by Rye Hart
I ripped off my face mask and put it on her face. Her beautiful face. She'd needed air and she needed it right then and there. I wasn't thinking about myself.
I was only thinking about her.
It wasn't until later, when Jimmy dropped me onto the ground outside, on the grass, that I took another breath. It hurt to breathe in and the coughing about killed me coming out, but I was breathing.
My first words were, “Lauren? Where is she?”
But the look on Jimmy's face told me everything I'd needed to know.
~ooo000ooo~
I woke with a start. Sweat covered every inch of my body as I stared at the clock. It was just after nine in the morning, and I'd only been asleep for three hours. Groaning loudly, I collapsed back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, my heart racing as I tried to forget about the dream.
More like, I tried to forget about the past.
It was hard – if not impossible – to do when you were in this line of work. I knew that I let myself get too close to some things and didn't keep the proper perspective. No matter what we did, no matter how right we did things, we weren't always going to be able to save everybody, every time.
We could do everything right and by the book and, still, people were going to die. It was the nature of the beast. It was a hazard and an unfortunate reality of the job I'd chosen to do. The life I'd dedicated myself to. I hated it with every fiber of my being, but it was what it was. It was reality.
Maybe Jimmy was right – I shouldn't have gone into the house. But, I'd been compelled to. I couldn't just sit outside and hope for the best. Couldn't let somebody else do my job. Couldn't let somebody else try to save her while I sat outside, where it was safe, with my thumb up my ass.
But Jimmy was right because no matter what I did, I couldn't save her. Couldn't have possibly done anything that would have changed the outcome. By the time we'd rolled up, it was already too late. He knew it. Tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen. I just couldn't stand by, feeling utterly helpless and useless.
At least I could say that I tried. Tried to save her. Tried to do something. At least I could say that, even though I was going to have to live with the nightmares and the memory of my failure, for the rest of my goddamned life.
Feeling the familiar weight of depression hanging heavy upon my head, I swung my feet over the side of the bed and got up. No use trying to go back to sleep now, even though my body was exhausted. My mind wasn't going to let it happen. I knew the drill. Every time I'd close my eyes, the images would come roaring back to torment me. The images of one dead woman would dance on my eyelids like a horror movie straight out of the bowels of my own personal hell, playing out again and again on an endless goddamn loop. No matter what I did or how fast I moved, the ending would always remain the same. Always.
Lauren would always be dead.
Because I'd failed her.
I shouldn't have gone to work that day. It was my day off, a night when I was supposed to be with her. If I had stayed, I could have gotten her out of the burning house in time. If I'd stayed, I could have saved her and she'd be here with me today.
If only I'd stayed, I would have smelled the smoke. Would have known exactly what to do. The fire had started in the garage, directly under her bedroom. The exact cause was still unknown – a fact that didn't make me feel any better about it. If anything, it made me even more uneasy about what had happened.
Which was why I was getting more and more interested in Madison's podcast. She'd broached the subject of an arsonist preying on our city right before she was found inside a burning warehouse on the outskirts of town. Yeah, that wasn't fishy or anything. Not at all.
Thinking about Madison, I knew what I had to do. Maybe it would help the nightmares, maybe it wouldn't. Either way, it might save another life. I threw on some clothes and hurried out to my truck. The frigid Chicago air made it hurt to draw breath, but I was still drenched in sweat from the dream, so the chill almost felt nice. Almost. Even I had my limits.
CHAPTER FOUR
Madison
“There's someone here to see you,” Abigail, one of the nurses said as she popped her head into the door of my room. “Are you feeling up for a little company?”
“Who is it?” I asked.
My parents had just left, my sister wasn't in town, and my best friend was at work and would be stopping by later – all of which significantly narrowed down my potential visitors list. Knowing that, I had a feeling it might be more cops with even more questions.
To be frank, I wasn't feeling up to another round of questions. Abigail must have seen it on my face.
“It's the fireman who saved you,” she said with a grin. “Said he just wanted to see how you were doing but wasn't sure you were up to visitors.”
Oliver. Oh God, it was Oliver. No matter how I felt, he at least deserved a thank you. Turning somebody away who'd saved my life was a dick move. No matter how tired I was, refusing to see him and show a little appreciation was a total dick move.
“It's fine,” I said.
