He didn’t want to see the destruction. He might not have started the fires, but his earthquake had completed the disaster. He didn’t want to see them bagging bodies and towing disabled trucks. He didn’t want to hear crying from the few survivors, and he sure as hell didn’t want to see who’d survived—because it would make him think of those who hadn’t.
Maybe someone could close the back door of the ambulance.
Hannah sat on the little bench in front of him, trying to shine a light in his eyes.
He brushed her hand away. “Hannah. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah, what do I sound like?”
“Like you have gravel instead of lungs. Look at me.”
He didn’t want to look at her. He wanted to snap and tell her to get the hell away from him before he hurt her, too.
But then her hand caught his chin, and just like every other time she touched him, he couldn’t move. He’d gone so long without a gentle touch that even now, after six weeks, some small part of him still couldn’t believe that she wanted to touch him.
Her tiny flashlight clicked back on. “Let me check your eyes.”
Her voice was gentle, encouraging, but it carried a note of command. A mother’s voice.
He looked at her. Blue eyes, their brightness dimmed a bit from exhaustion. Blond hair cut just above her shoulders, gone flat and tucked behind her ears. She’d lost her coat somewhere along the line and sat there in a T-shirt, worn red suspenders, and reflective pants. Soot smudges were everywhere. He wanted to pull her into his lap and not let go, to reassure himself that there was something in his life that couldn’t disappear between one heartbeat and the next.
Then the light was in his eyes and he couldn’t see anything.
“You really need a trip to the hospital,” she said quietly.
“My eyes are fine.” He did sound like he had gravel for lungs. He cleared his throat. It hurt. He wasn’t sure whether to blame that on the near-drowning or the smoke inhalation. Probably both.
“I’m not worried about your eyes.” She lowered the flashlight and clicked it off. “You need a chest X-ray.”
No, he didn’t. He might not be all the way healed, but Nick’s power over air had done its work. What he needed was to get out of here.
What he wanted was to hold Hannah’s hand against his face and not let go. What he wanted was to tell her everything.
And yet, he didn’t.
“I’m not going to the hospital.” He wanted to fidget, but there was nothing to fidget with. He dug his fingers into the edge of the stretcher mattress.
“I don’t know how you’re sitting up talking to me. Are you aware we were calling for someone to put a tube down your throat so you could breathe?”
Michael didn’t look at her. The panic of the moment he’d woken was still too fresh. He wondered if he would’ve been able to stop the earthquake if he’d woken up strapped to a gurney with plastic tubing shoved into his lungs.
Hannah finally sat back, letting her hands fall to her lap. “They’ll make you sign something, if you refuse treatment.”
Was that supposed to be intimidating? “Fine. I’ll sign whatever so I can get out of here.”
She frowned, and Michael kept his eyes on the rack beside her head, regretting the sharpness of his tone. His fingers were lined with soot and dirt. It felt as if his swim in the creek had happened hours ago. Days, even.
She didn’t move. He didn’t either.
Silence fell between them, punctuated by shouted orders from outside along with bursts of static-laced information from her radio. He didn’t know the codes or the lingo, but then he heard, “I’ve got three possible DOAs in house two. Request assistance. Over.”
Michael rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t know which one was house two, but he knew all his neighbors. Would it be the Stapleys, the young couple who’d only lived here a year, the ones with a new baby? Or maybe the Mellisarios. They had three kids. Sarah, John, and little Andrew. Michael remembered them coming to the house for Halloween—
His chest tightened, and he worried he was going to lose it again, like he had in the front yard. He tried twice to make his voice work. “Can you—are you allowed to turn that off?”
She turned a dial on the radio. It didn’t go silent, but almost. “Your house is the only one that wasn’t actively burning. How did you stop it?”
He swallowed. He’d never be able to sit here and lie to her for long, but at least this answer was easy. “I don’t know.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
He remembered going through the back door. He remembered crawling through smoke and darkness. He remembered breaking glass and splintering wood.
He shook his head.
“We found you in the kitchen,” said Hannah. “Do you remember getting there?”
“Someone broke in while I was looking.” Michael looked at her. “I think they did something . . .” He tried to force his brain to work, but his moments in the house were unclear, his thoughts as fragile and fleeting as wisps of smoke. “Did you find anyone else in there?”
“No.” She paused. “You might have heard me and Irish. We broke in to search the house. We smashed out the windows to let smoke out, then came through the door.”
Could that have been it? Could he have mistaken their rescue for an attack?
Michael drew back and rubbed at his face again. Sweat and dirt made his eyes sting.
Hannah spoke again, her voice quiet. “If you won’t go to the hospital, would you at least let me call a paramedic to listen to your lungs? I don’t want—”
“Hannah. No.” He started to shift off the stretcher.
She caught his arm. “Me, then. God, at the very least, let me get a pulse-ox to make sure you’re actually getting some oxygen.”
He sighed and eased back onto the thin mattress. He wondered if she realized how easily she could get him to follow orders, just by letting him feel her skin against his.
