She waited, holding her breath as long as possible as she carefully scanned every inch of the place surrounding her car. Nothing. Meg finally realized she heard birds. They wouldn’t be singing if someone was hiding nearby, would they? A soft sound jolted her attention to her right. She saw a rolling pinecone. Up into the tree above her, a squirrel sat on the lowest limb, frozen as it watched her with brown, beady eyes. Its tail flicked once, twice. It scolded her, then dashed down the trunk and away.
Sighing with relief and sure that whoever the hell had a gun had left, she stepped from the shelter of the trees and toward her car. Her hands shook as she reached for the door and opened it. They still trembled as she tried to shove the key into the ignition. She repeatedly looked out the windows and checked the rearview and side mirrors before finally managing to get the car turned around. She pressed the accelerator and tore out of the woods like a bat out of hell. Another stupid cliché, she knew, but it sure as hell fit the scenario. She wanted to go home. Home was where she always felt most secure and comfortable. Or had, anyway.
As she sped toward the old Victorian, toward Promise House, she half expected a hidden state trooper to emerge from the woods, lights flashing and siren whining. It would be just her luck to get ticketed for reckless driving. But there was nothing and nobody out here. The road was deserted. She eased up on the accelerator but still tightly grasped the steering wheel, knuckles white, back ramrod straight and gaze constantly checking the mirrors. She licked her lips. The pounding of her heart had eased somewhat but now she felt sick to her stomach.
Who had shot at her? Why? Had it been an accident? She should’ve stopped on her way out of the woods. At least, long enough at the entrance to the dirt path she’d taken from the highway, to see if she could spot any recent tire tracks. She snorted. What a stupid idea. She was no tracker. No investigator, nor any sort of forensic specialist. She wouldn’t be able to tell one tire track from another and she’d probably get shot at again while doing it.
“Stupid,” she muttered, glancing once again into the rearview mirror, then each side mirror. Nothing. She began to shiver. Not from cold, but from the release of adrenaline, her stomach now a tight ball of knots and butterflies. The queasiness had dissipated, thank God for small favors.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, the tension had eased somewhat, but only slightly. She was home! What if she had just imagined—
Meg had just put the car in park and turned off the engine when she saw a shadow of movement in her backyard—there in the semi-darkness between the back of the house and the side of the separate garage. What the hell? It was just the breeze moving through the trees. It had to be. Large mature ash and cedar were dotted around the shelter’s grounds, along with a couple of birch and a Flowering Dogwood. The red maples were her favorite, but all the trees provided welcome shade in the summertime, even though in the autumn falling leaves made a mess. Right now several leaves were dropping and twirling from the trees as she peered into the shadows in between with a frown. Was her imagination running on overdrive or had she actually seen something?
She shook her head. She had to calm down. She was just a normal, everyday person. No one was trying to kill her, and she was going to make herself crazy if she kept this up. But what about the shots in the woods? Should she call the police? Call Liam? No, she didn’t know Liam’s cell phone number. The police? Not exactly the GBI, but she knew how fast information got around. The police would likely know by now that she was a person of interest, if not a suspect, in the arson of Promise House. She didn’t necessarily want to draw more attention to herself but . . .
She shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to stave off the sudden chill racing through her. She didn’t like this, any of it. Not one little bit. But she couldn’t sit in her car, frightened like a timid rabbit. She had work to do. Meg gazed back toward the house. She was supposed to meet Liam at the firehouse, but she didn’t really want to go anymore. She didn’t want to be around other people and socialize, pretending everything was all right. That she hadn’t just been shot at. Her lips set in a grim line. She might be hallucinating something in her backyard after the shock, but that much definitely hadn’t been an accident. And Liam? Sure, something about him compelled her to crave his presence. Not just something. Everything about him pulled her toward the man. But now wasn’t the time to start a relationship with anyone. She swallowed. She’d told Liam she’d be at the firehouse soon. He might even be worrying about her by now. Meg didn’t want to be around a bunch of strangers, most of whom would probably be judging her, but she really didn’t want to just sit there in her car either. Just in case she was right about the back yard.
