One #2
Lark bolted through the woods, sure-footed and fast, and Trevor chased her into the darkness. The trees thinned, the wind shifted and then he saw it.
A thin trail of smoke snaked above the treetops. The acrid scent grew stronger, clawing down his throat and blooming fear in his chest.
Then came the outline.
The house.
Helena’s house.
The old Victorian loomed at the edge of the woods like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. It had always felt timeless. Now smoke curled from its side like a whispered warning.
It was 2:02 a.m.
And Helena was likely inside.
The question wasn’t just whether she was alive.
It was whether whoever had come for her had finished what they’d started.
* * *
Helena sputtered awake, coughing violently, her throat raw and lungs seizing as something thick and noxious clawed its way inside her chest.
Smoke.
It stung her eyes, scorched her nostrils, burned its way down to her ribs. She sat up too fast, the world tilting sideways. Heat rolled through the room like a living thing. Her heart jackhammered.
Flames. The house was on fire.
She threw back the covers and staggered toward her bedroom windows at the back of the house. Through the wavering glass, all she could see was orange hungry flames devouring her back porch, her siding, her world.
Panic surged, white-hot and disorienting. Cell phone. Where was her phone?
Her thoughts were thick, sludgy. Smoke had already seeped into her brain like poison, fogging her mind and making her limbs feel slow and detached. She spun, eyes darting to the nightstand, the floor, the chair—but her phone was nowhere. Every breath she took scorched deeper.
She yanked her pajama shirt over her mouth and nose, a pitiful filter, and lunged for the door. Forget the phone. If she didn’t get out now, she wouldn’t get out at all.
She snatched a throw blanket off the chair, wrapped it around her hand and braced herself. One second of hesitation—just one—and then she flung the door open.
A wall of black smoke exploded into the room, thick and suffocating, swallowing her whole.
Flames burst through behind it, hissing and snapping, licking up the hallway walls like fingers dragging claws.
The heat was monstrous, blinding. Her skin blistered from the wave of it. She recoiled, stumbling backward and slamming the door shut again. Her lungs heaved for air that didn’t exist.
No way out. No way through.
Terror surged, sharp and primal. Her bedroom was a box. A coffin. If she didn’t get out in the next minute, she’d die here.
She dropped to the floor, pressing herself flat against the hardwood, the smoke pooling above her like a lethal cloud. Her eyes watered. Her head pounded.
Crawl. Crawl.
She moved on her elbows and knees, dragging herself toward the side windows, praying they weren’t already swallowed by the inferno.
The air here was clearer. Barely. But enough to think. Enough to breathe.
She shoved herself upright to her knees, choking, blinking furiously. The side of the house wasn’t fully engulfed—yet. The fire danced just out of view, but the wind could shift. It could change everything in seconds.
She fumbled with the window latch, her fingers slick with sweat. It wouldn’t budge.
“No—no, come on—”
She slammed her palm against it, then tried again. It gave.
She heaved the window upward, cool air flooding in and shocking her lungs.
Relief slammed into her—too soon.
The room tilted. Her knees buckled.
Everything spun. Her vision tunneled.
She reached for the ledge.
And the world went dark.
* * *
Trevor bolted after Lark, heart battering his rib cage, sweat slicking his back and upper lip as flames licked the night sky, alive and beckoning like a monster thrilled by its own destruction.
Smoke pulsed skyward, a black column twisting into the stars.
The fire breathed—greedy, guttural—and Trevor’s thoughts tripped into the past.
Andrea’s screams. The way the flames had chased them down the hallway, devouring the wallpaper, the furniture, the air itself.
His mother’s cries as the fire seared her arms, but she’d never stopped running, not until she’d thrown herself through the flames to reach his sister.
He’d been the only one not physically burned. But the damage inside had never healed.
Now, Trevor couldn’t afford to let fear root him in place.
Usually, by the time he showed up, the flames were long dead. He was the guy who searched for accelerant residue, who studied aftermaths. But this—This was live. This was war.
They crashed through the wall of trees that opened onto Helena’s backyard, and Trevor’s breath caught in his throat.
The house was ablaze. Fire raged across the back like a curtain. Smoke rolled thick and fast, an inky flood that blotted out everything but the flickering tongues of flame tearing through the structure. The only light came from destruction.
Heat punched into him like a solid wall, shoving him back. A warning. A dare. The fire didn’t want him there.
Lark alerted again and raced to the back of the house, circling. This must be where the accelerant originated.
Where was the fire department?
