Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  "You're up early," I say.

  She digs into her bag, pulling out her laptop and setting it on the table. "Actually, I haven't been to sleep yet. I'm glad you're awake, though. I wanted to show you something before I left." Her gaze slides to me, then back to her laptop. "I booked a ten a.m. flight. I figured our work was done and I should give you your privacy."

  "Ha!"

  "What, ha? It's been a tough few days and I know you have a lot to absorb. You don't need me underfoot. You're finally getting your wish.” She offers a cheery grin. “I’m leaving you alone. "

  From the beginning, that very first phone call, I wanted her to go away. Why would I want to speak with a reporter from North Dakota? For God’s sake, why would anyone from North Dakota care about me? I told her as much and, as I recall, hung up on her. She called back a few days later. And then a few days later, again and again. On and on it went until she bullied her way into my life with ladyfingers.

  The ladyfingers did it. That took moxie. The good kind. The slick kind that made me think this was a smart girl.

  "Please," I say, "in the beginning, I begged you to leave me alone. And here we are."

  “Maybe I was a tad persistent. Speaking of…” She turns the laptop toward me. "I’m not sure if you still want to go ahead with the story, but I took the liberty of drafting something."

  "You've got it done already?"

  "Not done. Drafted. I'll e-mail it to you so you can take your time with it and decide what you want to do. It’s up to you, Rose. If you tell me you don’t want it published, I’ll honor that."

  I peer at the screen and note the page count at the bottom. “You’ve been busy.”

  She nods. "I wanted to get it all down while it was fresh in my mind. Plus, I had all that emotional adrenaline going and I didn't want to waste it. Take a look.”

  On the screen is a title page. Into the Fire by RaeLynn Demming and Rose Trudeau.

  I consider that a moment and something inside nudges me. Pokes through the chaotic haze like the sun I was so happy to see when I stepped outside. Poke, poke, poke. It’s there, that not-so-tiny part of me that went dormant eleven months ago.

  Poke.

  Poke.

  Poke.

  A vision flashes. It’s me. Standing in a ballroom. Fundraiser for Anna Carlyle, soon-to-be-senator from the great state of California. Beside me is Jessica Parlez, supermodel turned actress who made fifty-five million the previous year. I’m about to introduce her to my husband.

  Her new lawyer.

  There, peeping through the haze, is me. Alive and active and purposeful.

  I see you.

  My throat thickens and I raise my hand to it, stroking until I feel the pressure ease. “You’re—" The word comes out a croak and I clear my throat. Try again. “You’re sharing your byline?”

  “Without you, this doesn’t happen. I wanted you to be a part of the final product. Last night, I kept thinking about the story. About the impact on your life. That’s what’s important. Not my career.”

  This girl. Too much. I waggle my hand at the screen. “That's very kind of you. But no. You wrote it, your name goes on it."

  “My name is on it. And so is yours. You won't win this one, Rose."

  Like I said, moxie. “You used to be afraid of me. What happened?"

  At that, she laughs, and the sound is so pure and lovely it fills me with something dangerously close to happiness. Something resembling the old Rose Trudeau. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.

  I see you.

  "What happened is, I figured out you’re a big softy under the Queen Rose act.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “Somehow I think George Hopper will disagree. Probably my stepson as well. You should know, I got a call last night. I’d reached out to a private investigator who worked for Simon—the same one who vetted you.”

  “You had a PI check me out?”

  “Of course. How else was I supposed to know if you could be trusted?”

  At this, she laughs. I’m glad I can entertain my young friend. Friend. The word feels…good. Very good.

  I wave a hand. “We’re getting off track. My investigator knows some folks at police headquarters. He made a few calls regarding George. They put him in isolation last night.”

  “Suicide watch.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s all so crazy, isn’t it?”

  A lot of truth there. “It is indeed. He also found out something else. Something George told the detectives.” I meet her gaze, making sure I have her attention. “The man on the beach the other day? The one who threatened you? George sent him.”

  Her mouth drops open and I reach to pat her hand.

  “He told the detectives he’d read about the man breaking into your apartment. He thought if he sent someone it would scare you off. He doesn’t know you.”

  This is met with silence-—an absolute miracle if there ever was one. In the time I’ve known this girl, silence hasn’t necessarily been part of her repertoire.

  “I can’t believe that dog sent someone to scare me.”

  “Well, honey, welcome to Hollywood.”

  This wins me another laugh. A sound I enjoy hearing.

  "Thank you, Rose. For telling me. That would have bugged me. Not knowing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Have you spoken to Jeremy?"

  "No. I need time there.”

  I'm not one for freezing loved ones out, but I need a few days to sort through what comes next for me and Jeremy. He's not the man I thought he was and I must learn to love this new version of him.

  Rae reaches for me, laying a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Rose. About Simon and Jeremy. All of it."

  "Don't be. None of it is your doing. My life—unbeknownst to me—already had cracks. You've allowed me to recognize that. It’s an opportunity. A chance to start over, I suppose. Figure out who I'll be in twenty years.."

  She blinks. One, two, three times. Blink blink blink. Crying. Between the two of us, we are what Phillip would call a hot mess.

