Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,64

tall hedge on the left of his property.

His nuclear family might be gone, but as far as he could tell, he had more companionship in his life than the woman next door. Jeannette appeared to be totally alone.

The question was why.

He took a speculative sip of coffee, squinting at the faint glow of light visible above the hedge where her house stood.

If Molly had opened up to his neighbor today, could Jeannette have told his niece a few bits and pieces about her background too? More than had been in the Hope Harbor Herald article she’d mentioned, which he’d accessed in the paper’s online archives?

Unfortunately, her interview with the local paper hadn’t offered much new information. All Marci Weber had been able to wheedle out of Jeannette was her hometown and college. The lavender lady must have managed to keep their conversation centered on her new life and business here in Hope Harbor.

It couldn’t hurt to put out a few feelers with Molly tomorrow in case his niece had learned anything of interest.

Because unless Jeannette had a change of heart about offering him a peek into her past, that could be his best chance of unearthing a few clues about what made his appealing neighbor tick.

18

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

As the piercing alarm jolted Mariam awake, she bolted upright in bed, trying to clear her sleep-fogged brain.

What in heaven’s name was making that sound?

Elisa shrieked, threw off the covers, scurried across the room, and burrowed in beside her with a whimper.

Seconds later, the door to their room flew open and Thomma flipped on the light, hair disheveled, face white. “Are you both all right?”

“Yes.” Mariam swung her legs to the floor and grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed, pulse racing. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. But be prepared to leave fast. I’ll check the hall.”

He disappeared again, and Mariam stood, balancing herself for a moment on the headboard. After five days, her ankle was feeling better, but it was still tender and she didn’t yet trust it to support her.

“Put on your shoes, Elisa.” She did the same as she spoke.

Moving on autopilot, she pulled a suitcase out of their closet and threw some clothes into it.

How many times over the past few years had she been through this drill after the blaring air-raid sirens had awakened them in the middle of the night?

Too many to count.

But those days had prepared her for whatever emergency they faced tonight.

She hurried to Thomma’s room, Elisa clinging to the hem of her robe and clutching her doll, and added a few items to the bag for him too.

He was back in less than five minutes. “I can’t understand most of what the other residents are saying, but I think there’s a fire. We have to evacuate.”

“We’re ready.” She zipped up the bag.

He grasped it with one hand, swept Elisa up into his other arm, and crooked his elbow. “Hold on. I don’t want you to fall.”

“I can manage. Take care of Elisa.”

“I can help you both. Hurry.”

No sense wasting time arguing.

She took his arm.

In the hall, they merged with other sleepy residents who were filing out of the building, some of them grumbling. As if this was a huge inconvenience rather than a possible life-threatening situation.

At home in Syria, they’d always taken warning sirens seriously.

Yet here, they were the only ones carrying a suitcase.

Perhaps they’d overreacted.

But as they hurried down the hall, Mariam caught the faint scent of smoke.

Perhaps not.

They joined the group assembled outside as the first blush of Saturday morning tinted the eastern sky. Two police cars arrived, sirens screeching. A few minutes later, a fire truck roared up, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

It was impossible to follow all that was being said. The three of them were learning English faster than she’d expected, but no more than a few words registered here and there amid the shouts and barked commands.

“Thomma—we should call Susan. Ask her to talk with someone in charge and find out what’s going on.”

“It’s too early to call anyone.”

“This is an emergency.”

He hesitated . . . but at last he set Elisa on the ground and pulled out his phone. “I’m going over there, where it’s less noisy.” He motioned to the sidewalk across the street.

Mariam put her arm around Elisa, and her granddaughter huddled against her, silent as she watched the goings-on with big eyes. She was too young to remember much about her life in Syria, but there could be some subconscious memory of terror in