Down in Flames (Wildfire Hearts Book 5)

by Savannah Kade

  Tierney had already bolted to the porch, fumbling in her pockets for her keys, hoping they were still where she had stuffed them for the crawl. Last night seemed a thousand miles away, now, but she had to get inside.

  The kittens were far too young to go without a mother and Tierney was in no shape to bottle feed them. How long had they been alone? What would happen to them? She couldn't check in every few hours and watch out for Elliot all the time. Then again, this might be Elliot's only move for the next three or four months. A horrifying thought occurred to her: would Sean even recognize her when she finally made her way back to him?

  Her hands were shaking as she jabbed the key at the lock three times before finally sliding it into place. She twisted the knob like a fool and tugged on the door. Luckily, it didn't give. She fumbled again, now looking for a second key. What if she ever needed to get inside the house quickly? Maybe two separate keys hadn't been her best decision. It had simply seemed the most secure at the time.

  Unlocking the top bolt in a rush of success, she almost threw the door wide, slamming it into the dead body across her doorstep. Instead, she stopped at the last moment and squeezed her way through. Stepping into the living room she called out, "Snack babies!"

  It was the stupidest thing. Ronan was stepping up behind her as she neared the large cardboard box where she'd made Mr. Kittens a bed to deliver in. She'd tucked in old towels and a few puppy pads she'd splurged on.

  "What?" he asked clearly confused by what she'd called out.

  She was frustrated. This was hardly the time. Per Zadie’s instructions, she’d found a box with high enough sides that the kittens couldn’t escape. So she couldn't see if they were still there, but the box was silent. She called out again, "Snack babies?"

  Then again, maybe a mundane task like explaining was exactly what her brain needed now. "I named them after snacks. There's Cheeto and Dorito and Tostito and Frito and Pringle—"

  He started laughing. It was funny, and she'd done it because she'd thought Sean would like it. Would he get back in time to see the kittens at all?

  Tierney inched closer and looked down into the box, the tiny mews finally reaching through the fog of her brain and catching her attention.

  Were the babies already hungry? She reached in and picked one up, wondering if it was cold. She hadn't given it a heating pad or anything, thinking their mother would keep them warm. Thinking she hadn't wanted to spend the extra money and she didn't have that much to spare anyway. She'd spent the last ten years saving every bit she could for an escape she might need to make one day. Now, she regretted her decision. Saving up to run again had not been her best thought.

  Soft tears rolled down her face as she held the tiny squalling pale kitten she’d named Pringle up to her chest. She whispered onto his tiny head, "I'm so sorry, baby."

  "Tee?" Ronan was tapping at her with the back of his hand, "Tee. Look."

  Look at what? But a hefty meow grabbed her attention. Stunned, she watched as Mr. Kittens strolled her way out of the laundry room, where Tierney had set up a placemat with food and water and a litter box. "What?"

  "What was on the porch?" Ronan said, speaking as he figured it out for himself. "Apparently, that wasn't Mr. Kittens."

  Tierney sucked in a deep sigh of relief. "I didn't look at the face. I just ..."

  "Saw exactly what you were supposed to see," Ronan told her.

  So Elliot had figured out that not only did she have a cat that she loved, he knew what it looked like. Despite the fact that Mr. Kittens had not been outside in well over a week now, he'd known what her cat looked like.

  Another meow from Mr. Kittens as she jumped into the box, let Tierney know she was being talked to. The cat turned and looked expectantly, making Tierney realize she was still hugging the poor cat's kitten, maybe a little too tightly. "Here you go, baby. I'm sorry. I took Pringle."

  "I like their names," Ronan said with a small grin. "At least it wasn't actually Mr. Kittens."

  She was nodding, her emotions had been pulled back, tense, then shot from a slingshot and bounced off the wall.

  "I know where the shovel is," he volunteered. "If you grab me a trash bag, I'll clean the front porch for you."

