PROLOGUE
Penny
S moke is everywhere.
What’s going on? It seems like I fell asleep one minute ago in my bedroom, surrounded by familiarity and the scent of my pumpkin candle. Did I blow it out? Yes. Yes, I always blow it out and this time was no exception. So how did this happen?
There’s an image that continues to play in my head. Shifting shadows at the edges of my room…the smell of gasoline. Laughter. Did I dream the laughter?
There’s no time to think about it now. Flames race up my white, lacy curtains. Embers smoke on my bedspread. I’m coughing. Ouch. My chest is full of sludge. Why won’t my legs move?
Father. My father. Where is he?
I need to get up, but lethargy makes my movements slow. So slow. I can’t see past the end of my bed anymore. I can’t—
Two sets of hands close around me in the darkness. Strong hands.
“We’ve got you, sweetheart.”
“Arms around my neck, baby. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Those voices. They’re coming from inside big black helmets. Ones I can’t see through. These men are huge and they’re in my bedroom. Which means they want to harm me, right? Was one of them the laughing man I sensed in the shadows? Fear wraps around my vocal cords and I want to scream, but they put a mask over my face…and cool, clean oxygen rolls into my lungs. I’m not fearful of the men after that. Especially when I’m picked up like I weigh less than a feather and I’m carried from the inferno that used to be my bedroom.
The man who isn’t carrying me uses an axe to clear a path—and I’ve never seen anything like him. He’s an avenging giant, walking through smoke and ash without a single hesitation. Glancing back at me occasionally, as if to reassure himself that I’m okay, while the man carrying me murmurs comforting words.
“Poor baby. You’re going to be okay.” He turns his body to protect me from a falling piece of debris. “I won’t let you be anything but okay.”
Suddenly we’re outside and cold air races over my fevered skin. Relief. I won’t die in the flames. My two saviors surround me on the giant front lawn, taking off their helmets at the same time. Older and younger. Wise and wild. Opposites, but both so brave. I have no time to absorb the impact of them—God, they’re so commanding—because worry tears into me like sharp teeth.
“My father?”
They exchange a look. The older one nods and we move again, the younger man carrying me toward an ambulance. And then I see my father, an oxygen mask over his face, his skin pale. Half of his body is covered, but I know on instinct he’s been burned. No. No, he has to be okay. He’s all I have in this world.
“Father?”
His eyes crack open, but they don’t reach me. No, they split a weary yet determined look between my rescuers. “Protect her. Please.” His eyelids flutter closed. “This…not an accident…”
“We’ll keep her safe, sir,” says the older fireman, his tone made of steel. “You have our word.”
“No one will get through us. That’s a promise.”
My father goes eerily still on the gurney and my own screams ring in my ears.
CHAPTER ONE
Penny
A week goes by in a blur. For the first two days, I’m in the hospital, recovering from smoke inhalation. My aunt and cousins arrive to take care of the funeral arrangements, dropping flowers off in my hospital room, crying into tissues. People visit. Voices, facial features, comforting touches all feel the same.
I don’t know how to feel. Sad, yes. Lonely? That’s really nothing new. My father was increasingly absent leading up to the fire, coming home late at night, leaving before I woke. The meager time we spent together, he seemed nervous, chain smoking in our backyard while I watched television or did housework. We weren’t close even before my mother left, but we respected each other. He cared about me in his own way and made an effort on my birthday and Christmas. My father wasn’t a bad man, he just didn’t know how to be a dad.
Laughter echoes in my head every time I close my eyes now. Did someone want to hurt my father? Was there something he didn’t tell me?
In the hospital, everything shifts and changes around me. Except for the two men who take turns patrolling my bedside. They don’t say anything to me. And I don’t have the strength to start a conversation. Sometimes when I’m restless, caught between nightmares, I feel them stroking my hair and whispering to me. It’s the only thing that lets me sleep kind of peacefully.
I’ve learned that the older firefighter is Nick. He’s at least six foot five, silver beginning to creep into his black hair and beard—and the nurses are scared to death of him. Which probably has something to do with him glowering every time they administer my medicine. Unmovable, steady. No bullshit need apply. He stands beside me, arms crossed over his wide chest, giving the third degree to each and every one of my visitors, whether they’re from church, relatives or college classmates. His disdain does not discriminate.