Love in Smoke

by Holly Hall

  Once the last dregs of laughter have left me, I take the spoon from Lynn, digging out my own bite of mac-n-cheese.

  “You’re lucky I’m more curious than hormonal right now, or you might’ve lost that hand,” she cracks, though she keeps a sharp eye on the spoon. “All right, spill it all. I want to know everything. Last I checked, you couldn’t care less about Dane Cross. Then he was fawning all over you at the carnival all of a sudden—don’t think I didn’t notice—and you had that shit-eating grin on your face the rest of the day. What am I missing?”

  “Where do I even begin?” I say slowly, buying time. I guess there’s not much use hiding it, now that Trey’s found out.

  “Well, talk fast, and don’t you dare leave anything out. I’m getting pregnant-er by the second and I don’t have the patience to pry the facts out of you.”

  I take a deep breath and prepare to launch into the story of us. “Well, I guess it all started when Trey made me a gin and tonic at a house party, that I suspected might be roofied . . .”

  We end up talking for hours; searching for commercial spaces for rent, debating the merits of bassinets, and discussing my budding love life. I could do without that last part, but Lynn is surprisingly supportive. I guess I had no reason to doubt her after she deflected the rampant rumors during our girls’ night.

  I don’t notice how late it is until my phone chimes with a text message from Dane and I notice the time.

  Dane: I found the guy. Headed back home now. Meet me there?

  I glance up at Lynn, who has an expectant look already in place.

  “Go on. Get it with your bad self,” she says, shooing me away. “We have all the time in the world to plan my entrepreneurial takeover.”

  I give her a hug to hide the doubt on my face.

  Outside, the air is thick with humidity. The drive home is pitch black, with clouds obscuring the moon, and strong winds make it difficult to stay in my lane. All is silent except for the noise in my head. I wonder if Dane found out anything useful, and what that might mean for us.

  Is this the first domino in a row of decisions that will lead us out of here? Out into normalcy?

  My imagination fills all the unknowns in my mind with thoughts of the future. It felt dangerous before, but now, I think I deserve to indulge in a little daydreaming. I’ll be starting over again, on a new adventure, but this time I won’t be alone. This is the last place I expected to be, but it feels right, and I cling to that to keep me afloat.

  At first it just looks like the orange glow of someone’s outdoor light on the horizon, through my windshield. My preoccupied mind dismisses the sight instantly.

  Then I make the final turn onto the farm road leading to Dane’s house, and a ball of unease crashes in the pit of my stomach. I recognize the distinct hue that’s only intensifying the closer I get. If it were daytime, I’d see a column of smoke rising into the sky. That color, the one that seems to undulate and come alive, is like something out of my worst nightmares.

  But I don’t have to rely on nightmares to experience the raw fear seeing that bloom of orange against the night sky makes me feel. I’ve lived it already—nearly a year ago, when my world went up in smoke.

  It’s reality. It’s chaos, danger, and destruction. And once again, I’m rushing toward it.

  I jam my foot down on the gas, trees whipping past my windows at speeds that are beyond illegal for this narrow road, but that’s the least of my concerns. All that’s registering in my mind is Dane and how sick I feel that this might be happening again.

  But maybe he isn’t home. Maybe he had farther to drive than I thought and he hasn’t yet arrived. In that case, everything else can be replaced. It won’t be the end of the world; we hardly have any possessions there. Just . . . Gulliver. I grip the steering wheel and focus everything I have on getting to the house as quickly as I can in one piece. God, Gulliver. I can’t imagine the confusion he must feel, wondering what’s happening and where Dane and I are.

  The partially-concealed driveway comes up way too fast, and I stomp on the brake pedal while turning, tires squealing on asphalt, then spitting gravel when they hit the driveway.

  Please be a brush fire. Please be a brush fire. Please be a brush fire.

  I burst into the clearing, and my heart leaps into my throat, choking me. It’s the house. Angry flames can be seen through the upper-story windows, and thick smoke unfurls into the sky. The déjà vu is dizzying, only this time, the song of sirens is noticeably absent. I’ve beaten the fire trucks here, if they’re coming at all. At least now, there’s a good chance nobody’s inside. I grab my cellphone out of my purse as I drive around the edge of the house, but the sight of the maroon truck in the driveway stills my hand.

