Chapter 2 #2
The deputies exchanged a glance, and Lydia’s stomach sank. They thought she was confused. Concussed. Unreliable.
“Could it have been an animal?” Deputy Evans suggested. “We’ve had reports of black bears in the area, and with the dry winter?—”
“No,” Lydia said, more sharply than she’d intended. Eli shifted against her, and she forced herself to soften her tone. “It wasn’t a bear. It was … I don’t know what it was. But it woke me up, and then I smelled smoke.”
“And then what?” Deputy Morris’s pen was moving across the page, taking notes.
“I ran to get the children. The hallway was full of smoke. I tried to get them to the stairs, but I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.” Lydia paused, trying to recollect the events as best she could. “I fell. Maybe hit my head. That’s all I remember.”
A lie. Or maybe not quite a lie. More like an omission. Because she did remember something else, something that made her heart race.
That face in the flames. Those eyes.
And the certainty, bone-deep and absolute, that however the fire had started, it hadn’t been an accident.
But she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t voice the fear that Tom had followed her, that he’d tried to burn them alive.
Because what if she was wrong? What if it really had been an electrical fire, a freak accident, nothing more?
They’d think she was paranoid. Crazy. They’d look into her background, into why she was so scared, into the restraining orders and the accusations and all the ugly history she’d been trying to escape. This was meant to be a fresh start.
So, she kept her mouth shut and let them think she was just another confused victim with a head injury.
“The fire department is still investigating the cause,” Deputy Evans said, tucking his notebook away. “But we wanted to let you know … the man who pulled you and your children out of the house? He’s here too. Different floor, but he’s stable. You might want to thank him when you’re feeling better.”
A man. A stranger. Someone who’d risked his life to save people he didn’t even know.
“What’s his name?” Lydia heard herself ask.
“Caleb Byrne,” Deputy Morris said. “Apparently he was just driving by when he saw the fire. Ran in twice to get all of you out.”
Two times. Into a burning building. For strangers.
Lydia’s throat tightened. She wanted to thank him, to sob her gratitude, wanted to ask him why he’d done it, what had possessed him to risk everything for people he didn’t know. But the deputies were already moving toward the door, their questions finished, their duty done.
“You get some rest, Ms. Harper,” Deputy Morris said gently. “And if you remember anything else, you let us know.”
The door clicked shut behind them, and Lydia was alone again with her children and her pain and her fear.
She drew Eli and Rosie closer, whispering to them that everything would be all right even though she had no idea if that was true. Rosie stirred, her eyes fluttering open, huge and brown and still clouded with sleep.
“Mommy?” Her voice was small and scared. “Where’s Muffin?”
Muffin. The floppy-eared stuffed bunny that Rosie had slept with every night since she was two years old. The one she couldn’t sleep without. The one that had been in her bed when the fire started.
Lydia’s heart broke. She looked down at her baby girl, at the hope and fear warring in her eyes, and had to force the words out past the lump in her throat.
“Muffin was lost in the fire, sweetheart,” she whispered, her hand stroking Rosie’s matted curls. “I’m so sorry. But we’ll get you another bunny. I promise.”
Rosie’s face crumpled. She pressed her face into Lydia’s shoulder and sobbed like her heart was breaking. Because it was. Because she was six years old and she’d lost her home and her favorite toy and nearly her life, and no new bunny was going to make that okay.
Lydia held her daughter and let her cry, blinking back her own tears, feeling Eli’s silent weight against her other side. He wasn’t crying, he never cried anymore, but she could feel the tension in his slight body, the fear he was trying so hard to hide.
A soft knock on the door made them all freeze. Then a woman entered. Middle-aged, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing scrubs and a white coat. A doctor.
“Ms. Harper,” she said, her voice calm and professional but not unkind. “I’m Dr. Wilson. I’ve been overseeing your care and your children’s. How are you feeling?”
How was she feeling? Lydia almost laughed. She felt like her entire world had burned down. Like everything she’d worked for, everything she’d sacrificed to keep her children safe, had turned to ash in a single night.