Hannah flipped on a machine behind her, then snapped a plastic clip onto his right index finger. She pulled a stethoscope out of a tiny cabinet, then shifted to sit beside him on the stretcher.
It put her thigh against his, and even though he wore soaked jeans and she wore bunker pants, he imagined he could feel her warmth.
“Just breathe normally.” She plugged the earpieces into her ears.
He nodded. It took everything he had not to lean into her.
Then her hand slid under the back of his shirt, and she might as well have hit him with a live wire.
“Sorry.” She winced and pulled the stethoscope away. “Cold hands?”
As if that were the problem. He shook his head quickly. “No. It’s fine.”
She put the metal and plastic back against his skin, her fingers warm where she touched him. Michael breathed and wished his worries could condense to the space inside this ambulance, just for a moment.
She moved the stethoscope for a few heartbeats, then again. Her other hand rested on his bicep, gentle and reassuring. Michael shut his eyes and tried to hold still.
“You okay?”
Her voice was very close. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “No.”
“You stopped breathing.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He swallowed and took a deep breath.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable—”
“Never.” He looked at her. “Never, Hannah.”
She studied him, her eyes full of uncertainty. “I thought you—I thought—” She broke off and looked away. He watched her throat jerk as she swallowed. “I thought I was going to have to give your brothers some very bad news.”
The words—the wavering emotion in her voice—hit him hard. He’d spent so many years worrying about everyone else that it was a shock to hear someone express worry over him.
He realigned everything she’d said to him since the moment he’d woken up, and everything h
e’d said to her.
Fine. I’ll sign whatever so I can get out of here.
He put his hands over the place where her fingers rested on his arm. He wanted to do more than that, to collapse on her shoulder, to curl up and clutch her against him, but if he fell apart now, he’d never get it together.
He ducked his head and kept his voice low. “How do my lungs sound, Doctor?”
After a breath, she rested her forehead against the side of his face. She smelled like soot and ash and sweat, but under that was something warm and sweet, like sugar cookies. When she blinked, her lashes fluttered against his cheek. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Paramedic.”
“Not yet. You know I still have another year of—”
He couldn’t take it. Michael wrapped his arms around her and crushed her against his chest. His breathing was shaky, and he didn’t trust his voice, but he held her, and she let him.
No, she held him back.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s not,” he said, his voice thick. “Not even a little bit.”
Despite everything his family had gone through, they’d always had a home. He’d made sure of it. The shelves were never overflowing with food, and there’d been a year when he’d turned off cable and made the guys share one cell phone, but they’d had a roof over their heads and beds to sleep in. Always somewhere to come back to.
And now they had . . . what? The truck? The car? Considering the earthquake, he wasn’t sure they even had that much.
Then one of the demolished homes on the cul-de-sac caught his eye. They had a lot more than some of these families.
All this destruction. How much had been his fault? If these homes hadn’t collapsed, would the radio be reporting rescues instead of dead bodies?
His breath shook again. He wanted to ask how many people had been killed, and whether Hannah knew names yet.
At the same time, he was afraid to ask.
“When you two are done, I have a few questions.”
At the sound of the dry voice, Hannah pulled back quickly, and Michael let her go. He recognized the man standing behind the ambulance, and he wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the county fire marshal had shown up.
“Dad!” Hannah said, for all the world sounding like a teenager caught with a boy in her room. “What are you doing here?”
“Working.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
Michael knew he wasn’t imagining the disapproval in the man’s tone. Hannah and her father had a tense relationship. If Hannah’s mother weren’t in the picture, they probably wouldn’t speak at all. Jack Faulkner was never rude to Michael—but he wasn’t exactly patting him on the back and inviting him over to watch the game, either. The fire marshal had arrested Gabriel and charged him with arson six weeks ago. Once the real arsonist was behind bars, Jack had been civil to Michael. Not quite friendly, but not cold.
Suspicious? Michael had no idea. Hannah said her father treated everyone like a potential criminal—including her.
But to his surprise, when Jack turned steely grey eyes his way, there was compassion there. “How are you doing, Mike? You okay?”
The question, the casual concern, threw him off. Michael’s own parents had always been warm, their home always open to others—to their detriment—and Hannah’s father was the opposite of that. They’d sat across a table for dinner on Hannah’s birthday and talked business and sports. Easy topics, nothing personal.
That night felt like a year ago.
But maybe this was the real Jack Faulkner. Maybe a crisis brought out the dad in him, breaking down the awkward barriers.
Michael nodded and had to clear his throat. “I’m all right.”
“What about your brothers? Are they holding up?”
Michael nodded. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Sweat and grit. Sand, soot, whatever. He’d kill for a shower. A hot one. “More or less.”
“You have somewhere to go?”
For an instant, the question didn’t make sense. Why would he go anywhere?
Then reality knocked on his skull. The fire marshal was asking if he had a place to stay.