  In less than a second, my fear is magnified and worry grips tighter, clutching my gut and making it hard to breathe.

  It’s Dane’s truck.

  I skid to a stop and throw my car in park, leaping out without switching off the ignition. The cab of his truck is empty. “Dane!” I scream, the name clawing my throat.

  No answer.

  My vision narrows, and I scan the expanse of front lawn, as well as what side-yard I can see from where I stand. But he isn’t here. He isn’t waiting out front in an ambulance, safe and sound.

  I can hardly focus on calling emergency responders as something instinctual takes over. Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I put the phone to my ear and run toward the house. Toward the flames. I don’t even think twice about it. I just hop up the uneven front steps and cross the porch to the front door, yanking it open. Without hearing or seeing him, I know he’s inside. And I have to get to him.

  There’s nothing like the sound of fire. It has a rumble to it, as if it’s a living, breathing beast. It crackles and pops and roars with intensity. I hear glass shatter from somewhere above me, and I flinch as heat billows from the staircase. More smoke pours from the upper floor.

  “Dane?” I call again, though it’s strangled and weak. The amount of smoke is unimaginable, and I receive no answer. Provoking my panic is the beep of my phone announcing I have no service.

  Shoving down fear, I keep low, making my way to the storage space beneath the stairs that Gulliver’s recently taken over. It’s empty.

  “Dane!”

  I’m rewarded by a few rhythmic thumps. Footsteps. Above me.

  I grip the banister and narrow my eyes, trying to see something, anything that would give me a clue as to whether it’s Dane up there. Just as I’m about to set foot on the stairs, a pair of boots emerges. My breath whooshes out of me when Dane comes into view, carrying a frightened Gulliver over his shoulders.

  I go to speak, but I’m overcome by the violent urge to cough.

  Dane’s eyes, though narrowed against the smoke and the heat, widen when they land on me. “Let’s get out of here,” he calls hoarsely, as if I needed the encouragement. I follow he and Gulliver’s massive forms out the front door and down the steps to the grass, sucking in the clean night air. It’s so much quieter out here on the lawn.

  Dane sets Gulliver down, and I don’t waste another second to wrap my arms around him. He’s sweaty and smells of smoke and burnt hair, but he’s here, and he’s whole, and he’s alive. The sight of him makes me shake with relief. He pulls back to look at me, sweat coating his forehead and dripping off his temples.

  “I have to go back,” he says, taking my face in his hands and giving me a rough kiss. It’s abrupt and nothing like I expected after finding him in a burning house. It has the same effect as being doused in ice water.

  “What? No! We have all we need!”

  Dane shakes his head, resolve in his eyes. “I left something. It’s irreplaceable. Take Gulliver, get in the car, and get away from here. I’ll catch up to you.” He turns back to the house before I grip his arm with all my might, tugging him to me.

  “And leave you? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. This wasn’t an acc
ident. Go!” Then he wrenches his arm from my grasp, and he’s gone, sprinting back into the house.

  It wasn’t an accident? What is that supposed to . . .? Cold dread seeps into my bones, despite the heat. Snapping my head around, my eyes skate over the border of the woods, but I see no one. Still, that means very little when it’s the dead of night. They could be anywhere. Trey could be anywhere.

  When Gulliver whines from beside me, I lean down and take hold of his collar. He’s shaking, but with a little coaxing, I get him to follow me. I reach my car and pull the passenger door open, ready to toss him in, no matter how much he weighs. I’m bending down when I notice it. My tires, both that I can see from this side of the car, are flat. How in the hell?

  Though it’s a longshot, I peek up at the steering column and see that my car has been turned completely off and the keys are missing. Someone’s been here, right where I’m standing, within the past few minutes.

