Chapter 8
ELENA
When we pull up, Weston is standing on the front porch like a sentinel, but his posture eases as we walk toward the house. “Before you go in, Buck wants you to gear up,” he tells me after a nod of greeting. “Boot covers, mask, gloves.”
He hands me the boot covers first, and I lean on the doorframe as I lift a foot to pull the elastic-trimmed cover over it.
I think I have my balance, but apparently, I don’t.
Immediately, multiple hands are on me, keeping me from falling.
Weston has a hold of my elbow, while Calder grips my other arm and has a hand on my back.
Heat seeps across my skin as I realize how close they both are. I’m right between the two of them, and they don’t seem in any hurry to move away. Or to let go of me.
“You okay?” Weston asks, even though I’m clearly fine, aside from a face that’s probably turning pink.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Here. I’ll get that.” He takes the boot covers from me, kneels, and puts them over my feet, while Calder continues to hold me steady. Inside, I’m anything but.
I can’t be attracted to these particular firemen anymore, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it.
“Must be a slick spot out here,” Weston says when he straightens. “I’ll take care of it.”
Reassured that both of my legs are stable, Calder finally lets go of my arm, and I rush to put the mask on, eager to cover whatever expression might be on my face.
Calder escorts me into the house, where I’m immediately hit with a wave of nausea as thoughts of what could have happened run through my mind. What if the fire had started on the opposite side of the house, near the bedrooms? What if I hadn’t been able to get to T.J.?
I shudder as I try hard not to think about it.
The living room is fully intact, which is a relief, but everything is filthy.
After Calder delivers me to Buck in the den, he disappears toward the back of the house. There’s another firefighter with Buck, but when I step into the room, Buck tells him he can take a break, then tells me to be sure not to touch anything.
“You get some sleep?” Buck asks.
“Yes. And food, in case you’re going to ask about that next.”
He chuckles, even though his eyes are grim. I want to keep focusing on his eyes, because my alternative is looking around the room, and it is far beyond grim.
Nearly everything is covered with a grayish-brown film. The bookshelf has collapsed, there are blobs of plastic so melted I can’t tell what they used to be, and the floor is scarred with a dark, ugly stain.
I point to the charred mark, a few feet in front of the desk. “Is this where the fire started?”
“Yes. It appears there was a pile of things there that burned. What was in that spot yesterday?”
“Nothing,” I say. “The floor was clear.”
“Was there clothing in this room, or sewing supplies?” he asks.
My eyes go immediately to the closet, where the fire-damaged door is still intact and open. “Tyler’s dress uniform was there.” Stricken, I point at the empty, half-melted garment bag.
Buck crouches near the desk and picks up a cluster of metal buttons fused to charred threads.
“The firefighters were as careful as they could be to leave the room the way they found it. Uniform remains were over here, near the origin, not in the closet. Is there anything else missing that you can tell?”
The box of Tyler’s awards and mementos I’d carefully placed back in the closet is several feet from where it should be. “This box was full,” I tell Buck as I swivel around and look for missing items. “Most of what was in here is gone.”
“What’s missing?” he asks.
“There were medals, certificates, and bundles of letters. Official commendation letters, letters Tyler wrote to me. And packets of photos. I was just … ” A sob chokes me, and I can’t finish my sentence.
“The burn pattern indicates that things were piled here,” Buck says. His voice is gentle. “Whoever did this wasn’t trying to level the house. They wanted to destroy certain items, and because you called quickly, the fire stayed where the fuel was concentrated.”
Gentler still, he holds out a blackened item in the palm of his gloved hand. “This was at the top of the stack of charred remnants.”
Tyler’s SEAL Trident.
“Was this pinned to his uniform?” Buck asks.
I shake my head and try to answer him, but the words get stuck. He’d been so proud of that pin. It represented so much hard work and sacrifice. Commitment.
I close my eyes for a moment to pull myself together, but I’m nearly undone when I feel a hand come to rest on my shoulder. A sense of comfort comes over me that’s so intense, it nearly drops me to my knees.
I wasn’t prepared when Weston and Calder reached out to assist me on the porch, and now Buck is caressing my shoulder with his strong hand, which is warm even through my coat.