  For once, I don't mind.

  “The story," I say, handing her the napkin under my mug. "I'd like to print it before reading, if you don't mind."

  She dabs the napkin against her eyes, then uses it as a tissue, honking loud enough to wake up my neighbor. Hot mess.

  “Sorry.” She holds the napkin up. “I’ll, um, keep this.”

  “Please do.”

  “Anyhoo, we can print it before I go, and then I'll e-mail you the file or you can mark up the printed copy. Either way."

  "Excellent. Now, about this flight. I think you'll need to change it." Her mouth opens, a protest clearly on the way, but I cut her off. “After you and Phillip left last night, I made calls. I'll give you the finer details later, but I’ve chatted with the editor at Vanity Fair. She didn't make any promises, but she would like to speak with you. Quickly. As you can imagine, she heard about George’s arrest.”

  Her eyes are two lovely brown saucers. “Vanity. Fair? Are you. Kidding?"

  What is it with young people and this staccato manner of speaking? “In fact. I am. Not."

  “Yowza. I can’t believe you got this done so fast.”

  I see you.

  "Yes. She was actually quite intrigued. But truthfully, I think we should shop this thing. If you’re interested in freelancing, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of offers. Or, if you want something more permanent, you might take less money for the Grande piece, but land yourself a job. Whatever you do, and forgive me if I'm overstepping, you need to leave that newspaper. Those people don't appreciate you or your talent."

  The words sail from my mouth. For the first time in nearly a year, it’s effortless. No thought, just long dormant instinct and I want more of it. Much, much more.

  “You’re right,” Rae says. “I’m down to my last eighty bucks, but I decided last night that I'm going to resign. They don't want me there anyway, I'm a distraction, and the townspeopl
e sure don't want me around. I’ll have to stay long enough to testify in the goon’s trial, though. Make sure he gets what's coming to him."

  “Nonsense. Take it from the wife of a lawyer. You don't need to live there for that. You could go back for your testimony."

  Her bottom lip rolls out as she ponders the suggestion. “True.” She sits forward, rests her elbow on the table, and props her chin in her hand. “I could move back in with my folks for a while. Figure out my next move.” She perks up. “Hey, this could be my new beginning, too. Thanks to you."

  My husband’s voice drifts back to me. Thanks to you, my Rosie. Each time I swayed someone to his roster, he’d gently smack my behind and say those words.

  And then I’d threaten to cut his tongue out if he called me Rosie again.

  We’d laugh over it, fully aware he’d continue calling me Rosie and I’d continue allowing it. Rosie equaled success. For both of us.

  “No, my friend,” I tell Rae. “This is all you. I was just along for the ride. Once you sell the story, it might hold you over for a while. You could take time off. I've always thought quiet introspection was best for making life-altering decisions."

  “Time off?” she spits as if I’ve insulted her. “I’ve never been able to do that. I've always worked. I have bills."

  This girl may need my counsel more than I thought. “And your point is?” I wave my hand. “You might need to get out of North Dakota. Take a trip. Explore a little. You’re young. Take advantage of that."

  “It all sounds great, but it’s not me. I’d get bored in three days.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “But last night I was thinking about all the people affected by this fire. Hundreds and hundreds of families."

  "Between the deceased and the injured, it's horrifying. Are you thinking a follow-up piece?"

  “I don't know. Something. It could be a series of interviews. I've always wanted to do a podcast." She pecks her finger against the air. “And…and…if I could hook up with one of the larger publications that already does podcasts, it would be a no-brainer. Rose.” She’s leaning in now, the words coming in a rush. “I know I've invaded your life and asked more of you than any person has a right to."

  Oh, boy. Here it comes. Whatever it is she’s about to say, I want in. If it helps me to feel this way every morning—or even a millimeter of this—I’m in.

  “Oh,” I say, “I see you.”

  She shakes her head. “Wait. What?”

  “Nothing. What is it you want to ask?”

  She holds up two hands. “Okay. Just think about this. What would you think about being my cohost? You bring so much more of the human element to it. You were there, Rose. These families, the victims, they'll connect with that. It could be amazeballs."

  A podcast. Me? Off the top of my head, I can come up with plenty of reasons not to. I’m terrible with technology, I’m better in person. They’re all there, streaming at me, and yet…

  "I'm not moving to North Dakota. I’m too damned old for snow. If you want to do this, we do it from California. Frankly, you can live in the cottage until you decide where you want to wind up. We could even convert one of the empty bedrooms to a studio. You'll have to get all the equipment. I know nothing about that. I'll donate the space and you'll outfit it."

  She shakes her head so hard it should spin off. “Rose! I couldn't. That's too much."

  “I’m not driving downtown all the time for these podcasts. If you want me, you have to live here.” I mimic one of her silly grins and bat my eyes. “It'll be easier. We can sit right here every day and brainstorm ideas. Rae and Rose. Rose and Rae. A team."

  "It's kind of crazy."

  "Well." I eyeball my empty coffee mug. “Sometimes we all need a little crazy. Now, take your suitcase back to the guesthouse while I grab coffee for me and lemon water for you—your skin looks dehydrated, dear—and we’ll make a plan. For both of us."