She cleared her throat and then stiffened her resolve, opened the car door, and slowly stepped out, her gaze riveted toward the shadows that the mid-afternoon sun cast in her backyard. She’d probably just seen a tree branch dipping in the breeze. Shadows danced back there all the time. But today, with her senses in overdrive, it wasn’t unexpected for her to think the worst, was it?
Heart pounding, she slowly walked a few more steps down her driveway in front of the garage, peering into the backyard. Every step exposed a little bit more of that yard. Everything looked normal. She glanced down at the hedges lining the side of the house, nothing unusual there, other than the fact that they needed to be trimmed. The picnic tables sat in their usual places. The grass could use a mowing but other than that, everything was as she had seen it yesterday, down to the hose that needed to be coiled back onto its holder. She turned away to enter the back door of the house. That was when she saw it. Near the corner of the house, lying in the dirt of the flower bed. It looked like a garage door opener. She didn’t have one. Casting another wary glance through the backyard and seeing nothing, Meg bent to get a closer look at the object. No, it wasn’t a garage door opener, but a small, square device about the size of one. A small wire with a round ball on the end extended from one corner. What the hell was that?
It didn’t look like any remote control device she’d seen any of the kids around the neighborhood using for their remote control cars, although one of the kids down the block also had a small drone. But his remote device was larger. This one didn’t have any toggle switches, different colored buttons, or a digital panel. It was just a small, boxlike device, with one plain white button at the top and a small inverted bubble at the bottom. Like a clicker, but she’d never seen one like this.
It didn’t look like it had been there long. In fact, it looked a bit damp. From the fire hoses? She bent down to pick it up and examine it more closely, but then had second thoughts. Maybe she should put it in a plastic bag and give it to Liam, just in case. Taking one last glance around the backyard, she stepped toward the back door that opened into the kitchen. That door was not original to the house but a kitchen door more familiar with her own growing up years: wood on the bottom, multi-pane glass on top with filmy white curtains. She inserted her key into the door lock and then the deadbolt and pushed the door open. Her senses were immediately assaulted with the smells of fire damage.
Depressed, still anxious about her experience in the woods, and upset about her ex-husband, and Liam’s suggestion that the guys at the firehouse would help her, Meg headed for the small kitchen drawer next to the refrigerator. She pulled it open and grabbed a box of aluminum foil, gallon-sized freezer bags, and quart-sized zip sandwich bags. She pulled two of the sandwich-sized bags out of its box and returned outside, leaving the kitchen door ajar. Opening one of the bags, she put her hand into the other, grasped the device and slid it inside, sealing it shut.
Holding the bag, she reentered her kitchen, staring dismally at the damage. Meg made a split-second decision; she didn’t really want to be there after all. Besides, she had to get this device to Liam in person. He’d likely have a far better idea of what to do with it, and although that meant going to the firehouse, that option was still more attractive than talking to the police again.
With a sigh, she left her house, locked the kitchen door behind her, and returned to her car. She placed the plastic bag on the passenger seat. Maybe she’d just stop by the firehouse for a few minutes and then go on to the Red Cross, find out how her residents were doing. They weren’t just residents to her. Meg cared for each of them, deeply. That thought took her to another. She had lost sight of her overall purpose.
It would be easy to think only of herself, to wallow in self-pity, but she needed to be thankful that she was alive. Her house hadn’t burned down and her residents and the community needed her. She would stay busy, not let what was happening in her life right now discourage her from doing what she needed to do. They needed her, especially Amy, Aliyah, Tanisha, and Monica. They couldn’t stay at the Red Cross facility more than a couple of days and so Promise House had to be back up and running as soon as possible.
