Chapter 16
Brett
T he porch creaked under my boots as I stepped out.
"Shit," I hissed under my breath. The smell hit next—sharp and sour, unmistakable. Smoke. There it was, a dark gray cloud of the stuff, billowing from Maisy’s place.
"Stay here!" I barked back toward the open door, where Maisy's wide eyes locked on mine. “I’ll do what I can.” I didn’t wait to see if she’d answer or follow through—I just ran.
My boots slammed against the cobblestones, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet. The yards between our houses stretched long as hell compared to normal, my head already buzzing with worst-case scenarios. I wasn’t even thinking straight yet, instincts warring with sheer panic. Geoff was the damn Chief. He knew fire safety better than anyone in this town. How the hell could—
The smell grew stronger. Acrid, biting at the back of my throat. And suddenly, there it was—a window flaring with light. Flames licking up from inside.
"Goddammit!" My fingers fumbled for my phone as I sprinted, adrenaline shaking them more than I wanted to admit.
"Small Falls Fire Station," the dispatcher answered, her voice calm, professional—that tone we all drilled into each other at the station.
"Chief’s house is on fire!" I snapped, sucking in smoke-tinged air as I kept running. "Need immediate backup! Now!"
"Wait—"
"Now!" I barked again, not wasting another second. I could hear the scramble on their end as I shoved the phone back into my pocket, my mind spinning. Every training session I’d ever run, every drill we’d practiced—it all blurred together in a mess of half-formed plans.
The door was cracked open, smoke curling out like a living thing. Black and thick, it hit me square in the chest—an invisible punch that reeked of burning wood and something sharper. My boots skidded to a stop just shy of the threshold. A jagged shard of glass glinted underfoot, catching what little light the flames threw out from deeper inside. I froze for half a second, my pulse hammering loud enough to drown out everything else.
"Geoff!" I shouted, voice rough, raw. No answer.
The flames flickered through the doorway, licking at the edges of the living room. Not an inferno yet, but it didn’t have far to go. The smell was sharp enough to turn my stomach—not just smoke, something else . . . booze? My gut twisted as I looked back at the glass. Broken bottle? Stumbled rage? Damn it, Geoff.
"Geoff!" I yelled again, louder this time. Just smoke and silence. The yard was dead still; no neighbors, no sign anyone had noticed yet. Small Falls could sleep through a freight train if it wanted to.
I yanked my shirt over my nose, gripping the fabric tight. It wouldn’t do much—not against this—but it’d buy me seconds. Seconds mattered. Every instinct screamed at me to go, move, now . I didn’t have gear, didn’t have backup yet, but none of that mattered. Geoff might be passed out in there. Or worse.
"Alright," I muttered to no one. "Okay."
My eyes darted over the doorway, then the windows, then back to the yawning black smoke spilling into the night. Risk assessment. Training kicked in hard and fast, the way it always did when it counted. Flames were low but growing. Main structural points—still intact. Glass—scattered near the entry, probably recent. Air—already toxic as hell. If he was unconscious, I’d have minutes. Maybe less.
"Shit." I ducked low, bracing myself. One last breath of clean air. Then I went in.
Heat slammed into me first, wrapping around like a suffocating blanket. The hallway was narrow, already hazy with thick gray smoke that clung to every surface. My eyes stung instantly—tears springing up, unbidden—and I blinked hard, squinting forward.
"Geoff!" My voice tore through the choking quiet, reverberating off the walls. Still nothing.
The smell—it hit harder the deeper I went. Burnt liquor. Cheap stuff, by the sour edge of it. The kind he kept under the sink when he thought no one was looking. Goddammit, Chief. You knew better.
I dropped lower, crawling now, trying to get under the worst of the smoke. The heat pressed down, heavy and relentless, sweat pouring off me even through the adrenaline. My hands scraped against the floorboards, slick with something—beer? Scotch? Didn’t matter. Up ahead, shadows danced against the walls, orange hues flickering brighter. The fire was moving faster than it should’ve.
The heat hit me like a freight train as I rounded the corner into the living room. Flames crawled up the far wall, eating at the peeling wallpaper and licking the edge of an old bookshelf. The air was thick—hotter than hell and stinking of burnt wood and booze. My chest tightened with every breath, but I couldn’t stop now.
