"Marcus—" I couldn't finish the thought, overwhelmed by everything I needed to say. Which should I begin with? I was sorry? I should have seen it sooner? His father's ghost held the key to everything?
"Stay on the line." His voice anchored me as sirens wailed in the distance. "I'll be there."
I pressed the phone closer, letting his steady breathing ground me while flames danced in my building's windows. The evidence in my bag was like a living being harboring a terrible truth.
Chapter seventeen
Marcus
My truck tires shrieked against the pavement as I yanked the wheel hard, nosing into a space just short of the fire lane. The scent of burning plastic and scorched wood filled my nostrils before I even cut the engine. Thick, acrid smoke curled from the upper windows of James's building, dark fingers clawing at the night sky.
Sirens howled in the distance—too far, too slow. They'd get here, but not fast enough for my liking.
People were starting to spill from the building, some half-dressed, clutching bags or pets, all wearing the stunned, disoriented expression of people who'd just had their reality cracked open. A woman in a tattered robe turned to stare at me as I slammed my door shut, her eyes reflecting the red glow of the fire above.
And then I saw him.
James stood near the curb beneath a flickering security light, his shoulders squared but too rigid, the way someone tries to hold themselves together when their body is betraying them. The left sleeve of his dress shirt was charred through, fabricsinged into blackened tatters clinging to the skin beneath. He still held his messenger bag slung across his body, the strap stained with soot.
I jogged over to him, my pulse hammering in my ears.
"James." His eyes flicked toward me, but he barely acknowledged my presence.
"There's still time to—"
"No." I reached for him. "Get in the truck."
"We don't know the source yet," he said, his words precise despite the slight tremor in his voice. "It might be contained to the top floors. If so, we should stay, make sure—"
"No." My grip tightened around his good arm. "Emergency crews are already en route. They'll handle it."
His fingers twitched at his side.
"James." My voice dropped into the register I used at collapse sites, at fire scenes when men under my command hesitated one second too long. "You're hurt. And you're coming with me."
His lips parted, but whatever argument he wanted to make withered in his throat. His shoulders wavered for half a second. That was all I needed.
I maneuvered him toward the truck, gripping his elbow more firmly when he tried to resist. The closer we got, the heavier he leaned against me.
When he finally slid into the passenger seat, he winced, his left arm cradled against his ribs. I didn't give him a chance to change his mind. The second his door clicked shut, I threw the truck into gear and pulled out, tires biting into the asphalt.
Through the side mirror, I caught one last glimpse of the apartment building. Smoke poured from the windows, twisting into the sky like a living thing. A distant explosion rattled the air—something structural giving way.
For a split second, I wondered if I was handling this the wrong way. If I should've let him stay and be part of the response, the way his instincts demanded.
Then, I glanced at him. He set his jaw, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. His injured hand trembled against his thigh. The smell of burnt fabric clung to his skin.
No.
I hadn't handled it the right or wrong way. I'd handled it the only way I could.
Because I couldn't lose him.
And if keeping him alive meant dragging him away from a fire he wanted to analyze, then so be it.
The truck's cabin was full of the scent of burnt fabric, smoke, and the sharp chemical bite of melted electronics. I kept the windows cracked, but it didn't help. The fire clung to James like a second skin.
He hadn't spoken since I pulled away from the building. His fingers hovered near his pocket, that ingrained reflex to reach for his phone kicking in. He didn't pull it out. He merely sat there, his jaw clenched, and his eyes locked on the empty streets ahead.