  My fear mounts. I feel dangerously exposed, and I can’t very well go back to hide in the burning house. The arsonist could be lying in wait, biding his time to pick off anyone who survives the hot ball of destruction before me. The feeling of helplessness is crushing, but it’ll escalate to complete failure if I don’t succeed in doing the one thing I can do to help Dane. I click the button on my phone to light up the screen again. No service. I groan, but fight the urge to kick the side of my car. I need to keep my cool, and I need cover if I’m going to call the police. Remembering that cell reception is better near the main road, I begin to drag Gulliver toward the tree line at the front of the house. When he sees we’re traveling away from the fire, he comes along willingly, and I’m able to break into a run with him loping beside me.

  Mid-dash, I jab at my phone to make the call. It takes three attempts, but I’m finally successful on the fourth try. I huff and puff as I run, entering the woods and plowing forward, not sparing any extra time to worry about twisting my ankle. I’ll think about the consequences of that when it happens.

  I’m near the road when a pop alarmingly close to my left ear makes me scream and drop the phone, cowering away from the explosive noise. I may not have a lot of experience with guns, but I don’t need any more to recognize that sound.

  Someone’s shooting at me.

  I drop to the ground on my hands and knees, scrambling for any cover I can find. The trunks of the trees are thinner here and offer little in the way of concealment, but I take my chances. I can’t see or hear anything. My ears are ringing from the shot, and Gulliver is nowhere in sight. He must’ve taken off when he heard it.

  Then I hear leaves crunching underfoot and a familiar voice.

  “Raven? It’s all right. It’s just me, Sheriff Branson.”

  It’s Mike. I know it is. I slump in relief, gripping the bark of the tree with shaking hands as I try to stand.

  “I’m over here, Sheriff,” I call weakly, rounding the tree.

  “I can’t see you. Follow my voice.”

  I walk, fumbling through the trees and scrub. There are no clear-cut trails, and I vaguely feel the thorny brush scraping my legs with every step. “There’s a fire, is someone . . . is anyone coming to help?”

  “Don’t you worry, I’ve already called it in.”

  When I stumble through a particularly nasty thicket, I see him. He’s holding a gun by his side, something white wrapped around the handle. And then I see the body on the ground.

  “Is that . . .” My hand goes to my mouth, clapping over it, thoughts of the fire momentarily pushed back but not forgotten. It’s Trey. I recognize his familiar profile even though he’s lifeless, his body twisted in an unnatural sprawl on the ground. “What happ . . .” Words fail me as my legs weaken and I slump against one of the tree trunks.

  “I arrived barely a minute ago and saw him fleeing the scene. When I tried to confront him, he pulled his weapon. I had no choice,” Mike says methodically. The cadence of his words sounds so strange.

  My breath shudders out of me as my eyes dart from the body to Mike’s calm, cool stature. “Someone already called it in?”

  Mike’s eyes, black in the night, dart up to meet mine. “An anonymous caller.”

  It’s only then that my gaze lands on the gun at his belt. Then the one in his hand—the one he’s holding with a rag. My body reacts before my mind can comprehend what I’m seeing, and I right myself, taking a slow step back, away from Trey’s body. Then something clicks in my mind. Seeing them both here together . . . Dane said something a few weeks ago that I thought was strange. What was it? My mind is buzzing, jumbled with information. It needs a break, I need a break, but I can’t afford one. There’s a man armed with two weapons in front of me, and something isn’t adding up. But there’s still a missing link I can’t quite identify.

  Trey and Mike. Trey and Mike.

  . . . and Jenson.

  Dane knew Jenson had been in town—he asked me about it—and when I asked him how he knew, he said Trey mentioned it to him. But that didn’t make sense; the only person who knew about that visit was Mike because he had driven up seemingly out of the blue.

  Trey and Mike.

  Could they have been working together? And why and how would Mike be wiping the handle of a gun I suspect is Trey’s if everything happened as he said it did? An intrinsic warning to put as much space as possible between Mike and I grows in the forefront of my mind. And, Dane! Dane doesn’t know anything about this! I’m out here in the woods alone with someone who could be a thousand times more dangerous than the person I feared.

  Just as I take another step, Mike shakes his head and raises the gun. He levels it with my head and I freeze, knowing I’m dead in his sights.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The thought arises that I could run, but it’s fleeting. I don’t stand a chance against a cop who’s probably shot guns since the time he learned to walk.

