Shit.Boyd shoved up his mask with the back of his arm and pulled off his glove. He grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and peeled its claws free before it—she, from the fat belly on her—tore up the toddler. The cat twisted around and sank her teeth into the web of flesh between his thumb and fingers.
“Shit,” Boyd swore as the pain stabbed up into his wrist. He yanked the cat free, shoved her into his pocket, and sealed the flap down over her head. The kid was still slack in his arms, T-shirt rucked up to show off a round, rash-spotted stomach. He pressed his bare fingers to the kid’s throat. The pulse fluttered fast and unhappy under the pressure, but it was going. “It looks like the kid is sick. Probably why they were left home. Coming out now.”
He snapped his visor back down and cradled the kid against his chest as he dodged the spread of flames on his way back out. The floor was eaten through in spots now, and flames poked up through the holes in the curled-back linoleum like fingers. Boyd stuck close to the walls and carefully picked his way along.
Jessie met him at the hole in the wall, curly black hair plastered to his head from the water, and took the kid so Boyd could scramble down. Danni clapped him on the shoulder and went in with Tom to finish the sweep. Boyd pulled off his helmet—even the hot afternoon sun a relief from the too-hot-to-sweat scorch inside the trailer—and followed Jessie over to the rig.
It only took a couple of minutes of oxygen and cold cloths before the toddler stirred, coughed, and whined miserably as she snotted black. By the time the ambulance got there and they could hand the kid over, the sound of miserable baby pierced the air.
The assembled neighbors—a couple of dog walkers, one guy who’d parked to watch—applauded and cheered. Boyd handed the cat, its whiskers curled from the heat and paws raw, to Jessie, and sat down in the mud to lean back against the tires of the truck.
A flash went off the to the side of him, and he blinked, dazzled by the unexpected flare. He knuckled his eyes roughly and scrambled back to his feet.
“A child was found inside the house,” a reporter said as he shoved a microphone into Boyd’s face. “Is this fire anything to do with the reputed new breakthrough in the Calloway case?”
“Get out of my face,” Boyd said, “and get back behind the line.”
The camera flashed again. Boyd held up a hand to block it as the reporter, handheld video camera in one hand, got in front of him.
“We have sources that say Captain Macintosh is working on new information and that he’s confident he’s finally found who took Sammy Calloway. That he actually has someone in town to help with the case. A witness? A suspect.”
Boyd hooked his fingers over his lower lips and whistled to catch the attention of the patrol officers on duty. The reporter glanced around too and realized his access was about to be pulled. His voice sped up as he hurried through his questions.
“Fifteen years later you’ll finally know what happened to your friend. How does that make you feel? Will you miss being at the center of the story?”
A lot. The angry, sharp words filled the back of Boyd’s throat until his jaw ached with them.Fuck offwas right up there, andTrying not to think about it, thanksright after it.
“No comment,” he said grimly instead. “Now get back behind the cordon with the rest of the… public. Before you get hurt.”
It wasn’t a threat, but despite Boyd’s best efforts, it sounded a bit like one.
The camera flashed again as one of the cops finally slogged over to grab the two men and escort them back to the pavement.
Boyd rubbed his hand over his hair. The center of the story? Fuck, he’d never been the center of the story. He’d always been the stand-in, the understudy to his own life.
At this point he didn’t know what it would be like to be in the spotlight of hisownstory. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to pay the price to get there… to actuallyknow.
BACK INthe station, Boyd leaned against the sink and scraped a blade down his cheek. He rinsed it under the tap, and short black hairs caught on the worn porcelain. In a couple of hours, the stubble would be back. By this evening it would look like he hadn’t bothered at all.
Maybe he should grow a proper beard. Boyd stopped midstroke and considered his reflection as he imagined the scruff grown out. It would make him look like his dad. He grimaced and finished the stroke, hair scraped off down to the sharp angle of his jaw. Reason enough not to.
Shay’s image was caught in the mirror as he slouched in through the door, shoved Jessie’s gear to the left, and sat down. He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.
“Good job today,” he said. “The kid going to be okay?”
Boyd flicked his tongue over the scab on his lip. “Yeah,” he said. “Her dad’s probably going to lose shared custody, though.”
“Serves him right,” Shay said flatly. “He should count himself lucky to see her at all. She could have died. I wouldn’t let him, if I was the judge.”
It wasn’t entirely fair. The man had been devastated when he got back and found his house gone, his daughter in the hospital, and his ex-wife on the way. He’d had to work, and the day care wouldn’t take her with a fever. But he thought she’d sleep through.
Boyd remembered that his mom had done the same, although he was older. He was dosed with Benadryl and left to sleep away the morning until Mrs. Jenkins from across the street made it over to watch him.
The father had made a mistake, but when you didn’t have any good choices, you had to pick the best of the bad ones.
That wouldn’t fly with Shay, not where kids were concerned. He’d never let himself off the hook, so why would he be kinder to anyone else?
“What do you want, Shay?” Boyd asked as he finished his shave and wiped his face with a worn towel.
