came in the form of flames shooting up toward a dimming sky.
He was out of his vehicle as fire trucks parked and the firefighters scrambled to hook up their hoses to the hydrants. He grabbed his flashlight and raced toward the building, praying that if there were any survivors, he could help.
As Gideon stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat from the building forced him to shield his face with his hands. He angled his body, gripped the flashlight tighter, and edged closer to the front window of the beauty shop, once a favorite of Helen’s. Through the window, he saw that the blaze was shooting from the back of the store and heading toward a woman who lay on the floor.
The fingers on her left hand twitched. Shit. She was alive.
He rammed the butt of the flashlight into the glass display window. Glass shattered and fell into the shop and around his feet. The extra boost of oxygen energized the fire, making it crackle and wail louder as it dipped down from the ceiling. He thought for a split second that he could get into the building and save the woman. But before he could put the thought into action, all hell broke loose. There was an explosion inside the building, the roof bowed, and ceiling tiles dropped. Cinders danced as heat supercharged the air into a bellowing furnace.
Forced to retreat, he backed up to the vehicle, brushing the burning sparks and soot from his jacket. The firefighters raced toward the blaze, their hoses now shooting at full capacity.
Two patrolmen hurried toward him. The first was Stuart Hughes, who was in his midtwenties and the newest to the department. Tall and lanky with red hair, he still ran almost as fast as he had on the college track team.
Steps behind him was Detective Becca Sullivan, also in her twenties. She stood a few inches over five feet and had thick black hair that she secured in a neat bun. She was one of the department’s best shots.
The officers gathered beside Gideon, each staring at the raging flames with a mixture of awe and horror.
“What the hell happened?” Stuart asked, breathless.
“I saw a woman alive inside, lying on the floor.” Gideon shouted the words as he jogged over to the fire chief on scene, Clarke Mead.
Clarke was married to his sister, Ann, and the two had recently separated. So far, Gideon had managed to stay out of their separation, which appeared friendly enough, if that was possible. His own divorce had been a nasty, tangled affair that he would not have wished on his worst enemy.
“There’s someone inside,” Gideon said. “I saw a woman on the floor, near the window. Her fingers moved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Clarke raised the radio to his lips and spoke to his crew through their headsets as they wrestled the hose. One team shifted toward the window and sprayed cold water onto the inferno. The flames hissed and spit, not wanting to yield any ground.
“The building is fully engulfed,” Clarke said. “I can’t send anyone in there now. It would be a death sentence.”
“Clarke, she was alive.”
Clarke rested his hands on Gideon’s shoulders. “If she was, she isn’t now. No one could have survived the toxic chemicals and heat.”
He stepped back, unable to shake the image of the woman lying unconscious on the floor. “It’s like the College Fire.”
Clarke stood several inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders of a linebacker. He had short, dark hair and an angled face weathered by the sun. “Don’t do that.”
Haunting memories, never far away, rushed him. His thoughts went first to his son and nephew, who had been spending the afternoon with Clarke. “Where are Kyle and Nate?”
“They’re safe. I dropped both boys off at their friend Tim’s house.”
Gideon said a word of thanks as he stared at the blaze and prayed the woman had died quickly.
Joan settled her backpack in the room assigned to her by Ann, accepted a glass of wine, and was sent to wander around the house as Ann finished dinner. Her gaze was drawn to a picture of Ann, Clarke, and Nate resting on a large raw-edge mantel above the fireplace. The picture looked as if it had been taken a year or two ago. Clarke and Ann both looked much the same, and the boy appeared to be a mix of the two.
The Baileys’ front door burst open. Joan automatically reached for the sidearm she’d left behind in Philadelphia as her gaze shifted to