"Geoff!" I shouted again, my voice raw from the smoke clawing at my throat. Nothing. No movement, no answer.
Then I saw him.
Slumped against the coffee table, half in shadow, Geoff looked like he’d collapsed mid-drink. A bottle lay on its side near his hand, amber liquid pooling around it. Flames flickered just feet away from where he sat, barely conscious, his chest heaving shallowly. His face was red and glistening, sweat mixing with soot until it streaked down like war paint. He coughed, weak and broken, and my stomach clenched hard.
"Jesus, Chief," I muttered, dropping low to move closer. The floorboards groaned under me, and overhead, something creaked loud enough to make me glance up. A beam—still holding, for now. But not for long.
"Geoff!" I barked, louder this time, trying to cut through the haze clouding his mind. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t seem to register me. Damn it.
I crouched beside him, pushing aside the tipped-over bottle. The smell of cheap whiskey was sharp and sour, cutting through the smoke. His skin felt hot when I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him lightly to see if he could respond. "Chief, can you hear me? We gotta move. Now."
His eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. He blinked at me like I wasn’t real, his brow furrowing. "Brett?" His voice rasped, barely audible over the crackling fire behind me. "What’re you—" He broke off into a hacking cough, doubling over slightly. Ash clung to the sweat on his neck, smudging into dark streaks.
"Yeah, it’s me." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Come on, we’re getting outta here."
"Leave it—" he mumbled, words slurring together. His head lolled forward, and I caught him before he could slump further. Half-apology, half-argument, but he couldn’t even get it all out before another coughing fit wracked his body.
"Not a chance," I said, adjusting my grip. He was heavier than he looked, solid muscle under the years and the booze. I hooked an arm under his shoulder, hoisting him up with a grunt. My back screamed in protest, but I ignored it, pulling him upright as much as I could manage.
"Hang on, Chief. I’ve got you," I said, voice clipped, teeth grit. He sagged against me, dead weight except for the occasional twitch or cough. The flames hissed louder, creeping closer around us, and the heat made the sweat drip into my eyes. Didn’t matter. One step at a time. Get him out. Get him safe.
"Stay with me," I muttered, dragging him toward the faint outline of the hallway. My legs burned with effort, my lungs screamed, but I kept moving.
"Gotcha," I whispered again, steadying him as the fire closed in. The heat slapped me in the face, forcing me back a step. Geoff sagged heavier in my arms, dead weight except for a weak cough that rattled in his chest.
"Dammit," I muttered, glancing around fast. Smoke curled thick along the ceiling, swallowing the edges of the room in choking gray. My lungs burned; every breath felt like dragging knives down my throat.
The sirens wailed faintly in the distance—my crew was coming, thank God—but they weren’t here yet. And we didn’t have time to wait. A beam groaned overhead, then snapped with a sickening crack. Sparks rained down, embers biting at my bare arms. Instinct kicked in, and I shifted us sideways, shielding Geoff from the falling debris. His head lolled against my shoulder, and for a terrifying second, I thought he’d passed out.
"Come on, Chief," I grunted, adjusting my grip. He was so damn heavy. "Stay with me, alright? Just a little further."
My eyes darted, scanning through the haze. The flames were licking up the walls now, inching closer like they had all the time in the world. They didn’t, though. Neither did we. That window—there, just past the overturned chair—was our only shot. It wasn’t big, and it sure as hell wasn’t safe, but it would have to do.
"Hold on, old man," I said, half to him, half to myself. My voice came out rough, torn up by smoke and adrenaline.
Geoff didn’t answer, just let out another wet, hacking cough, but I didn’t need his permission. Not now. Looping his arm tighter over my shoulder, I dragged us toward it, one agonizing step at a time. Every muscle in my body screamed, the sweat rolling off me in waves, stinging the cuts on my arms from flying sparks and shattered wood.
"Hold onto me!" I shouted when we reached the glass, already bracing myself. I didn’t wait to see if he understood. There wasn’t time.
With a deep breath, I turned my shoulder into the frame and rammed us through it. Glass exploded outward with a sharp, high-pitched shatter, slicing across my forearms and ripping at my shirt as we tumbled through. We hit the grass hard, the impact knocking the wind clean out of me. Geoff rolled halfway off my lap, limp and wheezing, but I caught his head before it slammed into the ground.