I’ve been fine on my own since Tyler died, but everything in me wants to lean into Buck’s touch, and how can I even be thinking about that when I’m standing here next to the burned remains of items my husband held so dear?
I feel warm and sick and confused and angry. All of it, all at the same time.
I lift my chin and meet Buck’s eyes, and I don’t know if I feel better or worse when he appears to be in as much pain as I am. His expression looks as conflicted as I feel.
We stand there for a few long moments, just looking at each other. Inside, I’m crumbling like an imploding building, but I stand firm. Whoever did this, whatever the hell they’re trying to do, I won’t let them get to me.
No matter how much I want to fall into Buck’s arms and hide my head from the world, I won’t do that, either.
His fingers press into muscles at my upper back, then he squeezes my shoulder and releases me, but he doesn’t look away for several more seconds.
“There’s something else,” he says finally, his voice ragged, almost tortured. “This was apart from everything else, purposely shielded from the fire.”
I gasp as he shows me the same photograph I was looking at yesterday morning, only now it’s charred at the edges, as if lit with a lighter then extinguished, like the photo at the house in San Diego. It’s also been marked up with a red pen.
There’s an X through Tyler’s face, and circles around the faces of Buck, Weston, and Calder.
“I’ve always believed he was murdered.” My voice is shaky but not quiet.
Buck lets out a breath and sets the picture somewhere out of my sight. “Tyler died doing the job. It was operational. And someone out there knows it.”
His admission isn’t a surprise, but it’s still huge. It’s a relief for someone to tell me the truth, even though it’s only a broad overview of the truth. It wasn’t a training exercise. He died while he was on a mission.
“I can’t give you details,” he says, “but I can keep you safe. From here on out, you’re covered.”
It sounds good, and I don’t doubt he’s capable, but we’re dealing with a madman.
“That photo was in a box, in the closet,” I tell Buck. “The trident pin was in a jewelry box within the larger box. Someone broke in here while T.J. and I were sleeping, dug through Tyler’s things, and then destroyed them.”
A vein in Buck’s forehead pulses, and even though he’s wearing a mask, I can tell he’s gritting his teeth. “We’re going to make sure it never happens again. Security devices will be in place before you move back in here, and we’ll be keeping watch on you. Are you going to stay at Mae’s?”
“She’s offered. I guess so.” Kira would probably welcome us at their place, but it’s a ways out of town, especially when the roads are bad. “How long until we can live here again?” I ask.
“A week, if restoration moves fast, but that will depend on insurance and what company comes in. Could be longer. Could happen sooner if they seal off the den.”
“Can I take some of our clothes and personal things today?”
“Nothing from this room, but items from the bedrooms should be okay. I did a quick pass, but let’s walk through together to make sure nothing appears to be disturbed on that side of the house.”
I shudder at the thought of whoever did this being in our bedrooms, and am thankful when everything there looks as I remember, aside from some soot.
Weston comes in and helps me pack clothes into plastic bags while Buck gets back to work in the den, and when I’m ready, Calder drives me back to Mae’s.
T.J.’s napping in the chair, the TV volume low.
I wash all our clothes in Mae’s washing machine to get the smoke out, then, when T.J.
wakes up, I help him work on a LEGO set I brought over for him.
It’s an older one from his closet, because the one he was currently working on is in the living room, covered in grime, but he’s happy with it nonetheless.
I find momentary peace building something that makes sense, where all the pieces fit.
Later, I insist on helping Mae make dinner. After we eat, T.J. watches more cartoons, and I make lists. Things we need from the house, things I need for work Monday, things T.J. needs for school. It’s daunting, but at least I feel like I’m doing something, moving toward some sense of normalcy.
When it’s time to go to bed, T.J. surprises me by heading into the room Mae designated as his. I’m happy to see that he’s feeling secure enough to be on his own for the night. It’s a small victory that’s bittersweet. My little boy is getting more independent every day.
I check on him later, before I go to bed, and watch his chest rise and fall as I wait for my own breathing to even out.
My mind keeps returning to the den. To what was ruined and what was left behind on purpose. Whoever did it wants me scared.
I press my hand to my chest and inhale slowly, with control.
They picked the wrong woman.