Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Marlowe Partridge had low expectations for Monday mornings, but being woken up by sirens? That was bad even by Monday standards. At first, she thought the sirens were part of her dream—something about a fire-breathing ostrich and a judgmental junior high PE teacher—but the wailing grew louder and more insistent. Her eyes flew open.

The light filtering through her curtains had that pale blue quality that said Don’t even think about getting up yet. But the sirens didn’t care. They came closer, sounding more urgent. This was especially annoying because she’d been out late at a friend’s promotion celebration dinner. The meal had gone on until ten o’clock. Marlowe’s soul-searching about the lack of promotion opportunities at the hair salon where she worked lasted another hour.

She groaned, rolled over, and squinted at the alarm on her bookshelf. It blinked 6:32. Way too early. Couldn’t people wait until later to have their emergencies?

It was an uncharitable thought followed by a flash of guilt. After all, she lived with her eighty-two-year-old grandmother. Heart attacks and strokes could happen at any time.

The thought of her grandma made Marlowe slide out of bed. Better check on her to make sure she was fine. Although if Grandma had some medical issue, she would have certainly called out to Marlowe before phoning the paramedics. Those sirens were most likely for someone else.

But still.

She padded down the hallway in her bare feet. Late May was still cold in Montana, but her grandmother kept the house at tropical temperatures, so Marlowe only wore her lemon-print pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt. “Grandma?”

No answer.

That was odd. Grandma was usually up by now, either sitting in her bedroom, halfway through a crossword, or parked near the kitchen windows, scolding the backyard crows. Marlowe passed by her grandmother’s bedroom. The door stood open, showing a neatly made bed.

Marlowe went back down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Grandma?”

Still no answer.

And then the sirens cut off abruptly, almost directly outside the house. Oh no. She frantically scanned the family room as though her grandmother might be lying on the floor, injured and tucked away somewhere. She could have fallen. Her grandmother had a stroke three years ago and occasionally got dizzy spells.

The couch pillows were lined up in an ordered row as though posing for a mug shot. A half-finished sweater her grandmother was working on lay over the recliner, the knitting needles patiently waiting in the yarn, evidence that her grandmother had been there this morning. Where was she now?

Marlowe stepped into the kitchen. No sign of her.

Marlowe rushed back to the living room, went to the front window, and pushed the curtain aside. A firetruck had pulled up to their home, red lights still spinning and engine rumbling. A fireman stepped out. He tilted his head upward, staring at the roof.

Marlowe’s first thought was that the roof had somehow caught on fire, and one of the neighbors had called for a firetruck. Her heart began to pound. But no, there was no scent of smoke. Perhaps her grandmother had just gone outside when she heard the sirens. Or … had she been injured outside?

Marlowe slipped into some shoes and threw open the front door. Chilly air pressed into her. She hardly felt it. Grandma wasn’t anywhere on the patchy green lawn or standing on the sidewalk near the truck. Two more firemen had climbed out, and they were all gazing up at the roof.

“Excuse me,” she called. “What’s going on?”

One of the firefighters turned toward her, a tall, thirty-something man with curly dark hair and an unreadable expression. “We got a call about someone stuck on the roof.”

Marlowe stared at him. “Stuck?”

“Yoo-hoo!” called a voice from above.

Marlowe’s breath stuttered. Slowly, she turned and looked up.

Her grandmother sat on the roof, one hand draped around the satellite dish. She wore her fuzzy pink bathrobe, her crocheted pom-pom hat, and a pair of tennis shoes that made her legs appear spindly and pale.

“I told you there was something wrong with the signal,” Grandma called down. “Since you couldn’t fix it yesterday, I thought I’d take a peek this morning.” A ladder lay on the ground underneath her. Apparently, it had fallen and left her stranded.

“We’ll have you down in no time, ma’am,” one of the firefighters said. He had short-cropped hair, the arms of a weightlifter, and seemed to be in charge. “Sit tight and don’t move until we tell you to.”

Marlowe covered her face with both hands. “Grandma, why would you… You’re eighty-two. You shouldn’t be climbing ladders.”

“Didn’t want to miss my shows.” She patted the satellite dish. “I figured this thing had come unscrewed, but it hasn’t.”

“You could’ve fallen to your death,” Marlowe called up.

Her grandmother waved away her protest. “I’m fine. I painted this house myself using this very ladder when I was seventy-six.” She peered over the edge of the roof. “Probably due for a new coat.”