  * * *

  The End

  * * *

  Want more mysteries by Adrienne Giordano? Click here to check out the Lucie Rizzo Mystery series.

  * * *

  Read on to enjoy an excerpt of Dog Collar Crime.

  Dog Collar Crime

  * * *

  Book one in The Lucie Rizzo Mystery series:

  * * *

  Chapter One

  * * *

  On a lovely March day—if such a thing existed in Chicago—Lucia Rizzo led Miss Elizabeth, a Yorkie possessing the confidence of a runway model with a good boob job, across State Street’s lunchtime traffic and was nearly pancaked.

  “Slow down!” she hollered at the errant driver.

  A terrified Miss Elizabeth cowered on the sidewalk and Lucie scooped her up for a nuzzle. “Poor baby. I’m so sorry.”

  The dog sniffed, then licked Lucie’s chin. “You’re a sweet girl.”

  Another lick.

  Maybe this dog walking thing wasn’t so bad. Heaven knew the investment bankers in Lucie’s old office never got their faces licked during the workday. And if they had, surely a sexual harassment suit would follow.

  Speaking of investment banking… “Okay, girl, playtime is over. You need to poop so I can get home and look for a job.”

  She glanced at her watch. No time for delays in an already packed schedule.

  The sound of heavy breathing pelted Lucie’s ears and she glanced over her shoulder to see a man on her heels. Some people had no respect for personal space. She gave him the Lucie Rizzo version of the narrow-eyed back-off-bub look. When the man didn’t respond to her obvious warning, she darted ahead, but Miss Elizabeth flopped to the ground with an effort that sent her sequined barrette dancing in the sunlight. Fabulous.

  Lucie stared at the dog. “Get moving, girl.”

  The dog could have been a statue.

  A man wearing a red warm-up jacket strode toward them, his eyes focused on Miss Elizabeth in a way that caused a prickle of unease to snake up Lucie’s spine. Another space invader?

  She reached for the dog, but hands clamped on her shoulders from behind and shoved her sideways. Her heart jackhammered, and the shove carried her step by step by step until the side of a red Camry loomed in her vision. Uh-oh. Incoming. With the force of a line drive hitting a windshield, Lucie plowed headfirst into the parked car.

  “Ow!”

  Pain slammed into her as she landed on all fours, her right knee taking the blow from the pavement before she rolled to her back. Swirling white birds flapped above. She blinked, realizing they weren’t birds but white spots from the whack to her head.

  Had she been mugged? Couldn’t be. She didn’t have a purse.

  Panic forced the hour-old kraut dog to lurch up her throat. She shifted to her knees, propped her hands under her and waited for the evacuation of her lunch. She let out a slow breath and stared at her hands.

  No vomit. Good.

  No leash. Bad.

  No dog. Very bad.

  * * *

  Want more? Don’t miss the rest of Dog Collar Crime.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Mary Jo, my cousin and a wonderful example of strength, independence, and love. Twenty years my senior, MJ showed me that women had powerful voices and that we didn’t need a husband to give us a fulfilling life. She was, in short, my person and her influence (even if she didn’t know it) prompted me to crave new experiences. To dream beyond the life I knew. It was one of many gifts she gave me.

  * * *

  We lost MJ five years ago and up until the very end she was still that fine example of strength and dignity and soldiering on. In those last days, she gave me yet another gift in Rose Trudeau. At the time, I had no idea how Rose would challenge me, inspire me, and introduce me to a creative yearning I’d never realized I had. So, thank you, MJ, and hopefully the audio version of Into the Fire meets with your approval.

  * * *

  To my family, thank you for your patience while I worked out my emotions regarding this project and found the nerve to actual
ly tackle it. I only hope I did it justice.

  * * *

  To the team of Megan Records and Martha Trachtenberg, thank you, thank you, thank you for your editorial guidance. Elizabeth Mackey, you somehow crawled into my brain and gave me the cover I’d hoped for. You’re amazing.

  * * *

  Thank you to Khristine Hvam and the crew at Hvam Productions for the support and encouragement on the amazing audio book journey. Thanks also to Jeremy Kollross at Gremlen Studios for your patience with the newbie.

  * * *

  Special thanks to Mateo Calle, a terrific baseball player and an even kinder person, for jumping in and fixing up my Spanish. Any mistakes are mine.

  * * *

  Liz Semkiu and Amy Remus, my beta-readers supreme, thank you for catching those little details that I always seem to miss.

  * * *

  Thank you, thank you, thank you to my tremendous readers who keep me doing the job I love. Without you, Rose Trudeau never makes her appearance and I’d have missed out on a truly unforgettable experience.

  * * *

  As usual, thank you to my husband. I thought you were crazy when you suggested I narrate the audio version of Into the Fire. I still have so much to learn, but that singular experience pushed me farther than I ever imagined I could go. Without your constant support and encouragement, I’d have never found the courage.

  * * *

  To my son, you make me smile every day. Thank you for being the constant reminder to stay present and thankful.

  A Note to Readers