Chapter One #2
“Yeah, just wiped out.” Justin adjusted his grip, his voice soft. “Too much hot chocolate and spinning on the rink. She said her tummy hurts.”
Ava lifted her head, her face pale under the string lights. “I don’t feel good, Aunt Rosie.”
Rosie touched her niece’s forehead—warm but not feverish. “Too much sugar, bug?”
“Probably.” Justin grimaced. “I should get her home. I’m sorry to bail early.”
“No worries. All the excitement is over anyway.” Rosie smoothed Ava’s hair back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She kissed the little girl’s forehead.
But even as she drew away, something nudged her. Ava’s pallor, the lethargy, the complaint about her stomach.
Aw, probably nothing. Kids got tummy aches from too much junk food all the time.
“Call me when you get her home?” Rosie kept her voice light. “Let me know she’s feeling better?”
Justin’s expression softened. He knew. “I will. Promise.”
Emily touched Rosie’s shoulder. “Hey. She’s fine. Just tired and overstuffed with treats. As are my kids. We’re taking off too.”
“Thanks for coming. Are you driving back to Denver tonight?”
“No. We’ll be back at the house. I’ll have some popcorn waiting for you.” She winked and gave Rosie a one-armed hug. “We’re so proud of you. Mom will see it’s time she turned the reins over to you.”
Justin shifted Ava higher, her head settling back against his shoulder. “This was amazing, Rosie. Seriously. You pulled off something really special here.”
“Thanks.”
They melted into the crowd, Justin’s broad shoulders disappearing between clusters of families. Rosie watched them go, her throat weirdly tight.
Lindy, in her ear. “Rosie, we’ve got final checks complete. Ready to start the countdown sequence in twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes.
She shook herself, pulled her focus back. The event. The laser show. Three hundred people waiting for their perfect New Year’s Eve moment.
This was what she did. She created joy. She brought people together. She made everything bright and beautiful and—
Safe.
She moved through the crowd, checking sight lines to the stage, confirming security positions. The energy was building, families migrating toward the rink and stage, couples claiming spots with good views. Someone had started a countdown chant—fifteen minutes—and laughter rippled through the crowd.
Rosie’s gaze drifted back to the ice rink. Mrs. Gilstrap sat on the bench, looking steadier, color back in her cheeks. Chase Neil waited at the barbecue stand—for water, probably.
See? Everyone safe. Everyone taken care of.
Her tablet buzzed. 9:48 p.m.
Twelve minutes.
Lindy appeared on stage, checking equipment. String lights glittered overhead. The Christmas tree blazed red and gold at the center of it all, and around it, people smiled and laughed and counted down to a new year full of hope.
Rosie let herself feel it, just for a second. Pride. Accomplishment. The weight of responsibility lifted, replaced by something lighter.
She’d done it. She’d really done it.
The stage lights dimmed. Music swelled, electronic and bright, the DJ on the stage rousing the crowd. “Ten minutes to midnight!” the emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Grab a glow light!”
Volunteers moved through the crowd with the glow light sticks.
Rosie checked her tablet one last time. All systems green. Laser show queued. Security in position. Medical on standby.
Perfect.
She glanced back at the ice rink, her gaze catching on Mrs. Gilstrap. Chase walked toward her from the direction of the barbecue truck, a bottle of water in each hand.
The crowd pressed closer to the stage. The music built, layering electronic beats with sweeping orchestral notes. Colored lights swept across the atrium ceiling, painting the glass in rainbow arcs.
“Five minutes!”
Rosie’s heart beat in time with the music. She was part of this—she’d built this moment, crafted it from permits and contracts and a thousand tiny details. And it was working.
Lindy gave her a thumbs-up from the stage.
“Three minutes!”
The music crescendoed. Lasers shot from the stage, bouncing off mirrors positioned around the court, painting patterns across the crowd. Children shrieked with delight. Adults raised their phones, recording.
“Two minutes!”
See? Everything was going to be just fine—better than just fine. Perfect. Okay, with the exception of the grease fire, but even that had been handled.
So, take that, Murphy’s Law.
“One minute!”
The crowd roared. The countdown began in earnest now, voices joining together, building toward that moment when one year became another and everything felt possible.
“Thirty seconds!”
The laser show started, the lights projecting onto the atrium ceiling, like fireworks. The music hit a peak, held it, built higher.
The crowd screamed the countdown now, hands raised, faces upturned toward the lasers painting the ceiling.
“Five!” The music dropped to a single sustained note, tension building.
Rosie’s gaze swept the crowd one last time. Families. Couples. Friends. Community.