  She wanted to tell him no. That she would take care of it herself but, for once, she thought she would step back. Reaching down, she stroked Mr. Kittens' soft head. Then she didn't answer but headed into the kitchen, where she pulled out a dark trash bag. A smaller bag would be the better size but she did not want to look into the can later and see the shadow of the dead animal through the thin plastic. This one was far too big for the job, but she simply handed it to Ronan and let him head out to the front porch.

  Sitting on the floor next to the box, she enjoyed the simple pleasure of the tiny kittens stretching their little twig legs. They were starting to walk, though mostly they still rolled around. She touched each tiny head, repeating the little names, grateful that they were all here. She was thinking even as she sat and relaxed the best she could, that she shouldn't have let Ronan clean the porch for her. She should have done it herself.

  What would the neighbors think? What would they tell Elliot when he charmed information out of them?

  She heard the noises of the shovel scraping on cement. Tierney figured he was dumping dirt onto the blood like she'd done before, so he could scrape it off and mask the stains. She heard the trash can bump against the fence as he lifted the lid and dropped the dead body of some poor orange tabby cat. This poor cat was getting garbage can treatment simply because he hadn't been Mr. Kittens.

  As Ronan came back in through the front door, announcing that he was finished, Tierney looked up from her spot on the floor. Her hands still lingered in the soft fur of the kittens, as if that would give her strength.

  "Ronan," she told him, "Thank you for cleaning that up for me. But you need to leave and please don't come back."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ronan had little to do given that it was Sunday and he didn't even have any errands to run. He'd woken up, thinking he might spend the day with Tierney. Even just the thought of it had made him happy but, instead, he'd cleaned entrails off her porch and was summarily dismissed.

  She might think she didn't need him around, but he was going to make himself useful one way or another. He didn't question why he felt this core need, he only knew that he needed to do this. So he headed toward the police station, but stopped in at the Firehouse to see B-shift and say his hellos.

  It still felt odd to be here in civilian clothing. The firefighters did sometimes stop by when they were off duty, so maybe it was that he didn't have a date or time to show up again, maybe it was that he was still twisting in the wind, that made this feel so odd.

  "Good to see you, but when are you coming back?" It was a question that didn't really need to be answered, but Ronan did anyway.

  "One more week. One more week." He repeated the phrase as if saying it like a mantra would make it come true. But a few moments later he saw that the day was sliding by, the guys were watching TV and clocking time until afternoon training or the alarm rang. There was nothing for him here, so he told them goodbye and headed out the front door into the wind. A few short steps later, he was at the local police department.

  The fire station and PD shared a building. The town was small enough that it made sense. Pulling the door open, he stepped into the warmth of a building again.

  "Hey, Ronan, Honey. How are you doing?" Marlene Davies waved at him as he came in.

  He barely stopped at the desk. "Hey Marlene. How are you? Can I see Gomez?"

  She didn't even flinch at his stacked questions. "Sure, Hon. He's in the back."

  The PD usually had an officer at the front desk, but on nights and most Sundays they had Marlene. She was more like a receptionist than an officer of any kind. Her hold on the front line was slim at best and her ability to intimidate anyone was nonexistent. So she smiled at him and hit the buzzer as she was wanting to do for most anyb
ody. The door to the back swung open on her command, giving him free access to the station.

  He waved her a polite goodbye as he headed into the back. At least, he consoled himself, he wasn't here to do any harm.

  He passed by various officers that he knew, so he waved and said a quick hello, but he quickly found Gomez, who looked up. "Hey, Kelly, how are you doing?"

  "Much better. Fingers crossed, I'm getting cleared next week and can go back to work." He told people this a thousand times a day it seemed. He needed to get back on shift just so he could stop talking about it. Ronan hadn't even admitted to himself that he'd felt a stitch in his side last night. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone else either, because no one needed to know what he'd been doing last night. And no one needed to know that he felt a little different.