She couldn’t let them down. She scowled as she sat behind the steering wheel, shut her car door, and shoved the key into the ignition. She’d be damned if she allowed anyone to frighten her away.
15
Liam
Liam glanced at his watch. Where had Meg disappeared to? She’d said she only had a couple of errands to run, but maybe she had changed her mind about coming to the firehouse altogether. It’d been more than ninety minutes. The guys were clustered in the kitchen, arguing over recipes, which amused him to no end. If he had been in a better mood, he might have laughed about it; a bunch of macho, testosterone-riddled guys arguing over which Crockpots, pots, and recipes to use to help out Meg and Promise House.
He’d arrived a while ago, explained the situation, and without even a moment’s hesitation, the guys had begun to offer ideas. They were a good bunch and he got along well with them. While he did quite a bit of traveling through different counties in southern Georgia, he always felt most home at this firehouse with the crew of Engine Co. 81. It didn’t hurt that he and couple of the guys had gone to the same high school way back when.
“Hey, Liam, what do you think about Belgian chicken booyah?” one of the guys called out from the kitchen area. Liam sat on the couch on the other side of the room, only half-watching a muted football game on television.
Liam turned toward Dean and made a face. “What the hell is Belgian chicken booyah?”
“Hey, we made it all the time for church gatherings where I grew up.”
“Yeah, and where was that? Booyahville?” another of the guys asked, to another round of laughter.
“For your information, northeastern Wisconsin,” Dean replied, shaking his head. “And it’s good; a combination of chicken and beef stew meat, corn, carrots, anything else you want to throw in . . . booyah!”
The guys laughed and Liam smiled. He heard the door open behind him and turned as a female voice uttered a greeting.
“Hey, guys!”
He was oddly disappointed to find that it wasn’t Meg, but Sloane Maxwell. Sloane and Captain Mason Rawlings had just announced their engagement. He’d saved her from a burning building just a few months ago. He’d heard bits and pieces of the story from the guys. Apparently, Sloane had worked for an antiquities dealer that ended up turning out to be one of the leaders of a human-trafficking ring. He did know that one of Meg’s current residents at Promise House was a young woman who had been kidnapped and kept in a shipping container. From what Liam understood, she wasn’t quite ready to move on and had sought sanctuary at Meg’s place. Meg had been a big help to Amy and Sloane both, and as soon as Mason had got back from the fire that morning he’d called Sloane, and here she was.
Liam nodded in greeting as Sloane brushed past him, laughter bubbling from her as she offered greetings all around. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned, rib-sticking chili and cornbread?”
“We’ll make that, too!” Jeremy, the rookie, grinned.
Liam should’ve known that the guys would all pitch in to support Promise House. In a small community like Monroe, neighbors still helped neighbors. Maybe that was one of the things that attracted him to the guys at Engine Co. 81 and the town of Monroe ever since he had arrived in town as a junior in high school from Baltimore. At first, he’d been startled by the outgoing friendliness; people always saying hello, stopping to chat even though you didn’t know them from Adam. It had definitely taken him a while to get used to, to stop being suspicious and wary of ulterior motives. Turned out there weren’t any. They didn’t want to rob you or scam you. They were just friendly people.
He and the guys often joked that Monroe was a modern-day Mayberry, a television throwback to the 1950s or early 1960s. He looked over at the guys. The bustle of activity continued in the kitchen, but he couldn’t join in. Feeling anxious and restless, Liam rose from the couch and strolled toward the open garage on the other side of the building, the pumper truck glistening and shining, freshly washed. His glance took in the turnout gear hanging on hooks on one wall, the tools, extra hoses, and spare equipment on the other. It calmed him a little, looking over the equipment, all neat and in order. He never got over the feeling of belonging that he felt when he stepped into a firehouse. It was like no other place in the world.