It hadn’t even occurred to him yet, but now that he had to consider it, Michael had no idea where to take his brothers. Insurance would come into play at some point, but it wasn’t like he could call up his agent and money would appear in the checking account tomorrow. They could ride on credit cards for a while, but feeding and housing five people on Visa’s dime would only last so long.
But what was he supposed to say? He knew from experience that he couldn’t admit uncertainty in front of anyone official. He held back any emotion and wished his voice didn’t sound as if he were speaking through ground stone. “I have to make a few calls. I’ll work it out.”
Hannah slipped her hand under his and laced their fingers together. The motion felt comforting—but somehow defiant, too.
Michael couldn’t tell if Marshal Faulkner noticed. Rain was collecting on the shoulders of the man’s jacket. “It might just be smoke damage. There are a few local companies who can help with that. You’ll have to get an engineer out to check the foundation after that earthquake.”
Or Michael could just walk a loop around the house and feel it out for himself.
As if the insurance company would take his word for it.
Marshal Faulkner turned and looked past the ambulance, his eyes on something in the distance. “A lot of damage here. You guys are lucky.”
Lucky. Yeah, right. Michael hadn’t felt lucky since . . . ever.
The fire marshal stepped closer. “How did you put the fires out so quickly?”
Michael opened his mouth to respond, but Hannah squeezed his hand, hard. “Don’t answer that.”
Michael blinked. She’d asked him pretty much the same thing. “I—I . . . what?”
Her tone was even. “He’s not being nice. He’s trying to interrogate you.”
The fire marshal barely spared her a glance. His attitude didn’t change; it was still official, reassuring. “Hannah, why don’t you let me speak with Michael privately?”
“Why, so you can try to trap him with questions?”
“No, so I can spare him a trip in a squad car and his brothers a night with DFS.”
Michael straightened. DFS was the Department of Family Services.
“What does that mean?” He suddenly wanted out of this ambulance, as if social workers had secreted his brothers away already. Tension held him rigid, and the only thing keeping him sitting here was the knowledge that acting like a panicked freak would do more harm than good.
“It means if I take you in for questioning, I’m responsible for making sure your brothers are taken care of.”
“We just dragged him out of his house, unconscious,” Hannah said. “Why don’t you find someone else to question?”
“There is no one else right now, Hannah.”
The words hung there in space for a moment, and Michael flinched, realizing what that meant.
The fire marshal continued, “I had one of your brothers under arrest a month ago. Should I have kept him that way?”
“My brother didn’t do this.”
“Then help me prove it. Answer my questions. Take a walk through your house with me.”
Michael hesitated. The night had been too long, the events too quick to string together. He needed an hour to sit down and think.
Marshal Faulkner took a step closer. “A rookie cop could put two and two together on this one, Mike. Your brother was a prime arson suspect a month ago—and while he ended up with a rock-solid alibi during interrogation, you didn’t. Your house is the only one still standing. They’re talking about bringing in bomb dogs to see if that earthquake was really a natural occurrence. I’m not trying to rough you up here, but I need something that doesn’t look so damning or I’m going to have to drag you in on principle.”
Michael loo
ked away. Didn’t an officer need a warrant to search the house? Should he be calling a lawyer? Could he even get one at three in the morning?
When his parents died, they sure hadn’t left a manual.
Chapter Three: When You’re Suspected of Criminal Wrongdoing.
Wind sliced into the ambulance, biting through his damp clothes. He shivered.
A terrible, dark part of his brain wanted to start shouting. Yes. I’m guilty. I should have stopped this. Instead, I made it worse.
He swallowed, and his throat was so tight that it hurt.
The fire marshal hadn’t looked away. “If you want me to get a warrant, fine, I’ll get one. But if you’re not doing anything wrong, then what’s the big deal?”
Michael rubbed at his temples. Maybe if they went in the house, he could choke down half a bottle of aspirin. Or a whole bottle of whiskey. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 5
Michael wanted to check on his brothers first. He remembered the months after their parents had died, how he’d spend all day worrying that they wouldn’t get off the bus after school. Back then, he hadn’t been sure which to fear more: the Guides who had wanted to kill them for their abilities—or the social workers who had wanted to split them up into the foster care system.
Right now didn’t feel too different.
His brothers and Hunter were huddled at the back of another ambulance, just a short distance away. Only Chris had abandoned the wool blanket, and he was sitting on the bumper, rain threading through his hair to paint reflective lines on his cheeks. Hunter’s dog was curled up beneath the tailgate, behind Chris’s legs. He looked up and beat his tail against the ground when Michael came over.
His brothers watched him approach, but didn’t move. Michael looked at each of them in turn, as if he could reassure himself just by seeing them alive and well and together. Their faces were drawn and cautious, their skin caked with dirt and soot.
None of them said anything. They didn’t have to. He could read the uncertainty behind their guarded expressions like a billboard sign.
What’s going to happen?
Where are we going to go?
Are we in danger?
They always thought he had answers. He almost never did, but he was pretty good at faking it. “Is anyone hurt?” he said.
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