  He told himself the difference was normal. He'd been cut apart and put back together. He might feel a hitch when he moved that way for the rest of his life, but it didn't necessarily mean he wasn't healed.

  "The look on your face says you've got something for me," Gomez sat back down in the old office chair that creaked under his slight frame.

  "Don't I ever." Ronan pulled out his phone and explained the situation. He'd taken pictures of the cat. He held up the phone. "It looks like her cat."

  "Oh man. I hate that for her, but I don't think there's any legal category for it looks like her pet. Do you think it could be coincidental?" Gomez had taken the phone and was checking the images.

  Ronan shook his head. Animals gutted and left on her front step weren't coincidental. That someone had gone out of the way to find an orange tabby simply couldn't be anything other than purposeful.

  "When did you find it?" Gomez handed the phone back.

  Ronan gave all the details he had before asking, "Do you need the body? It's in the trash can. Her trash doesn't get picked up till Tuesday."

  Gomez didn't ask why Ronan knew that. Ronan didn't know why he knew that. He just did.

  "No, we don't want the body any more than you do." Then he asked Ronan to copy him on all the pictures, which he loaded into the current file on Tierney's stalker. Then he had Ronan sign off on another official report.

  Tierney might not be reporting what was happening to her, but Ronan was. When this blew up—when Elliot did something they could pin on him—there would be clear evidence of a persistent campaign against her. Though Ronan wasn't sure yet what that slip-up might be, he was going to be ready. So he would file a report each time. There was nothing else to do, given that there were no fingerprints and nothing they could use to tie the crimes to Elliot Vander clef.

  "Is there any way we can get a restraining order?" he was asking as the two of them looked up at a commotion.

  An odd noise came from the front, and in the distance Ronan heard the faint sound that he knew was the fire alarm.

  Something was wrong. He knew the usual order of events the way people know how to ride a bike. First, the phone rang in the Chief's office, then the fire alarm went off, followed by the slamming of doors as they all headed out to the trucks, then the slamming of lockers as they stepped into their gear and climbed into the truck.

  This wasn't that. Something was off. There were too many voices, too much alarm. Firefighters had been on far too many runs to do anything other than do their best to stay calm.

  Ronan and Officer Gomez looked to each other, and Ronan saw his confusion and concern mirrored back. They both understood that whatever was happening next door was unusual. Without a word, they were on their feet, slamming out of the small bullpen and past Marlene who asked them what was going on. Neither had time to answer.

  The front door swung wide as Ronan barreled into it and aimed next door. Even though he couldn't quite see in, it was obvious there was a commotion in the bay. With two more steps forward, he spotted the smoke begin to billow out the large garage doors. It poured gray and thick and quickly turned to black in a single column that poured backwards into the sky. Had it flooded the ceiling of the bay?

  He stepped in, seeing only the backs of his fellow firefighters and handheld fire extinguishers in their hands. That alone meant the fire was small and he wasn't that worried about the station. Most of the bay was as fireproof as it could get: concrete floors, metal lockers, and even their gear that sat ready was mostly fire resistant. Aside from exploding one of the engines of the trucks, there wasn't much that could ignite. It was quickly clear that all those gathered around were looking down. A few had their SCBA on so they could get in close without breathing the smoke.

  Whatever it was was on the floor.

  Not dressed for any occasion with fire, Ronan tried to hang back. Soon it was clear they'd quickly dispensed with whatever flames were there. With the smoke no longer being produced, the last of it rolled away. Rex headed to the wall and flipped on the fan, only then seeing that Ronan was there. "Dude, you need to come see this."

  Another quick burst of fire retardant from the canister blew out the last of the smoke and Ronan looked down. A burned effigy lay on the floor. It was wearing poorly stitched clothes, but they were made to look like fire gear. On the back of the fake turnout coat was the name "KELLY."

  "It could mean me," Aidan offered, stepping back away from the detritus that still floated in the air.