He walked toward the open doors and watched idly as traffic passed in front of the station. The slight breeze tugged on the flag out in front, gently pulling at the ropes, the iron clips gently tapping against the metal pole. It was such a peaceful afternoon, but his mood darkened further when what had happened to Meg so far entered his thoughts again. Why now? What had she done to invoke such animosity from someone? He was no stranger to troubles and he certainly had enough of his own, but to this degree?
Someone had set her house on fire. Killed one of her tenants, or residents, in the basement. There was a mystery extra insurance policy on the business, then someone had taken out a life insurance policy on her. Sure, her ex-husband denied it, but he had a feeling that had been one of the errands that she needed to take care of. Maybe she had been delayed at her accountant’s office or she was held up on the phone with some life insurance company. He knew how convoluted, time-consuming, and frustrating that could be.
As he stood in the wide paved driveway, a dark blue Honda Accord pulled in, pulling off to the side where the guys parked their cars. He recognized Meg behind the wheel and he watched her get out, only belatedly realizing he was smiling as he lifted his hand in greeting. His bad mood had gone with his first glance of her. He stepped toward her, ready to say hi, maybe even give her a hug and then guide her inside—until he got a good look at her face. Meg’s face was pale, her eyes wide, almost wild. What the fuck had happened in ninety minutes?
“Meg,” he said, quickly stepping to her side as she closed her car door. “What’s wrong?”
She glanced up at him, opened her mouth, and then closed it. She wordlessly extended a small plastic bag toward him. One of those sandwich-sized zipper bags. He took it with a frown of confusion. “What’s this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
He didn’t look closely at the object in the plastic bag before he reached a hand out and placed it on her shoulder. “Meg, what happened?”
She took a deep, tremulous breath and blinked several times. Her eyes were wet with the sheen of tears. He stood, waiting. She was safe here now, and she’d tell him when she was ready.
“After you left, I was going to go run some errands, but I decided that maybe a short drive would serve me better, help me settle my thoughts, plan the steps I needed to take . . . anyway, I decided to go down by the river, you know, those scattered picnic areas along the river bottom?”
He nodded. She was babbling, twisting her fingers together as she spoke. Something had clearly spooked her. But at the river? He’d gone down there many times over the past few years, fishing or just to sit. It was a nice place to spend some time alone.
“I was standing by the riverbank. All of a sudden, someone shot at me—”
His eyebrows shot up. “Shot at you? Someone fucking shot a gun at you
?” What the hell was going on? “Are you all right?” he passed his gaze over her, from the top of her head down to her dirty tennis shoes, then back again. “Are you sure?” The look she gave him emphasized the stupidity of the question.
“At first I thought it might just be a hunter, mistaking me for a deer or something . . .”
“Deer season doesn’t open for a couple of weeks yet.” Liam’s fingers twitched as he realized the implications of his statement.
“That’s what I thought, but you know . . . it’s not uncommon for people to jump the gun around here—” she cringed. “Poor choice of words. Anyway, I shouted out to let whomever it was to know that I was, you know, a human? But then another shot rang out.” She looked up at him. “I couldn’t believe it. The thought of someone taking a shot at me? I thought that maybe whoever was shooting hadn’t heard me, so I headed for the trees. Two shots followed even after I got to the tree line.”
She stopped talking and took in a deep breath, leaning against her car for support.
“You call the police?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want more attention.”
“You’ve got a call the police, Meg!”
“But what if it was just a hunter?”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” she sighed. “But the GBI already suspects me of arson. I have no idea if they think I’m the one who killed Tim, or arranged it, and it’s painfully obvious to me that Hodges doesn’t believe anything I have to say. I have enough trouble without—”
“Meg, if you don’t call the police, I will,” he said, his voice firm. “After all that’s happened, you can’t honestly believe that someone shooting at you down by the river was an accident?” He could tell she didn’t want to think about it, recognizing the signs of denial. Problem was, that was only going to make her more of a target. Meg shook her head and shifted, increasing the distance between them as she pressed herself harder against the side of her car. She bit her lip, her gaze dropping. “Meg . . .”
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 11