by Brenda Novak
Who was that? Sly? She’d barely caught a glimpse, couldn’t even say with any certainty that the person she saw had his build. He was dressed in a way she’d never seen him dressed, and it’d happened too fast. But who else would come by in the middle of the night?
He’d probably been watching and waiting to see if Dawson would join her again—and, even though that hadn’t happened, he was angry enough about before to give her a little scare.
After unplugging her phone from its charger, she carried it with her into the living room so she could peek out the other windows, but none looked out on the side yard. She couldn’t determine what her visitor had been doing, and she wasn’t about to venture beyond the safety of her locked doors—not when that man could so easily come back. For all she knew, she’d just seen the hitchhiker who’d hacked the Reeds to death.
She considered calling Sly. He was, after all, a police officer. He’d know how to handle something like this—if it wasn’t him. But it could be him, which meant she couldn’t call 9-1-1 or anyone else on the police force, either. Whoever came to see what was wrong would contact Sly immediately, or tell him what happened afterward, and he’d want to know why she didn’t reach out to him like he’d probably been setting her up to do.
Without letting herself think any more about it, she texted Dawson. She still felt a little awkward about assuming he was interested in her when he wasn’t, but, for the most part, he had been nice so far, and she needed a friend, especially one who wouldn’t take Sly’s side in any given situation or share anything she said.
You awake? she wrote.
She hesitated to disturb him, which was why she didn’t call. She figured, if he was sleeping, he probably wouldn’t notice that he’d received a message. A ring was more intrusive. So she was surprised when he texted her right back.
Yeah. What are you doing up so late?
To be honest, I’m a little nervous. There was someone at my house a minute ago. A man.
What do you mean—at your house?
Outside, doing something. Someone knocked on the side of the house, then came around back where I could see him from the window. I think it was Sly, but I can’t be sure.
And you have no idea what he was doing?
None. Do you think he was just trying to scare me? The less secure I feel, the more likely I’d be to move back—or at least go there tonight.
Whatever you do, don’t go there.
So do you think it was nothing? Should I just go back to bed? Whoever it was had been on the side, not where he could’ve been watching her.
But there was nothing to say he’d been on the side for long. Had he been outside her window before that, staring through the gap between the blinds and the wall while she undressed? Peeping?
Do you have your blinds down? Dawson texted.
I do. I know he comes here a lot to check up on me, so I always keep them down. But they don’t fit the window very well. There’s a two-inch gap that someone could easily peer through if...if they wanted to be that intrusive. She felt violated just imagining that, even if it was Sly. So what if he’d seen her before? They weren’t together any longer. She deserved some privacy.
I’m coming over.
This time she was surprised by his response, not that she’d received one. No! You don’t have to come all the way to town. I just... I needed to tell someone, I guess. Needed to hear someone say I’m being silly and there’s nothing to be afraid of.
She knew where his mind would go, because hers had already gone there. His response confirmed it. You’re not going to hear that from me, not after what happened to my parents.
I admit—I keep thinking of that hitchhiker. That’s why I texted you, I guess. You don’t think he’s back...
I can’t say it isn’t possible.
The idea that it might be him gives me the creeps...
It’s okay. I’m almost there.
How? It took longer than two or three minutes to get to her house, but that was the length of time they’d been communicating with each other.
I’m not at the farm. I’m coming from the bar only a few blocks away. I’ll swing by and take a look around, make sure everything’s okay.
That he was so close made her feel much better. Everyone was wrong about him. He didn’t frighten her; he made her feel safe. After all, he could’ve done anything he wanted last night, but he hadn’t even gotten off the couch.
She breathed a sigh of relief as they disconnected—but that was when she began to smell smoke.
12
Dawson was turning down Sadie’s street when his phone rang. “Stay away! Oh my God, whatever you do, stay away!” Sadie screamed and then she was gone.
The panic in her voice caused Dawson to stomp on the brake. There had to be a reason she’d called him off. But what could that reason be? What was happening?
He tried to reach her again. She didn’t answer, so he didn’t turn around. He knew how slight she was. What if she was trying to protect her little boy? What if Sly was there, giving her trouble, and that was why she’d called to tell him to stay away—to avoid a fight between them?
Dawson didn’t bother to park down the street. He was in too much of a hurry. He pulled in front of her landlady’s house, got out and jogged around to the back. He could smell something burning before he heard a disoriented “What is it, Sadie?” And then, even before Sadie could answer, the speaker—a woman—seemed to realize what “it” was, because her voice suddenly grew strident. “Fire! Vern! The bungalow’s burning. Call 9-1-1!”
The door to the house that fronted Sadie’s slammed shut as whoever had said that—which had to be her landlady—went back in to, presumably, make sure her orders were carried out right away.