"Gotcha," I rasped, cradling the back of his neck with one hand while I sucked in a lungful of cool, blessed air. It still stank of smoke, but compared to inside, it was heaven.
Behind us, the house roared with a fresh surge of flames, the sudden oxygen feeding the beast. Glass popped and cracked; the sound of destruction filled the early morning. I stayed crouched over Geoff, shielding him, until the first fire engine screamed to a halt at the curb.
"Over here!" I yelled, waving an arm as the crew closed in.
The hiss of the hoses cut through the chaos, water pounding against the side of Maisy’s burning house. Steam billowed up in angry clouds as the flames fought back. I stayed on my knees in the damp grass, arms trembling under the weight of the Chief’s slack body. My heart hammered like a jackrabbit’s.
"Wilkins!" A familiar voice snapped me out of the haze. I looked up to see Jake. His eyes widened when he saw the Chief sprawled across my lap.
"Jesus," Jake muttered, dropping down beside me. His gloves hovered over Geoff’s chest, then pressed against his neck. He nodded once, tight-lipped. "Pulse is weak but there. Good job," he said, grim and low, like it was more for himself than for me.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My ears buzzed with adrenaline, drowning out everything but the shallow wheeze of Geoff’s breath. Each sound ripped at me—too slow, too uneven. I adjusted my grip, my hand cradling the back of his head where sweat and soot matted his hair.
"Get him some oxygen!" Jake barked over his shoulder to another firefighter. “And hurry!”
The heat from the blaze behind us licked at my back, but I barely noticed. My eyes stayed locked on Geoff’s face, pale except for the streaks of ash smudged across his cheekbones. For the first time in years, the man who had always seemed larger-than-life looked small. Fragile. Vulnerable.
"Hang in there, Chief," I murmured, more to myself than him.
"brETT!"
My name hit me like a slap. I twisted around just in time to see Maisy barreling toward us from across the street, her hair wild, her arms pumping as she ran full tilt. Her bare feet slapped against the pavement—she must’ve come straight from my place without even grabbing shoes.
"Maisy, wait!" I shouted, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.
She dropped to her knees beside me, so hard I winced at the sound of bone hitting dirt. Her hands flew to her father’s face, fingertips shaking as they skimmed over the soot-covered skin.
"Dad," she whispered, her voice cracking wide open.
"Maisy, hey—" I reached out, catching her by the shoulders before she could lean too close to the smoke still curling off his clothes. The tears already pooling in her eyes spilled over, cutting clean lines through the ash smudged on her cheeks.
"Is he—" She choked on the words, her breath hitching as she stared down at him. “Oh my God, Brett, is he—"
"He's alive," I cut in quickly, gripping her tighter when her whole body sagged forward. "But you gotta stay back, okay? Let them work."
"Stay back?" she snapped, whipping her head toward me. Her eyes were wild, shining like broken glass in the firelight. "That’s my dad, Brett! I can’t just—"
"Maisy,” I said, low and firm, pulling her closer. My arm slid around her waist without thinking, holding her steady as she shook. “They’ll take care of him.”
She turned back to Geoff, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "He looks . . . Oh, God, Brett, what if—"
"Don’t go there," I said, cutting her off again. My fingers tightened on her waist, grounding both of us. "We got him out in time. He’s breathing. That’s all that matters right now."
Her shoulders hitched with a quiet sob, and I felt her weight lean into me, just a little. Not enough to let go of her panic, but enough to trust me to hold her up.
"Maisy," I tried again, my voice breaking just slightly. "I’m not gonna let anything happen to him. You hear me?"
She nodded, jerky and uneven, but didn’t say a word. Just leaned her head against my chest and cried, quiet and raw, as the firefighters worked to pull her father back from the edge.
Geoff coughed—wet, rasping, like his lungs were full of gravel. My head snapped down to him just as his chest jerked with another ragged wheeze.
"Maisy," I said quickly, my grip tightening on her shoulder. "He’s coming around."
He coughed again, harsher this time, and her hand flew to her mouth like she had to hold back a sob.
"Chief," I said, leaning closer. Smoke still hung heavy in the air, stinging my nose and throat, but I pushed past it. "Geoff, can you hear me? You’re okay. We got you out."
His eyelids fluttered. For a second, I thought he was going under again, but then they cracked open—a sliver at first, squinting against the flashing red lights and the chaos around us. His gaze slid unfocused across my face, then shifted sideways, landing on Maisy.
