by Emilia Finn
In the hours that Idalia, Max, and I hung out at their apartment and searched for our new normal, my family heard all the stuff about moving in together and Max needing a room to call his own. So while my little unit cooked scrambled eggs and consumed bucketloads of coffee—well, Idalia and I did—Spencer, Mitch, Corey, Troy, and Beckett got into my house and made a room for their favorite new nephew.
I probably should have expected it, but it was a nice surprise for us to walk into. Once we got to my house—our house—we found a room dedicated to soccer and all things little boys love.
Max was nervous to be surrounded by so many people, nervous to be in another new space. But Abby, Nadia, and Arlo know how to manage a project, so when they were there for the reveal, Max settled in quickly and took to his room with glee.
Silent glee, but glee nonetheless.
So now we have two homes; two really comfortable, really happy homes. And though we’re in Idalia’s more than we’re in mine, which is reasonable, I think, considering most of their stuff is there, I still take pleasure in the slow invasion of the Mazzis in my home.
Little boy shoes by my front door, and soccer balls in most rooms. Idalia’s underwear in my bathroom. Her scent on my sheets. Her body in my bed night after night, mine to use, to savor, and to please.
This is what happiness feels like. It’s what family feels like—I would know, I’ve always had the best family, and I intend to make another with this woman who makes my heart skip.
Bliss envelops the three of us no matter whose home we’re in. We ride our wave of contentment, we stay inside our bubble when we can, and when we have to expand it to allow others in, they make it so our happiness only grows.
But during the day, we still have to work. Idalia still has a hotel to run, staff to manage, a gym build underway, and staff interviews to complete. And that doesn’t even touch on her duties with Max; the appointments they attend together, speech therapy and psychotherapy.
As for me? Well, I continue to chase fires.
The sirens wail once more, drawing my gaze up for the single second I wait for Rory’s voice to announce where we’re going. But before she gets more than two words in, I desert the meal I’ve just started to make, and dart out of the station kitchen.
Every single time, without fail, the alarms sound when we’re ready to eat. Or shit. Or shower.
“Structure fire,” Rory announces. “Loading up in Diana, Command will advise if you want a second crew.”
“That would be me,” I murmur as I swing past an injured Axe on a recliner in front of the TV.
He’s not supposed to be here, but sometimes, this is all a guy has. So even with his foot in a boot and orders not to walk until his broken bone is healed, Axe would rather sit here with his crew than be home alone.
I can’t really blame him. For years before Idalia and Max came into my life, I spent a good chunk of my free time doing the exact same thing: working when I’d already done my hours, sneaking in and not clocking on, all so the brass wouldn’t tear me up about mandatory time caps.
Just because that’s not my life anymore doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like.
But I can’t think about that now. I skim along the steel stairs that lead from the upper story down to the firehouse floor, then I race toward the racks alongside the rest of my crew. Together, we slide into our turnouts and make a game of who can be fastest, who can be the best.
“We’re fresh,” I tell my crew. “Shift has barely begun, so we’re gonna put this one out quickly, then we’re coming back here to eat something.”
My stomach was already rumbling, which is why I’d started cooking, so as I pull my coat on, I spin away from the wall and dart toward Diana. The moment I’m in, I dive over the front seat and snag a protein bar from the glove compartment.
The rest of my crew piles into the truck just as I tear the wrapping off my bar, then we’re off. The airhorn sounds, and I put a prayer up into the universe that Idalia doesn’t hear it and begin worrying.
“You there, dispatch?” I press a finger to the fancy new device in my ear.
Griffin Technology donated a bunch of equipment to our station to bring us into the new century when it comes to communications while in the field. Plus, I assume Abby nags Spencer about my safety, and of course Spencer makes sure Abby has anything she wants. And Griffin is besties with Spence and the Checkmate crew, so… now me and mine have fancy new earpieces.
“Can you hear me, dispatch?”
“Loud and clear, Lieutenant. You’ve got a six-story structure fire in the heart of town. Alarms sounded because of smoke. No flames visible or reported yet, but—”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Yep.”