“Four!” The lasers converged on the Christmas tree, lighting it from within.
Something flickered at the edge of Rosie’s vision. The barbecue truck—
“Three!”
—a flash of orange—
“Two!”
She turned toward the flash—
“One!”
“HAPPY NEW—”
The explosion ripped through the court, heat and fire and ash and darkness.
Rosie hit the floor, and for a second, everything turned black.
Sound vanished, replaced by a high whine in Rosie’s ears. The world tilted, or maybe she did. Heat rolled over her in a wave that smelled like propane and burning metal—and then screams. Smoke and fire and chaos.
And above it all, the lasers still spinning overhead, oblivious, splashing fireworks against the curling smoke.
She got up and just…froze.
People ran in every direction. A child cried, high and terrified. The music cut out, leaving only screams and the crackle of flames and that awful ringing in Rosie’s ears.
Her legs wouldn’t work. Her brain wouldn’t work.
This wasn’t happening.
Ashlynn sprinted past, radio pressed to her mouth, calling for ambulances, fire trucks, backup. TJ and Nova appeared, the dog herding panicked civilians away from the blast site. Samantha and Liam were already at the truck, assessing, shouting orders Rosie couldn’t process.
But she couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t do anything but stare at Chase’s body, now unmoving, over Mrs. Gilstrap’s.
No. No. Not. Again.
It wasn’t the worst way to spend New Year’s Eve.
Hale Brooks sat in his dad’s old armchair, watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV, his mother’s excited commentary filling the living room, the smell of herb-crusted roast still lingering from the kitchen.
If only she would remember it tomorrow.
“Oh, look at all those people!” She leaned forward on the floral couch, reading glasses sliding down her nose.
She wore a homemade green cardigan over a dress that Nancy, her home health nurse, had found for her.
Nancy had even done his mother’s hair, curled and fluffed it, and made her look her age—a modest sixty-six, despite what the Alzheimer’s wanted to cast her as.
And maybe it added a bit of animation to his mother’s blue eyes, because she almost seemed, well, here, in the room with him. “Can you imagine being squeezed in there? Your father and I went once, you know. Before you boys were born.”
Boys. Him and Bram, and it was a good thing she remembered both of them, really. Even if he hadn’t seen Bram in a good two years.
“I remember the story about the New York trip,” he said to his mom. “You and Dad left me and Bram with Grams, and it was your tenth anniversary.”
“It was magical. We saw the tree in the Kennedy Center and went to An American in Paris and saw the Rockettes.” She sighed, leaned back in the chair, her hands not shaking so much tonight as she lifted her hot cocoa.
It was good when she talked. Better than the quiet.
“And your dad—he hated every minute of it.” She laughed. “All those people, the noise, the cold. He said never again. So that was that.”
Probably Hale should have taken her again, but he’d been busy.
Story of his life. Like father, like son, maybe. Although hopefully not.
Christmas tree lights blinked in the corner. Dinner plates sat on the coffee table—remnants of the roast. The scanner on the side table crackled occasionally with radio traffic.
A knock came at the door and he got up.
Brian Garrett stood on the stoop, his breath casting out into the cold night.
His silver hair caught in the porch light.
He’d been his father’s best friend on the force.
He wore a wool jacket and carried a tin.
“I saw the light on and took a chance. My daughter Misty made the cookies. I thought your mom might like some.” He held the tin out.
“Come in, Brian,” Hale said. “You don’t need to bring cookies to hang out with us.”
Brian patted his arm as he came in, gave it a squeeze. “How is she today?”
“Right now? Good, I think.”
“She’ll like the cookies,” he said and shed his jacket, his shoes. Came into the room. “Hello, Pat.”
She turned, and her smile said she recognized him.
So yes, a good night. So far.
“Remember that New Year’s when we went skiing?” His mother’s eyes lit up. “You were so terrible. You spent more time in the chalet with Kathy than you did on the slope.”
He laughed and sat in the rocking chair beside her. “You were always the skier among us, Pat.”
His mother looked around the room then, and her smile faded. Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her cardigan.
Oh no. Hale sank into the arm chair.
“Where is your father? He should be here for this.”
“Dad’s been gone a while, Mom.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Of course. I knew that.” Her gaze drifted to the window. “Is Bram back yet? He said he was going out with his friends.”
Hale exchanged a glance with Brian.
“Not yet, Mom.”
She stared at Hale a moment, then, “Oh dear. He’s on a boat somewhere, isn’t he?” She shook her head. “Oh, that’s so silly of me. My brain just goes wandering sometimes.”
“It’s okay.” Hale reached over and squeezed her hand.