Somehow Holly gets me on my feet. I still have no control over my actions. I move jerkily, a puppet being pulled along by strings. I stagger away from Holly and the strobing lights of the first responders. If I were brave, or maybe stupid, I'd walk past the barrier of vehicles and into the fire that has claimed them both.
Instead, I walk toward the opposite curb, tripping over it in my daze. I'm standing in someone's yard, but no one chases me away. Probably too busy watching the spectacle unfold across the road. I trip again on an uneven paving slab and this time I do fall. Pain explodes across both knees, and warm wetness runs along my leg. How badly have I skinned it?
Holly tries to come after me, but I shelter behind an oak, shrouding myself in shadow to keep myself from her pitying gaze. I can't stand to look at her, the envy is too great. Her husband is safe. Her baby is safe inside of her. She is shielded from this horror. I hide at the base of its trunk, knees clutched to my chest.
Someone finds me anyway. I don't look up from the patch of sodden grass beneath my feet. If the first responders want to take me away, they'll have to drag me. Finally, a pair of booted feet enter my field of vision. I drag my unwilling eyes up to find the face of the man, and my blood chills.
The light of the fire throws Trent's face into terrifying relief. The craggy face splits into a wide, malicious grin as he stares down at me.
"I hoped that you'd be in the house when I set the fire, but this works out."
I don't have time to react before his foot lashes out, connecting with my side. I'm knocked from my unsteady crouch and topple over sideways, raising my hands to shield my head. Pain spiderwebs through my body as he rains blows down onto me. I catch at least a few on my ribs, and wheeze out a breathless scream. No one will hear me until it's too late. I barely have time to breathe before the next blow comes.
Hot tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. I'm going to die here, stomped to death by the man who stole my entire future.
And then a massive, bear-like shape knocks Trent off his feet, sending him sprawling into the grass. The shape lets out a savage sound that I didn't know human throats could make. He bashes Trent's head against the ground.
"Don't you ever fucking touch her!"
I'm still reeling, sobbing from the pain, but the sound of that voice has hope thrumming through me, dulling the ache for just a second. Ryker. He's alive! Does that mean that Bryan escaped too? It has to, right? There's no way that Ryker left my little boy behind in a burning building. So they're alive. If I somehow make it through the day, everything might go back to the way it was.
Well, unless Ryker ends up serving twenty to life for murdering Trent right in front of the cops.
It takes all the strength I have left to lift myself up onto my elbows and crawl toward the pair of men. Trent's face resembles pulp by the time I reach him. I drag his elbow back. He freezes for just a second, fist poised to strike Trent in the face again. He glances toward me and blanches. I'm not sure what my face looks like, but if it looks as bad as it feels, it's probably a patchwork of blood and bruises.
"Stop," I beg. "Ryker, you have to stop."
"I'm not letting this fucker live," he hisses.
"Please," I repeat. "He's down. You can't kill him in front of the cops."
It seems to finally register on his face that other people are watching. A pair of officers are already running toward us. Ryker climbs off of Trent, hauling him up my one shoulder. He tosses the limp man toward the waiting arms of an officer. The balding, middle-aged man barely catches Trent before his face hits the pavement.
"Take him," he huffs. "Before I change my mind."
Ryker kneels beside me and much more gently lifts me off the ground. I go limp with relief and don't struggle as he guides me to the back of an ambulance. I'm embarrassed to need one so often in the course of a month. His pretty blonde partner is perched in the back, cradling Bryan in her arms. I let out another half-sob at the sight of him. He's safe. He doesn't even appear hurt. He's screaming bloody murder, but at least that I can take.
"Give him to me, please."
"Not yet, Cleo. You're still hurt," Ryker says, climbing into the back. He deposits me with care on the stretcher. All traces of anger have fled, leaving in its place the professional EMT I've always known. He examines the damage to my face and scowls.
"Your nose is broken, he split your lip and I think you'll need stitches for the head lac. They should also check you for a concussion."
"Jesus," the woman breathes. "What happened out there?"
"Arson and attempted murder," Ryker says. "And I'll testify to it in court if I have to."
"Is he gone? Really gone?"
Ryker sits on the bench seat next to me and, after strapping me in, takes Bryan into his arms. With his free hand, he takes mine and gives it a squeeze.
"He's gone. He's not coming back from this, I swear."
All the anxiety, the pain, the terror, it all crashes over me in a wave and it's a struggle to keep my eyes open.
"Sleep," Ryker orders. "You need it."
"You'll be there when I wake up?"
