Man's Best Friend (The Dogmothers #5) - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,51

immediately showed dancing dust and snowy-white insulation. With his flashlight, he could see into the rafters, including a distinct burn pattern along the wooden beams that held up the roof.

So, not everything had been rebuilt up here.

As he crawled into the space barely high enough for him to sit up, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the impact of what he was doing hit him.

For twenty years, he’d avoided this damn street, and now he was not only in the house, he was in the fire. At least, where the fire had been. It started downstairs, just outside the sunroom on the patio, but when the second floor burned, these rafters caught some flames.

Right? Sometimes, it seemed that the parts of his brain connected to his father’s death had long ago…shut down. He hadn’t had anything to do with the investigation—hell, he’d been checked out and didn’t even show up for work for a few months after Dad died.

He sure as hell never opened a single page of the file to find out the details of what had happened. Braden had, but he handled arson dogs. Connor might have—he honestly didn’t know. But Declan couldn’t bear to read one word of the reports.

He shimmied on his belly another fifteen feet, then spotted the two-handled chandelier crank. It had wires wrapped around it, obviously installed when it was transformed from an antique oil light to the electric kind. He tugged at them, making sure they were to code, then placed the flashlight so the beam lit the winch.

Managing to sit up, he put both hands on the crank. “I got it, Evie,” he called. “Just turn?”

“Yes. It’ll stop when it reaches five feet. How is it up there?”

Freaking awful. He didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t want to lie and say, Gee, it’s fine and dusty and not kicking me in the nuts or anything.

“Can you turn it?”

He jerked back at the sound of Evie’s voice not far behind him. “What are you doing up here?” He glanced over his shoulder to see her crawling closer.

“Backup.”

“I don’t need…” When her hand touched him, and the warmth of her body got close to his, he squeezed his eyes shut, stunned at how much he did need backup. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, turning his full attention to the winch. “Let me get this thing.”

Scooting into a sitting position, he twisted the lever, using all his strength to move the rusty old crank. Once he got started, it was easier, turning once, then twice, then finally feeling the weight of that massive lighting fixture begin to move as the chain slid through a channel.

“Another genius of Victorian design,” he said, his voice tighter than he’d expected it to be.

Then he felt her fingers on his back, the lightest touch, a gentle stroke. “I realized while I was in the closet that the attic wasn’t rebuilt,” she said softly.

“Nope, this is original,” he said. “It’s okay.” Even though it wasn’t okay. Being in this airless, depressing place where the fire that took his father once raged wasn’t okay at all.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to come up here if I’d—”

“It’s fine, Evie.”

Her hand stilled. “No, Declan, it’s not fine. And the sooner you actually acknowledge that, the sooner we can…”

The crank stopped turning, so the chandelier must be down. Still, he kept his hand on the metal handles, staring at the electrical cords, sweat stinging his temples and eyes.

“Declan.” She added some pressure.

“Come on, E. I’m—”

“Going back to that place.” Her hand moved to his shoulder, trying to turn him around.

Oh man. “What place?”

“Where you disappear behind some massive wall and shut me out and make me want to cry.” Her voice cracked, and he had to turn around, meeting her gaze, which was damp with tears and dark with hurt. “I can take anything, Declan,” she whispered. “I can take anger and guilt and shame and regret and even blame. I can take anything in the world, but you…disappearing into that place again.”

That place. He knew exactly what she meant. The basement of his soul. His dark, dark, lonely, cut-off-from-the-world place. His personal hell, where he’d been a frequent visitor for the better part of twenty years.

He wet his lips, took a breath, and closed his eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispered, the best he could do. Then he returned his attention to the crank, yanking on the lever to be sure it was locked in place. “You want to go downstairs and check the