My throat was still raw and scratchy, but overall, I was starting to feel better. I'd had a few days of IVs, and doctors pumping all kinds of chemicals into my bloodstream, and I was starting to feel a little more human. Still couldn't remember much about the incident, but the doctors said to give it a few more days and that my memories should start coming back to me. They said my brain scans showed that I had a concussion and a minor brain bleed, but it was healing.
I was healing.
When Oliver stepped through the door, however, my breath caught in my throat. I wasn't prepared for the rush of endorphins that he brought out in me. Over the years since the last time I'd seen him, he'd grown quite a bit taller. He'd filled out too. Oliver Miller had always been an attractive boy but, now, I had to admit that he was an incredibly good-looking man.
The sandy blonde hair he'd had in his youth was now a shade or so darker, making it almost brown. He kept it shaved close to his head, these days, rather than the long, shaggy locks he'd sported back in high school. Back then, his hair looked messy. Unkempt. And yet, it still had a charm all its own. Because he was a football player, he'd had no shortage of girls clamoring for his attention, but he was more than just a jock. He'd also won more than a few girls over with his guitar playing and singing.
His cheekbones had always been enviable and, now, with his body more defined and muscular, everything about him looked sharper. Stronger and fiercer – except for the dimples that dotted his cheeks when he smiled. They were still there. Thank God for that.
His piercing blue eyes stared right at me – right through me, really – and neither one of us said anything for a long time. I honestly wasn't even sure if he'd remembered me.
In a way, I hoped he didn't. Hoped that, to him, I was just another faceless victim he'd saved. No doubt, one of many, given his line of work. Though, I had to wonder if he visited all the people he'd saved in the hospital, or if he was here because he remembered me.
“I'm glad to see you're doing better,” he said, finally breaking the long pause between us. “Doctors said you should make a full recovery.”
“All thanks to you.”
He shook his head and gave me a lopsided smile. “All thanks to the Chicago fire department,” he said. “We're a team and we all—”
“I don't recall anyone else carrying me out of the building,” I said.
“They were there. I just happened to find you before they did, Madison,” he said. “But, they would have found you.”
The way he'd said my name answered the lingering question in my head definitively. He knew me.
“Oliver, I'm sorry, I—” my eyes welled up as I remembered what had happened between us but Oliver just shook his head and stopped me cold.
“The past is the past, Madison,” he said and he smiled at me.
It was a smile that could light up a hundred rooms. A hundred city blocks. His teeth were as white and perfect as I remembe
red them to be. Everything about this man was perfect – why had I fucked things up so badly all those years ago again?
Oh, that's right, I silently chastised myself, It's because I'd been a bitch back then.
Oliver sat down in the chair next to my bed, and I sat up a little straighter, holding his gaze. I wasn't exactly sure what to say to him other than, thank you. It just seemed so inadequate and there was so much more between us that needed to be said. Needed to be discussed. I couldn't find the words inside of me though. Which was rare and a little disconcerting for me, since I made a living always having the words to express myself.
Judging by the way Oliver's eyes bored into mine and the way he kept rubbing his chin, I had a feeling that there was more he wanted to say too. I was hoping he'd find the words and we could get this conversation going because the silence was awkward and painful.
“Umm, so, they said you don't remember much about that night we found you in the warehouse,” Oliver said, staring down at his hands.
“I've lost most of my memories of that night, directly leading up to the attack, that's correct.”
“Do you know why you were there?” he asked. “Being in an old warehouse in the middle of the night doesn't exactly sound safe. Or sane.”
I shrugged. “No, it doesn’t. Not really,” I said. “I keep trying to remember why I was there in the first place. I don’t recall what business I had out there. But, it's a big blank. I honestly can't remember most of that evening.”
“Do you have any texts? Calls?” he pressed. “Anything that might give a hint?”
I shook my head. “My phone can't be located,” I said. “I guess it was taken. The cops are looking into it.”
He looked utterly floored by what I'd just said. The expression on his face made it seem like I'd just given him the worst news of the day. He shook his head, and I could tell he was lost in his thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with me.
“I'm really sorry you went through all of that,” he said softly.
