eyes fill with tears and she rushes toward me.
"Ryker! Thank God you're okay! We thought-"
I shove Bryan at her, and the hacking cough finally escapes me. I'm fucking exhausted, I'm sore, and I'm apoplectic with fury at Trent. Bryan doesn't need to be anywhere near me. I want him in a hospital.
"Take care of him," I wheeze. "The fire started near his bassinet. Make sure his airways are clear."
Heather's eyes take me in clinically, shifting from concerned friend to professional.
"You shouldn't be standing either, Ryker."
The mere fact that she's used my first name really makes the situation even more serious. She's afraid for me. And she probably should be. This wasn't a circuit malfunction or lightning strike. This is arson. If I can catch Trent at this and prove it, he'll go away for a long time.
So without answering her questioning look, I stagger forward into the night.
I'm going to make Trent McNeil pay for this. One way or the other.
19
Cleo
When Holly pulls to a stop outside Ryker's house, the first responders have all but barred the roadway. There are at least two fire trucks trying to get the blaze under control. A police car stands guard nearby and an ambulance is parked very near it. The heat of the fire is like a physical blow, even from feet away. My eyes fill with tears and my knees nearly go out from under me. Holly has to grab my shoulders to keep me from sagging boneless to the ground. A choked sound escapes me, and it's halfway between a sob and a scream. The house is a dark silhouette within the flames, being consumed by the hungry flames.
My crashes and tilts to the side. Or maybe that's me. The cold press of the slick pavement feels good against my cheek, and warm salty tears continue to slide down my cheeks. Gone. Everything I have ever loved has gone up in smoke. My baby died screaming in a fire. My stomach heaves and I choke on the bile that rises in my throat. My mind screams, and I can't tell if I'm screaming out loud.
"Cleo," Holly whispers urgently. "Cleo, come on. You need to get up."
"Gone. They're gone," I sob. "Bryan. Ryker."
And the last impression they'd ever had of me was a coward, fleeing from the house, chased away by the ghost of my past. I choke on another wave of nausea.