My driver brings the truck around a sharp corner so fast that Cootes slides along the benchseat and crashes against my side.
“Wait.” I scowl when the direction we’re headed registers in my brain. “Dispatch, where’d you say the fire is?”
“Two-two-five-six West Street,” Rory answers. “The new hotel in town.”
My stomach drops, but it’s not until the rest of my crew, hearing the same thing I do, brings their eyes to mine that my heart seizes.
Their faces drain white. But perhaps that’s a mirror of my own.
“What?” I choke out.
“Visible smoke coming from the south side, Lieutenant. Please confirm if you want an extra crew on site?”
I scramble from my seat in the back as we round the last corner before West. My heart in my throat, my eyesight growing dark as blood roars in my veins.
The Oriane comes into view, lit up in the evening’s darkness the way the Titanic was lit in the North Atlantic Ocean the night she sank. From the doors and windows on the bottom floor, dark smoke pulses in waves and makes my stomach lurch, and outside, hundreds of people huddle in the cold.
“What the fuck?”
“Shit, Lew. This is bad.” Cootes wraps her hand around my wrist; I don’t know why, and I’m not sure she realizes she does it.
Then the truck comes to a screeching stop outside the hotel, and I bolt from the cab, escaping Cootes’ hold with a whip of my arm as I race around Diana, only to be met with a white-faced police chief.
“We evacuated,” Alex Turner informs me. “We had a guy run into the station, screeching about smoke coming from the Oriane, so we were here before the alarms went out.”
“Where’s Idalia?” I circle in place and search the hundreds of faces staring back at me.
Guests shiver in the cold, robed up and ready for a night of relaxation in the newly renovated hotel. I search their eyes; some are dead tired, while others are wired up because of the excitement of what’s happening.
I search for Idalia, for Max. I even search the crowd for Arlo and her stupid cowboy boots, and while I do that, my crew do what I should; they prepare Diana and unroll the hoses.
“Where the fuck is Idalia?”
“I don’t know,” Alex murmurs. “I haven’t seen her since I arrived on site.”
“Well, did you look for her?” I demand. “This fuckin’ tall,” I raise a hand. “Dark hair and eyes. What about Max? Have you seen him racing around, looking for his mom?”
Alex shakes his head. “I haven’t seen them. My job is to contain and facilitate the evacuation.”
“Your job is to preserve life!” I roar.
Tugging my hand away from whoever grabs me, I race toward the front of the hotel, against the stream of guests escaping the lobby, and shout into my radio as I go.
“Italy? Where are you?”
“Lew!” Rizz’s voice takes over the radio channel. “You have to wait. We haven’t done our three-sixty.”
“There are people inside!”
I shove through the glass doors and push people out of my way as they work to escape. Some clutch onto me—the man in uniform, the help—while others treat me as the help, as in, ‘It’s his problem. I’m outta here.’
I push
past the remaining stragglers, but I search every face, every pair of eyes. “Idalia?”
“S-s-s-sir!” The short and fat, frying-pan-to-the-face Lockwood sprints the way any short, fat man would—arms pumping, head low, and huffing like a hog—and as soon as he’s close enough, he stops and rests his hands on his knees. “F-f-f-fire,” he pants. “I don’t know where.”
“Where’s Idalia?” I grab him by the lapel, lift him to his toes, and snarl in his face. “Where is Idalia?”
“U-u-u-upstairs,” he stammers. “Sh-sh-sh-she was searching.”
“Fuck.”
The smoke is building, and visibility is decreasing fast.
I drop him to his feet and point toward the doors. “Get outside. Don’t come back in here.”
“B-b-b-but Ms. Mazzi!”
“I’m gonna get her. If you come back in here and make this search harder, you’ll be charged with endangering lives. Get outside! Idalia?”
I shout in my radio, over and over. But still, no answer, so I try something else.
“Mitchell?”
“I’m en route,” my brother replies immediately. “Two blocks out. Where are you?”