His fists were balled up in his lap and he was glaring at them. His body was tense, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. Something had really gotten under his skin and I so badly wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand, and ask him what was bothering him. We sat there in a silence saturated with tension bordering on anger – though I knew his anger wasn't directed at me. If anything, it seemed to be directed inward. At himself.
“Oliver, listen,” I said, finally working up the nerve to reach out and take his hand in mine. “You saved my life. I'm alive, talking to you right now, because of you. You have nothing to be sorry about, and I'll heal. I'm going to be released in a few days, and—”
“They're going to release you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Maybe as early as tomorrow.”
“Is that safe?”
“I've already cleared their concussion protocols,” I said. “And I'm no longer dehydrated. My burns have been—”
“No, I mean because of the people who did this to you,” he said. “They're still out there. What if they try again?”
“You're certain it was intentional?” I asked.
I already knew the answer to that question and I don't know why I even asked it. Although I didn't remember much, I remembered being hit on the back of the head. Clubbing somebody on the back of the head and leaving them inside a burning building couldn't be anything but intentional. And as I absorbed that fact, I felt a chill run down my spine, working its way through my gut, and finally wrapping its long, cold tendrils around my heart, squeezing it tight.
Oliver looked at me, a knowing expression on his face. “I'm almost positive,” he said. “And I can tell by the look in your eyes that you know it too.”
“Well, I'll have people watching over me,” I said. “I'll be fine.”
“That's not enough,” he muttered.
“Oliver?”
He turned to look at me, those brilliant baby blue eyes drinking me in. His gaze, so deep and so penetrating made my heart stutter and my pulse race. But, in those eyes, I saw so much sorrow and sadness. I saw so much hurt in his eyes that it killed me. It was physically painful to see the way he looked at me – and I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with our past. Or whatever you'd call what we had together.
“Is there something you'd like to talk about?” I asked. “Something you know that I – or the police – don't?”
He hesitated, then licked his lips and looked away again. His expression grim, he shook his head.
“No,” he said softly. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
“I mean – you're not the first,” he said. “You're not even the second. But you already know all that.”
“I do?”
“Your podcast,” he said. “You mentioned it last week. Right before the – incident.”
As he reminded me of it, I recalled briefly that, yes, I had been looking into a few suspicious cases of arson around the city. It wasn't anything in depth just yet, though. I mainly put it out there for my audience, telling them that the cases seemed to be linked, at least to me. I recall that I'd asked for anyone with any information about those cases to contact me.
The podcast had generated a few leads, but nothing concrete – and nothing I could remember at that moment. The blank spots in my memory made me glad that I always kept a paper trail of everything I did.
“You're right,” I said.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I'd written down. My notes. His reminder of that podcast sparked some interest running through my brain. Made me wonder if there was a connection between those cases and what happened to me. If nothing else, I was hoping that maybe sifting through my notes could help jog my memory.
The only problem was, all my notes were at home. I turned and looked at Oliver, wondering if he might be willing to – I cut off the thought mid-stream, though. I'd ask my best friend to bring them over with her when she came to see me. I didn't want to put that kind of pressure on someone I hardly knew.
“I'll see what I can figure out,” I said.
“I want to help you,” he said, running a hand over his short-cropped hair.
“You do?”
He nodded. “I have my reasons, but yes,” he said. “I want to figure out who did this to you. And why.”
A small smile touched my lips. One I had to push away. I wasn't sure why the idea of working alongside Oliver made me feel giddy – the primal part of my brain telling me it was because he looked so damn hot. Or maybe it was because I'd always thought he was a pretty good guy.
Not that I'd ever needed a man in my life. But the idea of working with Oliver, having him help me figure out who'd done this to me and why, lifted my spirits a bit.
“Well, if you really want to help, do you think you could start by running over to my house and picking up a few of my things?” I asked. “Notebooks and recordings I made about my investigation so far?”
He stood up, but I stopped him before he left. He turned back to me and cocked his head, questioningly.
“Thank you,” I said, gripping his hand tightly.
He squeezed mine in return and gave me a gentle smile. “I want to find this person as much as you do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”
“I already owe you so much, Oliver. I owe you my life and I'm not sure I'll be able to repay you for that,” I said. “If there's anything I can do for you, just ask.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then his eyes lit up, looking as if a light bulb had just been switched on behind them. He looked down at me with a half-grin on his handsome, chiseled face.
