Sacrifice. Brigid Kemmerer
for a text from Michael. Nothing. He still hadn’t responded. Should she call? He was probably asleep by now.
She sent another text.
When you have a moment, please let me know you’re okay.
She clicked off the screen and set the phone on her nightstand, not expecting a response.
The phone rang almost immediately, and she snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Hey.” Michael. He sounded exhausted. His voice hadn’t lost the roughness.
“Hey. Did I wake you?”
A low sound, almost a laugh. “No.”
“Are you staying in a hotel?”
“No. Adam’s place. At least for the day. The guys needed to sleep.”
“Nick’s boyfriend? Are they all crashed on the floor?”
“Nah, he left. They’ve taken over all the furniture.”
“Where are you going to sleep?”
“You’re funny.”
Silence filled the line for a minute, as she tried to figure out how to respond to that. “I’ve been worried about you.”
He didn’t say anything for so long that she had to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. He finally sighed. “We’re fine.” He paused. “Your dad let me get some clothes out of the house. The truck survived.”
His voice sounded so bleak. She didn’t have much experience with this side of firefighting, and all the intimacy of sitting in the back of the ambulance was gone now that their only connection was based on a cell signal. She wished she knew what to say. “Have you talked to the insurance company yet?”
“I just hung up. They’re having a case manager call me back later.”
She sat up in bed. “You sound . . . you don’t sound good. Do you want me to come over?”
“No. No, Hannah. I want—look, forget it. I felt bad for not texting back.” A long sigh, full of pain and so much emotion that she wanted to drive over there right now and wrap him up in her arms. Then his voice steadied. “We’re okay. We’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Michael, I just watched your neighborhood burn down. I am worried about you.”
That low not-quite laugh. “Don’t remind me.” A pause. An almost-shaky breath. “Please.”
“Why don’t I come over? I can bring coffee—”
“I said no, okay?”
His tone shut her up quick. Hannah blinked.
He made a shuffling sound with the phone, and his voice sounded distant for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m—it’s been a bad night. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“Did my dad give you a hard time? Are you in trouble—?”
“I need to go.”
“Please don’t go,” she said. “Please don’t hang up. Talk to me.”
“God, Hannah. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could.”
And then, before she could say a word, he ended the call.
CHAPTER 8
It had been a bad idea to call her. He’d almost lost it again. The wind was picking up, stinging Michael’s cheeks and eyes. He welcomed the pain. It fed him irritation, which worked pretty well to tamp down the anxiety.
His brothers and Hunter were sleeping soundly. He’d checked a minute ago. Common sense dictated that he should be sleeping, too, but sitting inside the apartment left him feeling panicked and claustrophobic. He’d started to walk, hoping motion would help tame his wild thoughts, but twenty feet from the back door, he worried that he was leaving his brothers vulnerable again.
So now he was back on the porch, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Had Calla started those fires? They had a history, Calla and his family. She wasn’t the type to strike hard and not brag, but anything was possible.
Michael had her cell number programmed into his phone, and after gritting his teeth for a full thirty seconds, ready for her taunting voice to mock him for not starting a war quickly enough, he dialed. The line rang and rang and eventually ended on a mechanical tone telling him the number had been disconnected.
Michael stared at his phone, studying the digits as if he’d somehow misdialed a programmed number.
He stupidly called again, sure there’d been some mistake.
Same electronic message.
He sent her a text. Almost immediately, a return message appeared in his inbox.
The number you are attempting to contact has been deactivated. Please dial 411 for directory assistance. Standard voice and messaging rates may apply.
Nothing about this was reassuring. Did this mean Calla had done it, and she didn’t want him to know?
Or did this mean Calla had disappeared again?
Or was she working with someone new?
Could one person have started five fires at once? Had they started simultaneously? The houses on his cul-de-sac weren’t far apart, but it still would have taken time to set a fire in each one. He couldn’t see how one person could have caused that kind of damage—but maybe a powerful Fire Elemental could. He and Hunter and Chris had been in the woods for maybe fifteen minutes, if that. Then he thought of the markings Hannah’s father had pointed out. Elemental or not, laying out a pattern in accelerant would have taken time. Could someone have broken into five houses without detection, poured some kerosene or whatever, then lit five fires, all within in fifteen minutes?
He broke it down. Three minutes per house. That seemed really unlikely, even if each house didn’t have an alarm system. He tried to remember which houses had the little stickers in their windows, but he was coming up with nothing. Alarm systems or not, two houses on the court had dogs. Dogs would have sounded their own type of alarm.
Unless the dogs had been taken care of ahead of time? He remembered his neighbors standing outside, screaming for their dog. Had the animal succumbed to the fire—or had someone else gotten to him first?
Ignoring alarm systems and dogs, this still seemed like a big job. This would have taken planning.
Maybe that’s what you sensed in the woods every night.
It hadn’t just been Chris. It couldn’t have been—last night had proven that. Michael had been ready for an attack on his family. He’d sat outside, ready to wake them if he sensed true danger, so they could fight or run.
He hadn’t been ready for an attack on the whole neighborhood.
Guilt, quick and sudden, slammed into Michael. Maybe he should have been ready. Calla had set fires at a school carnival last month, just to get the attention of the Guides. She wanted a war. Her carnival fire hadn’t started one, and Michael wasn’t willing to do anything to draw more attention to his family. Had she given up on patience and turned to killing more people?
He needed more information. He wondered if the fire marshal would give him any. He fished the card out of his pocket and started to dial.
No. That was stupid. The fire marshal thought he was a suspect. He wasn’t going to say, “Hey, sure, Mike, take a look at my files while you’re at it. Want to walk through the crime scene?”
Michael ran a hand down his face. God, he needed some sleep.
His cell phone chimed.
Is this Michael Merrick?
He stared at it for