“Inside. Idalia is somewhere upstairs.”
“Fuck,” he grumbles. “Okay. Anyone else inside?”
“I don’t know! Can you get a headcount? Work with Rizz and Cootes, then call Troy. And Spencer!” I add. “Find out where Abby is. Where’s Nadia?”
“Not inside,” he murmurs. “Neither is Ab. I already texted and asked.”
“Arlo?”
“I haven’t gotten word on her yet.”
“And Max?” Bile rises in my throat at that thought. A four-year-old boy, one who’s unlikely to call for help in the midst of a fire. “Where the fuck is he? What were he and Arlo doing today?”
“I don’t know. Pulling up on scene now. I’ll get some answers and come back to you.”
“Copy.”
The moment Mitch and I clear the lines, Rizz’s voice comes through.
“A Mr. Lockwood has given me a list of names, Lew. We’re counting ‘em now so we know who’s missing. Cootes is coming inside to walk with you.”
“Move faster, Cootes! I’m not slowing down.”
I run up one flight of stairs. Then a second. The higher I go, the thicker the smoke becomes.
Which isn’t right, I think to myself. The smoke pattern is all wrong. “Cootes?”
“On your six,” she pants as she runs. Her legs are shorter than mine, her hatred for running kicking her ass now that she needs it. “You gotta slow down, Lew. You’re not following procedure.”
“Fuck procedure! My family is in this hotel.”
“You don’t know that,” she rushes out. “They might already be outside.”
“Lockwood said she’s upstairs. Idalia! Speak up now!”
“Nixon?” a woman’s voice calls out—a familiar voice, but it’s not Idalia, and it’s not over the radio.
“Arlo?”
We crash together at the top of the third floor, her breath exploding from her lungs at our collision. I grab her by the arms before she stumbles back and slams against the wall.
“Where’s Idalia?” I shout. “Where’s Max?”
“I don’t know!” Tears stream from her red eyes. The smoke is already too thick, the place too hot. The wallpaper Idalia so lovingly had applied now peels from the walls. The carpets she agonized over, dirty from panicked guests. “I don’t know where she is. She went one way while I went the other.”
“Why?” I shake her until her teeth rattle. “Why would you go separate ways? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Max,” she sobs.
That one word makes my lungs seize and my heart stop.
“We can’t find Max.”
20
Idalia
Come out, bello
“Maximo?” I shout his name for the millionth time since the fire alarms sounded. I shout so loud my head throbs and my throat aches. “Maximo? Where are you?”
I swear I’ve looked into every room and space in this hotel. Every nook. Every hidey-hole. I can’t find him. And I can’t think of where he might be hiding.
I stumble through the hatch in my closet ceiling and back onto the carpeted floor. Then shoving the door closed, I tear clothes from the racks surrounding me. “Maximo? Where are you?”
My heart thunders in my chest, and sweat pours along my spine. It’s so hot in here, but there’s no fire. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how there can be smoke and heat, but no fire.
“Maximo! Where are you, bello? You have to speak. Right now!” I shout so loud that my voice cracks. “Speak, Max!”
I rush from my closet when I’ve torn it to pieces and looked into every corner and space. Then I circle my bedroom and rub my eyes. The smoke makes them ache. The heat makes them dry.
I look under my bed, and behind the chest of drawers pressed against the wall. I race into my bathroom, check the shower, the bath, even behind the toilet. Nothing.
I sprint out of my room and into the hall, then skidding into Max’s room, I search spaces I’ve already looked. In his closet, under his bed, under the desk he’s yet to sit at. I tear the covers from his bed, toss them to the floor, then I race out of his room with one of his shirts pressed to my mouth.
A sob tears along my throat. The mix of smoke and dizziness, swirling with the scent of Max on the fabric I hold and the fear that I can’t find him, is enough to send me to the brink of whatever I can handle.
I thought losing my husband and my home to a fire broke me, but this… Not knowing where Max is brings me to the very edge of my sanity.