  “Where are you going, Raven? I’m here to keep you safe,” he says with a hint of humor, as if it’s unthinkable that I’d want to run from him. I’ve figured him out, but I don’t want to let on how much I know in case there’s a small chance I can find a way out of this.

  “We need to help Dane. He’s still out there.” My voice quivers.

  Mike shakes his head, eyes glimmering in the weak light of the moon that’s finally forced its way through the cloud cover. “Now, Raven. Before you go runnin’ off, let’s think this through a bit. Firstly, this here belongs to your little boyfriend,” he says slyly, tilting the gun in his hand so I know what he’s referring to.

  Realization dawns on me, and I swallow the painful lump that’s formed in my throat.

  “Yeah, the same one you came into my office asking about. ‘Crime shows’ my ass.” He scoffs. “You weren’t very convincing, darling. Maybe if you’d been on your knees, I would’ve been more forgiving.” He stalks toward me, and my breath wheezes in my throat. I can’t run, but if he touches me—if he lays a single finger on me—I’ll put up a fight. And I’ll die. That thought resonates within me until he’s a few paces away and cold dread overwhelms everything else. In the distance, I hear crackling as parts of the house succumb to the flames.

  “You could run, but chances are you’d just hurt yourself. Not to mention I have this. Wouldn’t put up much of a fight with a bullet in your skull, now would you?” We’re toe to toe, and when I angle away from him, he snatches me by the neck, yanking me in with one hand while he brings the barrel of his gun—Dane’s gun—to my head with the other. I flinch as the cold muzzle presses against my forehead.

  Just then, I hear a distant crashing sound, and then my name. My moment of joy at hearing Dane’s familiar voice, proving he’s alive, is crushed by the reality of the situation I’ve walked right into. I open my mouth to yell for him but am almost knocked off my feet by a blow to the head.

  My ears ring and my knees buckle, crumpling uselessly beneath me, but Mike’s arm encircles me beneath the armpits, hauling me upright. I slump against him, the one person I’d go to
the ends of the earth to get away from, but I’m too stunned to do anything but rest limply in his arms, an odd, static buzz accompanying the throbbing pain in my temple.

  Movement in the trees makes me look up.

  Dane breaks free from the brush and stumbles into the small clearing we’re standing in, his eyes quick to land on me and quicker to fill with anger. He takes a purposeful step forward before Mike presses the gun to my temple again.

  “Ahh. I figured you’d join us sooner or later. Can’t stand to let anything out of your sight you believe is yours, eh? Well what about this, Dane? You recognize this?” Mike runs the hard steel of the gun across my cheek, rubbing it against my lips. I shrink away from it, curling my lips inward to escape the feeling of unforgiving metal.

  Dane’s eyes flash with rage, but the gun has caught his attention. He’s helpless against Mike, the man who holds the key to his freedom in one hand and the key to his heart in the other.

  “Yeah, I bet Dalton Briggs would say the same if he were alive. But he’s dead, and you made sure of that, didn’t you? At least, that’s where all the evidence points. That case was never cut and dry. Not one of those you could just file away and celebrate a job well done. And do you know why, Dane? It’s all because of that man right there.” Mike brandishes an elbow toward Trey, and confusion overtakes Dane’s features as he lays eyes on his brother’s limp body for the first time.

  “I wanted that nasty motherfucker off the streets for years, and Trey accomplished that, but I wanted a solved case more. Our insurance policy was the murder weapon—your gun—and although we were almost certain you wouldn’t have a reliable alibi, Trey urged me not to bring you in. Said you’d be more useful in the long run. At first I didn’t believe him. Well, I changed my tune, and you should be happy to know that your contributions have been well appreciated over the years.”

  I weaken in his arms, hardly believing what I’m hearing. All this time, Trey was working with Mike? Paying him off with part of the take from Dane? I don’t know how Dane is keeping it together, but he’s doing a damn good job. The only thing giving him away is the tic in his jaw that I’m not sure anyone but me would notice. His hand flexes a little more obviously, like he wants nothing more than to use it against Mike’s face.