He’d called—of course he had—but time dragged in moments like these. Each second felt like it could cost Helena her life.
Then he saw it—a window cracked open, just above a rickety trellis on the side of the house.
Trevor’s eyes scanned the yard. No sign of her.
“Helena!” he shouted, voice already raw from the smoke tearing into his throat. Nothing. No movement. No answer.
His stomach dropped. She’d likely collapsed.
Or worse.
Clearly this fire had been intentional since there was accelerant on the scene, but why target Helena? And who might be behind it? She’d been working the arson case with him. Could the arsonist suspect she was getting too close? So many questions rapid-fired in his head.
No time to think them through.
“Lark, stay!” Trevor ordered, then gripped the trellis and began the climb, each rung groaning under his weight.
Heat singed his neck. The wood trembled.
Fear screamed for him to jump down and run, but he couldn’t.
In a matter of seconds, flames would be eating up this side of the house, too.
He could face heat and smoke. Just heat and smoke, he repeated inside his head. A mantra to keep him from cowardice.
He reached the narrow ledge beneath the window and hauled himself up. Flames chewed through the far wall inside, the firestorm climbing like it had a purpose.
Fire. Flames.
He froze.
One beat. Two.
There. Collapsed below the sill. Helena.
“Helena!” He didn’t wait for a response. There wasn’t time, and he forced himself to not look at the fire, only at Helena.
He shoved his body through the window, dropped to the floor, and immediately gagged on the smoke. His eyes burned. His lungs screamed.
He scooped her up—limp and heavy, her skin warm, terrifyingly still—and slung her over his shoulder. No time to check a pulse. No time to wonder.
The trellis groaned under them both as he descended, the wood cracking in warning. His foot slipped once—he gripped the vine lattice and clung tight, one arm wrapped around Helena’s legs, refusing to let her fall.
Finally, solid ground.
“Lark, come!”
The dog rushed to his side as sirens split the night. Red and blue lights slashed through the trees, and Trevor sprinted toward them with Helena still on his shoulder.
He laid her gently on the cool earth as EMTs swarmed. One began checking her vitals. Another clipped an oxygen mask over her face.
“Is she breathing?” Trevor asked, voice shaking.
“She’s alive,” Rafe Landers said, crouching beside her with his medical bag already open. “You need oxygen, too.”
“I’m fine.” Trevor waved him off, though his lungs burned and his head pounded.
Rafe didn’t argue, but his frown said he didn’t buy it.
Trevor glanced back toward the house as the blaze roared louder, firefighters shouting commands and dragging hoses. He knew they’d save what they could.
“She’s in good hands,” Rafe said, motioning for the backboard. “You did good, Trevor.”
Trevor nodded mutely, barely hearing him over the ringing in his ears. His mind was with Helena. With the fire. With whoever had done this.
He turned as Fire Chief Hank Hargrove approached, soot streaked across his forehead.
“Trevor,” he said, shaking his head. “Crazy night. You always had a habit of running at weird hours, huh?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Arson case?” Hank asked grimly.
Trevor nodded, jaw clenched. That—and the fact he’d had to place his mother in a care facility—burned through him like guilt-fed fire. “Lark alerted. Accelerant by the back window. Someone knew she slept in that room.”
Hank swore under his breath. “Targeted. We’ll get Brody out here to confirm it, but I trust your dog.”
Good. Brody Baird was a top-notch veteran arson investigator with the fire department. He’d worked cases with him before. “I’m heading to the hospital. Staying with her.”
“Keep us posted.”
Trevor nodded and walked off, legs shaking beneath him, but he didn’t slow. He hadn’t saved his family all those years ago.
But tonight—
Tonight, he’d saved Helena.
And he wasn’t leaving her side.
An officer dropped him off at his truck, and he quickly drove to the fleet garage where he knew Helena kept a go-bag with clothing and shoes for when she pulled overnighters on forensic cases.
She’d need them. Then he and Lark headed toward Lavender General.
As they drove, he tapped in the name of the Colorado K-9 Unit’s supervisor on the dash. The ringing echoed in the cab.
“Hello?” FBI Supervisory Special Agent Emmett Dane answered groggily. “Trevor? Something happen?”
“Sorry to call this late—or early. It’s Helena. The forensic mechanic I’ve been working with.”
Trevor filled him in on what had happened earlier, voice clipped, tired. Emmett was his boss on the task force, but he knew Trevor was working the arson case with his local PD, too. He’d kept the SSA looped in on that.