“Sore,” she said instead. “My head hurts. And my lungs.”
Dr. Wilson nodded, moving closer to check the monitor beside the bed.
“That’s to be expected. You have a mild concussion from the blow to your head, and significant smoke inhalation.
Your lungs are going to hurt for a while.
You breathed in a lot of fumes. But you’re lucky. All three of you are incredibly lucky.”
Lucky. Right.
“We’re keeping you overnight for observation,” Dr. Wilson continued, her eyes moving from the monitor to Lydia’s face.
“The children too. We want to make sure there’s no delayed respiratory distress, and I want to monitor that concussion.
But honestly? You’re all in surprisingly good shape considering what you went through.
The reports from the scene made it sound much worse. ”
Because it should have been worse. They should have died in that fire. Would have died, if not for a stranger named Caleb Byrne who’d run into a burning building twice.
“When can we leave?” Lydia heard herself ask.
“Tomorrow morning, if everything looks good.” Dr. Wilson smiled, clearly trying to be reassuring. “We’ll do another round of tests in the morning, make sure your oxygen levels are stable and your concussion hasn’t worsened. But I don’t anticipate any complications.”
Tomorrow morning. And then what?
The panic that had been lurking at the edges of Lydia’s consciousness came rushing in, cold and sharp and suffocating.
Where would they go when they left the hospital?
The house was gone. Everything they owned, what little they’d managed to salvage from their old life, was gone.
Her purse with the emergency cash. The car keys …
do I have a spare set? The few photographs she’d managed to hold onto from a happier time.
All gone.
She had nothing. No money, no ID, no clothes beyond the hospital gown she was wearing. And Thanksgiving was in few days. A few days until a holiday that was supposed to be about family and gratitude and home, and she had none of those things.
“Ms. Harper?” Dr. Wilson’s voice pulled her back from the edge of panic. “Are you all right? You’re very pale.”
“I’m fine,” Lydia lied, because what else could she say? That she was terrified? That she had nowhere to go and no way to take care of her children? That she suspected her ex-husband had tried to murder them and she couldn’t prove it and didn’t know what to do?
“The social worker will be by in the morning,” Dr. Wilson said gently, and Lydia realized with a sinking feeling that her panic must have shown on her face. “She can help you figure out temporary housing, get you in touch with resources. You don’t have to worry about that tonight.”
A social worker. Resources. Temporary housing.
The words felt like weights, dragging her down. She’d worked so hard to avoid this. To avoid being on welfare, to keep her children safe, to build a life where they didn’t need help from anyone. And now, it was all falling apart.
“Try to get some rest,” Dr. Wilson said, moving toward the door. “Press the call button if you need anything. A nurse will be checking on you every few hours.”
The door closed, and Lydia was alone again with her children and her fear.
Rosie had finally cried herself to sleep, her face still pressed against Lydia’s shoulder, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of childhood rest. Eli was quiet, his eyes still open, staring at nothing.
“Mom?” he whispered. “What are we going to do?”
It was the question Lydia had been asking herself. The question she had no answer for.
“We’re going to be okay,” she said, stroking his hair. “I promise, baby. We’re going to be okay.”
Another lie. Or maybe a prayer. She wasn’t sure anymore.
Outside the window, the night pressed close, dark and vast. Somewhere in this hospital, a stranger named Caleb Byrne was recovering from injuries he’d sustained saving her family. Somewhere out there, Tom might be watching, waiting, planning his next move.
And here, in this small hospital room, Lydia Harper held her children close and tried to believe that everything would be all right.
Even though she had no idea how. Even though her house was gone, her cash was gone, her driver’s license and the debit cards for her bank accounts melted into nothing, and she had nowhere to go.
Even though Thanksgiving was coming and all she had to be grateful for was that they were still breathing.
She closed her eyes and held her babies and whispered promises she wasn’t sure she could keep.
Because that’s what mothers did. Especially divorced ones with no one to help.
They promised.
They hoped.
And they prayed that somehow, some way, it would be enough.