Fortunately, Sadie appeared to be safe. Dawson could see her standing on the lawn dressed in the same T-shirt she’d worn last night and a pair of sweatpants. She was holding her little boy, although he was half as big as she was, who kept trying to get down. She wouldn’t let him go, however. She clung to him for dear life—until she saw Dawson. As soon as Dawson called out to her, she started toward him and, for a brief moment, he thought he saw a flash of relief in her eyes, which disappeared as soon as she reached him. “You have to go,” she said. “Hurry! I shouldn’t have called you.”
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Someone set my house on fire!”
“On purpose?” He could hear the loud crackle, see orange flames leaping and dancing through the front window.
“Yes!”
He remembered hearing the old woman mention calling 9-1-1. “You haven’t called for help yet?”
“I didn’t have a chance. Once I hung up with you and smelled the smoke, I grabbed Jayden and got out. Maude’s calling the fire department now.”
“Maude” had to be the name of the landlady who’d just hurried into the front house. “Who could have done this?” he asked.
Sadie shook her head as if she didn’t know, but he wondered if there was more that she wouldn’t say. She probably didn’t want Jayden to hear her accuse his father, but Dawson guessed that was what she believed. She’d said she thought it might be Sly who’d knocked on the house, so it followed that he might also have set the blaze...
Dawson reached for Jayden. “Here, let me take him. He’s too heavy for you.”
She pulled away so that he couldn’t lift the boy from her arms. “No, you have to go.”
“Why? What does any of this have to do with me?”
Her eyebrows slammed together. “Don’t you see? Whoever did this has to have someone to blame—and who would make a better candidate than you? If you’re here, if everyone sees you, that’ll only make it easier for—” she was starting to shiver “—for whoever did this to connect you to it. Please, go home.”
“Who’s this?” The old lady had reappeared, this time with a silver-haired man who looked about the same age she did.
“My b-boss,” Sadie stuttered, likely from shock as much as the cold. “I...I called him when I heard someone outside, and he...he came to make sure everything was okay.”
Her husband hurried to the garden hose and unwound it as fast as he could, but the woman hesitated for a second. “You’re Dawson Reed,” she said.
He could tell she wasn’t exactly pleased to make his acquaintance. Fortunately, given the situation, there wasn’t time to have any further interaction. He nodded once to acknowledge his identity and turned back to Sadie while Maude went to help with the hose. “Let me take Jayden,” he insisted.
Sadie looked as though her knees were about to buckle. Maybe they were, because she allowed him to pull her son away, which Dawson hadn’t fully expected, despite his efforts.
“Tell me he didn’t do this,” she whispered as they transferred the boy.
Dawson scowled at the sight of her burning house. The flames were starting to take hold, creating a terrible stench as they consumed paint and plastic and other materials. The smell surprised him; it was far worse than any wood fire. He knew the fumes from a burning house could also be toxic, so he pulled Sadie out of the path of the breeze. “You would know what he’s capable of more than me,” he murmured.
“Who, Mommy?” Jayden asked. “Daddy? Did Daddy start the fire?”
What kid asked if his father was the one who’d tried to burn down their safe haven—while they were in it?
“No, not Daddy. A...a hitchhiker,” she said vaguely.
“What’s a hitchhiker?” Jayden asked.
“In this case, it’s a bad man,” she replied.
Dawson thought the boy might struggle to reach his mother, or get down, since he’d been trying to get down when she was holding him, but he seemed surprisingly content where he was. He even put his arms around Dawson’s neck as if he was quite comfortable.
“I can take Jayden. You’ve got to leave,” Sadie said, her face drawn and pinched as she looked up at him.
He could only imagine how difficult it would feel to be victimized like this, to know that someone had purposely tried to harm her—in her own home, where she should feel safe—and that the person responsible might be the father of her child. Knowing she could lose all of her belongings, when she had so little to begin with, had to be almost as difficult. “I’m not leaving, not unless you and Jayden come with me. It won’t do either of you any good to stand out here in the cold, breathing in this toxic air and watching—” what little you have go up in smoke “—this.”
“We can’t leave,” she said. “There will be...questions I’ll have to answer.”
“Then I’ll wait, too, make sure everything goes okay,” he responded.
She shook her head. “That’s not a good decision.”
They could hear the wail of sirens growing louder as the emergency vehicles drew close.
“Sly will come,” she said. “Someone...someone will call him. And regardless of...of how this got started, he won’t be happy to see you here. He’ll assume...the wrong things.”
The mere mention of Sly made Dawson clench his jaw. “Maybe he’ll assume the right things.”
She gave him a look that indicated she couldn’t possibly understand what he meant by that.
“That he’ll no longer be able to push you around,” he explained. “I’ve had it. I won’t allow it anymore.”
Her mouth formed a worried O. “I don’t want to draw you into this—not to that degree. I just...needed to talk to someone who...who wasn’t connected to the life I lived before, someone I felt was strictly my friend and not his.”
Dawson watched the flames leap higher. “Then you chose the right person, because I’m definitely not his friend.”
* * *
The temperature wasn’t much less than fifty degrees, so not exactly freezing. But the shock and upset of what was happening, in addition to the cool breeze, made Sadie shiver uncontrollably. As the fire trucks arrived and cut their sirens, which had become almost deafening, Dawson took off his coat and insisted she put it on.