"Maisy . . ." The word came out rough, barely audible. His voice was cracked and dry, like it’d been dragged through sandpaper. “Darling.”
"Yeah, Dad, I’m here!" Her voice broke, high-pitched and trembling. She grabbed his hand, clutching it so tight her knuckles went white. "I’m right here!"
"Easy," I said, one hand hovering over Geoff’s chest, ready to steady him if he tried to move. "Don’t push yourself. Paramedics are almost here."
"Saved . . ." he croaked, head lolling toward me now. His bloodshot eyes squinted, trying to focus. Sweat mixed with soot streaked his forehead, and his lips barely moved when he spoke. "You . . . saved me."
"Yeah," I said, keeping my voice steady even though my heart felt like a jackhammer. "We’ve got you, Chief. Just hang tight."
His gaze flickered back to Maisy, and I saw something shift in his expression. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes, cutting tiny clean tracks through the grime on his face.
"Stretcher!" one of the paramedics called, barreling toward us with two others close behind. They dropped to their knees beside me, moving fast, efficient. Hands checked his pulse, his breathing, his responsiveness—all things I already knew were hanging by a thread.
The paramedics strapped him down, their hands moving quick and sure. Geoff’s chest rattled with each shallow breath, but his arm shot out—faster than any of us expected—and latched onto Maisy’s wrist.
"Wait," he rasped, the word cutting through the chaos like a blade. His grip didn’t match his condition; it was strong enough to make her flinch.
"Sir, we need to—" one of the paramedics started, but Geoff ignored them, his red-rimmed eyes locked on Maisy’s face.
"I’m sorry," he wheezed, raw and broken. "God, I’m so sorry." His face crumpled, tears streaking through the dirt and ash. "I did this before," he choked out. "Your mom . . ." His voice cracked, and for a second, I thought he wouldn’t get the words out. "She was like you. A Little. And I—I ruined everything."
Maisy gasped, sharp and loud. Her free hand flew to her mouth as if it could hold in the sound, but the damage was already done. Her knees wobbled, and I reached out instinctively, steadying her by the elbow.
"When she told me, I didn’t understand. I threatened her," Geoff pushed on, his voice scraping like gravel. "Said I’d destroy her life if she stayed. That’s why she left. Because I couldn’t—" He broke off, coughing hard, his whole body convulsing against the straps. The paramedics looked ready to intervene, but he waved them off weakly, his focus still pinned to Maisy. "I regret it every damn day," he whispered, hoarse and guttural. "And now I’ve hurt you too."
"Stop." Maisy’s voice wavered, barely holding together. Tears spilled fast and hot down her cheeks, leaving shimmering trails in the grime. "Just stop."
But he didn’t. Couldn’t. His face twisted with anguish, the kind that came from years of carrying something too heavy to bear. "I messed up then," he said, his words slurring but clear enough. "And I’m messing up now." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing above the oxygen mask they'd slid under his chin. "I can’t do it again. Not to you."
The paramedics hovered, exchanging glances, but no one dared step in yet. This wasn’t just about smoke or flames anymore—it was years of fire burning between them.
"Maisy," Geoff begged, his voice breaking into pieces. "I was wrong. About you. About everything. Please . . ." His hand trembled where it gripped hers. "Don’t hate me. I’m not gonna make that mistake again."
"Sir—" one of the paramedics tried again, more insistent this time, but Geoff’s fingers only tightened their hold.
"You're my daughter," he said, his voice trembling, words tumbling over themselves in desperation. "I’m not losing you too."
Maisy’s shoulders shook, her head dipping forward as a sob tore its way out of her, unrestrained and gut-wrenching. “I love you Dad.”
Geoff coughed weakly, his chest stuttering with the effort. His eyes—bloodshot and red-rimmed—found mine.
"Wilkins," he rasped, voice thin but still carrying that undercurrent of command. "Thank you, son." The words dragged out of him like they hurt to say. "I . . . owe you everything. You’re a good man."
"Don’t mention it," I replied, swallowing hard. My throat felt raw from smoke, or maybe just from holding back the thousand things I wanted to say. I settled for a nod, steady and sure. He’d been through enough tonight. We all had.
Maisy looked at him, then at me, then, with red-rimmed eyes, she smiled.