“Maximo?”
“Idalia?”
I cry out at the voice booming through my home. “Nixon?”
“Idalia? Fuck!”
I race toward his voice. Blind, shaking, breathless, and collapse in a fit of coughing and tears when I emerge into the living room to find Nixon in full protective uniform.
This is the look I’ve avoided seeing. The uniform I’ve made a point not to think about. But I stumble forward, into his arms, and sob.
“I can’t find him!” I cry so hard that my chest heaves for breath. “Nixon, I can’t find Max!”
“I’ll find him.” Nixon holds me in his arms, takes most of my weight, and turns us so I glimpse a second and then a third firefighter in my living room. “Cootes?”
“Yeah, Lew?”
“Get her out.” Nixon tosses me so I stumble six feet and crash against a female firefighter. “Take her downstairs, restrain her.”
“Lew?”
“She’s gonna tear you the fuck up if you don’t have it on lock.” Meeting my eyes through the protective shield of his mask, Nixon gives the smallest nod. “I’ll see you on the other side, Mazzi.”
“What?” I scream it when Nixon takes a step away. But when I try to take a step to follow him, a pair of arms wrap around my hips and tug me back. “Nixon!”
“Get her out, Cootes!”
“Nixon!” I scream it so loud, so feral that my voice cuts out. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t search for Max or stay safe myself if I’m worried about you. Cootes,” he looks over my shoulder. “You have your orders.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Rizz, you’re with me. Let’s go—”
“No!” My feet come off the ground when Cootes lifts. I fight against her hold, kick at her shins, throw my head back to try to find my freedom. “No! I’m not leaving you in here! I’m not leaving Max!”
“Rizz, you grab her.” Nixon looks past me, unemotional, as though I don’t exist. It’s like he doesn’t see the tears streaming from my eyes. He doesn’t hear the pain in my voice, or the smoke in my lungs. And more importantly, he doesn’t understand my need to stay in here and search for my son. “Cootes, search and rescue. Rizz, pick her the fuck up and get her out now.”
I’m grabbed around the waist a second time, bu
t with broader arms, a stronger grip. And when I’m lifted off the ground, he doesn’t care that I fight him.
“No!” I scratch and kick against his hold. “I need to find Max. And Arlo!” I try again. “We have to find Arlo!”
“Arlo’s already out. Where was he, Idalia?” For a single moment, Nixon’s eyes come back to mine, and in them, I see his heart, his hurt, his brimming emotions. “Where was Max last? And where was he supposed to be?”
“In the lobby,” I cry out. “The three of us were in the lobby. But when the alarms went off, he ran. I don’t know which direction he went.”
I shout past the tears that dribble over my cheeks. The snot that sits above my top lip. My eyes sting and water, my throat feels like razor blades.
“I looked everywhere,” I cry. “I looked in every room. So when I couldn’t find him, I came up here to start at the top and work my way down.”
“Alright.” Gone again is the feeling Nixon, and in his place, the machine as he looks over my shoulder. “You have your orders. You are to follow them. Down every step, out those fucking doors, then you toss her to Mitch and have him sedate her if he has to.”
“Lew…” the man holding me argues. “He can’t—”
“He’ll do whatever the fuck he needs to do to keep her out of this building.”
“No!” I kick at the walls as Rizz grunts and carries me. I grab onto doors. I dig my nails into anything they can find, and when there’s nothing, I dig them into my captor’s uniform. His skin. “Let me go.”
“Let’s go, ma’am. Time to let them work.”
“No!” my voice breaks. “I said no!”
“Get her a radio when you get outside,” Nixon shouts from somewhere I already can’t see. The smoke is too thick. The darkness too prevalent. “Let her listen in.”
“I hate you, Nixon! I hate you!”
21
Nixon
Search and Rescue
“She doesn’t mean that, Lew.” Cootes works slowly, methodically as we search Idalia’s home. We each have a flashlight to help us see, but that’s about as much assistance as we’re going to get. “She doesn’t hate you.”