Chapter One #2
I turn to find him crouching by the doorway across the hall. A clock—one of those round, generic ones with black hands on a white face—is warped and half melted.
Swiping the back of my gloved hand over my brow before the sweat can drip into my eyes, I squint through the gloom. The clock is frozen at five forty-eight.
“Eighteen minutes for the fire to get here.”
“If the clock was right.” He straightens, and we keep moving.
By the time we reach the center of the building, there’s debris everywhere.
Twisted metal, chunks of plaster, ceiling tiles, insulation hanging in strips.
At the far end of the space, what used to be the second floor has collapsed into a pile of rubble.
Sunlight filters through the gaps where the roof burned away.
Nate clears his throat. “Gonna need the arson investigator for this part. Let’s head to the west side. Less burn damage over there.”
“Go on. Respirator’s giving me fits. I’ll catch up.” I adjust the straps, tightening them until there’s no space between the edges of the mask and my skin. It helps. A little.
I don’t move yet, though. The body would have been somewhere in all this mess. I find a couple of large, flattened bootie prints. The medical examiner, maybe.
As I turn, I catch it. A metal flashlight lying in the ash. Dented. The plastic lens melted, bulb shattered, but it’s otherwise mostly intact. Stepping closer, I take a couple of photos, and the sunlight shifts enough to reflect on a set of keys.
Shit. They probably belonged to the guard.
I scan the area for any other evidence, and my heart thuds so hard, I feel it in my spine. A warped door lies at an angle in the debris, its knob dented, and—oh God—deep gouges in the dark beige paint. Fingernail marks. Crescent-shaped divots in the wood. From the flashlight.
My breath locks up. I can’t get any air. The space is huge, open to the sky, and still, it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
Jerry Hollis died trying to claw his way out through that door—the wood swelled and warped, and the lock melted, turning the room into a tomb.
I’m moving before I can stop myself. Back down the darkened hall, through the remains of the lobby, and out into the sunlight and hundred-degree heat.
I rip the respirator off the second I’m clear, hands braced on my thighs, and suck in air that’s too hot and tastes too much like smoke. It burns going down. My throat seizes, my lungs complain, but I don’t care.
Splinters dig into my palms. The metal bar is slick with sweat and blood from a dozen different cuts. Prying at the gap between the boards, I pray like I’ve never prayed before. “Come on, come on!” I scream against the never-ending sound vibrating through my bones.
Tires rolling over the broken asphalt drag me back to the heat and the sunlight and relative safety. Shit.
I’m not trapped in the Box. Not within sight of the border on the cult’s land. Not alone and concussed and terrified. I’m outside a burned out building in Round Rock. On the job. Caution tape flapping in the hot breeze.
Flexing my fingers, I stare down at the scars running across my palms. Some are starting to fade. Others are so deep, they’ll be with me forever. My throat is still too dry. I straighten and head for Nate’s car. I need my water bottle.
I’m halfway there when I notice the white pickup truck with the State Fire Marshal’s Office logo emblazoned on the side stopped just beyond the caution tape.
The door opens, and a man gets out. Tall, lean, wavy hair that’s a little messy—like he’s been running his hands through it all day—and…
Shit. As he reaches into the truck bed for his gear bag, his Wranglers make a solid case for themselves.
The view temporarily distracts me from the way my chest is still too tight and my legs feel like wet noodles.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he scans the scene, the deputies, and the caution tape before his brown eyes land on me.
He’s between me and Nate’s Chevy, and there’s no way around him that doesn’t make me look like I’m rabbiting. I square my shoulders as he strides over to me and offers me his hand.
“Eliot Flint. State Fire Marshal’s Office.”
I don’t look away. He’s reading me the same way I’m reading him. And that’d be fine if I weren’t still shaky, respirator dangling from fingers that aren’t completely steady, while my pulse tries desperately to remember what normal feels like.
“Parker Elmore. Captain. Ranger Division.” I manage to keep my voice level and my grip tight as I shake his hand. “My partner’s inside. I…need to grab a pen from the car.”
His gaze drops for a single second, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my shirt pocket, before sliding back up to my face. “You mean that pen?”
Shit.
“No.”
I sidestep him and beeline for Nate’s car.
If I tried to explain—tried to come up with another excuse—he’d see right through it.
Hell, I don’t know why I didn’t admit I wanted water in the first place.
Except I’m a woman in law enforcement, in Texas, who just had to bail out of a crime scene.
The last thing I need is to hand him reasons to question whether I can do my job.
Thankfully, by the time I manage a few gulps of lukewarm water, Eliot Flint and his Wranglers have disappeared inside the building.