  "It was meant to make smoke. It burned like a mother," Rex offered.

  Ronan stepped forward, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. "It wasn't you. It's me."

  With a dead serious expression on his face that Aidan wasn't known for, his brother asked, "Is this about Tierney?"

  "It has to be," Ronan answered.

  Rex looked up, seeming to understand the dire situation. "I thought I saw the two of you leaving together last night."

  "You did." There was no point in denying it now. What Tierney had suspected was true: People had seen them together and seen them leaving together. If Elliot had been there, maybe this was his response.

  But throwing fire into the fire station didn't scare Ronan. This was an irritation, a red flag, but not a real danger.

  Just then the door slammed open and the chief came out of the station house, billows of smoke following him. "Get your asses in here. We need suppression."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tierney was wiping down the counter at the bar when her phone dinged again. Even before she looked at it, she could see that it was Ronan, once again asking her to meet up.

  She'd already told him this wasn't a good idea. Tierney was about to message him back to stop bothering her when the couple at the back corner table said something loud that grabbed her attention. Wayne Davies voice always grated on her nerves.

  They didn't need her, but they'd pulled her attention away from the phone and she decided it was maybe better to just not answer. Maybe then Ronan would understand that she wasn't going to put a target on him, even if he didn't believe her.

  The seemingly mundane activities of taking care of the bar were crawling under her skin. Sean wasn't home. He was living an alternate life with her friend—with people he'd never met before a week ago. How long was he going to be there? And she was constantly checking everywhere for signs of Elliot.

  This was exactly what he wanted. He just needed to show up often enough, hurt her often enough, to let her know he could get to her any time, anywhere. She was constantly on edge even if he wasn't thinking about her at all. It worked, too well.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she undid the lock this morning. She'd debated between looking around and seeing the asshole who was watching her, or not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that she knew.

  Instead, she'd come inside and had a perfectly normal day, except for the part where she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The lunch crowd had come and gone and she'd seen nothing unusual. Had Elliot been here for the Crawl and then gone home to New York? Should she follow him in the news and on social media, so that she might know those times when he wasn't here? Maybe
she could breathe a little easier then.

  The bell over the door rang as someone came through, but she was still eyeing Wayne and Jessica Winters at the back table. There was only one other table occupied now by two brothers who had lunch here every Sunday. But Tierney had her suspicion that the duo in the far corner were having an affair. She knew for a fact that they were both officially with other people, and she knew Wayne had a penchant for pretty, but married, women.

  "I'll be right with you," she called out toward the door even though she didn't look.

  As her patron finally came into view, she saw that it was Ronan. In an attempt to act normal, she waited until he was sitting on a barstool in front of her before she told him, "You shouldn't be here. You're supposed to stay away."

  "I had to tell you something, and you weren't responding to my texts."

  Of course, she wasn't responding to his texts. Just then the bell rang from the kitchen behind her. Carter had the burgers ready for the back table. She raised an eyebrow at Ronan as if to say he'd better be gone when she got back. Reaching up into the window, she grabbed the two hot plates with a towel and headed out to deliver the food.

  It took two more runs to get everything the couple had forgotten to order the first time, which again, made her think they were having an affair. Or that Wayne knew she hated him. She'd never seen two people less familiar with their own burger orders.

  When finally she was back behind the bar, she turned to Ronan, still sitting in the same place. In need of something to do, and normalcy, or at least the appearance of it, Tierney admitted he wasn’t leaving. She reached into the fridge under the bar, pulled out his favorite beer and popped the top before setting it in front of him. If she smacked it down with just a little too much force that wasn't on her. At least it hadn't frothed over.

  He eyed it for a moment as if understanding what she'd done. Then he picked it up, took a sip, and pulled a folded, printed page from his pocket. He slid it across the bar to her as if he were on some clandestine case. But the case he was on was hers and, with all the people around town who knew about it, clandestine was hardly the word she could apply to it.