Sadie could smell the scent of Dawson’s cologne before that far more pleasant scent was overwhelmed by the stench of the fire. She could’ve gotten a jacket or blanket from Maude, but Maude was busy trying to direct her husband on where to aim the garden hose, and Sadie didn’t want to interrupt. Although the two had started to spray the house where Sadie lived, hoping to save what they could, the hose provided such a pitiful trickle compared to what was needed that their efforts seemed to do little or no good. Dawson soon persuaded them to spray the surrounding shrubbery and their own house in an effort to stop the fire from spreading instead of trying to put it out altogether.
The first firefighters on the scene yelled for them all to stay back, but the yard was so small there wasn’t anywhere to go. Dawson, still carrying her son, guided her around to the front and insisted she and Jayden get in his truck. He climbed in, too, and started the engine so that he could back down the street to allow more room for the emergency vehicles now gathering en masse, and turn on the heater.
“You warm enough?” he asked Jayden.
“Yeah.” Her son, who was now sitting between them, climbed up on his knees to be able to see out the window. “Can I go watch the firefighters?”
“No!” Sadie replied. “You could get hurt. We need to stay here. You heard what they said.”
Several of the neighbors streamed out of their houses to see what was going on. Sadie watched them gather in a frightened and questioning cluster on the opposite side of the street.
“Is that Daddy?” Jayden pointed when the first police car appeared.
Sadie’s heart jumped into her throat as she squinted against the glare of headlights. But the man who climbed out from behind the wheel once those lights were turned off wasn’t Sly; it was Leland Pinter. “No, that’s not him.” She breathed a sigh of relief, but it wasn’t more than ten or fifteen minutes later that Sly did pull up. She curled her fingernails into her palms as she watched him get out. She had a feeling he’d cause trouble. He didn’t hurry to the back like everyone who’d arrived before him. He didn’t seem to care about the fire, not as much as he cared about the fact that Dawson’s truck was parked so close to her place and she was sitting in it.
How had he even noticed them? If he’d just heard her house was burning, wouldn’t he automatically run to the back to see if she and Jayden were okay?
Apparently not. Nothing got past him. He didn’t even look worried as he approached her side of the vehicle. Expression hard, eyes flinty, he looked angry instead.
She glanced at Dawson in a silent appeal to let her handle Sly and rolled down the window.
Sly’s eyes narrowed even further as he looked over at Dawson. He didn’t even acknowledge Jayden when Jayden said a soft “Hi, Daddy.”
“What’s going on?” he demanded without preamble.
Thankfully, Dawson refrained from responding. Given Sly’s volatile temper, Sadie was grateful for Dawson’s forbearance.
“Someone set my house on fire.” She was so upset she had a hard time keeping the accusation out of her voice.
“Someone,” he repeated, obviously grasping that she believed he was to blame.
“Yes. You wouldn’t know who, would you?” Since he’d already guessed what she believed, she couldn’t help lifting her eyebrows in challenge.
A muscle moved in his cheek. “How would I know?”
“Whoever it was knocked on the side of the house, then came around back. I saw him, for a second, before he ran away.”
“What’d he look like?” Sly angled his head toward Dawson. “This guy right here?”
Sadie fe
lt the tension between the two men edge up a notch, but, to Dawson’s credit, he didn’t take the bait. “Like a man dressed in black. He was wearing a hoodie that covered his face, so I couldn’t see it.”
Once again, Sly indicated Dawson. “And then this guy shows up right away? You don’t find that suspicious?”
Sadie was no longer cold. She was beginning to sweat. But she was still shaking. She knew how her response would sound to Sly, how he’d interpret it. “No, because he didn’t ‘show up.’ I called him.”
“You called him,” Sly repeated.
“I was scared,” she explained.
He pulled out his phone. “I don’t see where you tried to reach me.”
“Because I didn’t. Why would I? We’re divorced, Sly.”
“Not yet. And I’m still Jayden’s father, and a police officer. A police officer would make sense to most people. But not you, I guess. You’re so stupid you call a suspected murderer.”
Dawson seemed to have reached his breaking point. “Your son’s sitting here,” he growled, his voice a warning.
Hoping to save Dawson from Sly’s reaction, Sadie jumped out of the truck. “Look, why don’t we go somewhere we can talk privately?” She took his arm and tried to lead him away, but he shook her off, his gaze riveted on Dawson’s coat.
“Where the hell did you get that?” he growled.
“Does it matter?” she asked. “Please! I’ve been through enough tonight. Let’s not fight. Dawson doesn’t want to fight with you, either. We’re merely trying to cope with what’s happened.”
“By cozying up together.”
“Cozying up? Don’t you care that someone set fire to my house, Sly? That we could’ve burned to death in our sleep? You’d think you’d be more concerned about the fact that there’s an arsonist running around than whether or not I’m wearing another man’s coat!”
