Things We Left Behind (Knockemout, #3)

“Sorry, Sloane. Do you know where the fire is located?”

“I think it’s on the first floor. I’m upstairs.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and blindly felt along the wall, bending over as far as I could in search of fresh air.

My fingers found the protrusion of the doorframe, and I hurriedly reached for the handle. It was warmer than it should be against my palm.

“I’m putting out a call to the fire department now. Can you get out of the building safely?”

“I’m getting a fire extinguisher from the kitchen.”

“Ma’am—er, Sloane, I need you to tell me if you have a way to exit the building,” she said crisply.

“I’ll tell you after I find the damn extinguisher.” I was not about to go into battle unarmed. I felt inside the door for the light switch, but nothing happened when I flicked it.

Shit. No lights.

I stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the muffled conversation on the other end of the call.

“I have police officers responding to the scene now.”

“I would hope so, considering they’re literally in the same building.”

“You are to evacuate with them immediately. The fire department is on their way.”

My shin met something hard, and I went down with a yelp.

My phone and tote went flying.

The goddamn trash can. The dark and smoke made a familiar place a disorienting maze of danger.

“Damn you, Marjorie Ronsanto!” I muttered, climbing onto my hands and knees. It was a little cooler and a lot less smoky down here. I crawled forward, feeling around for the phone. “If you’re still there, Sharice, could you yell really loud or push some buttons?” I asked the dark.

But I realized the roaring wasn’t just in my ears. It was coming from beneath me.

“Why the fuck aren’t the sprinklers working, and where the fuck is the extinguisher?” I demanded.

Miraculously, I found my way to the cabinets and followed them to the far wall. I composed a staff-wide memo in my head as I crawled. Fire extinguishers will now be mounted inside the door, not all the way across the goddamn room. And Marjorie’s trash can was officially being retired to the dumpster.

My throat and lungs burned. I was sweating so profusely I wondered if it was possible to turn into a human raisin.

Finally, I ran forehead first into the far wall. “Ouch!”

Scrambling to my feet, I skimmed my hands in wide arcs over the drywall. My pinkie finger smashed into the metal canister, and I cried out in pain and triumph.

Blindly, I yanked the extinguisher off the wall.

“I got the extinguisher from the kitchen,” I yelled in case the call was still connected. I shuffled back toward the door as quickly as I dared. “I’m going to try to get down the stairs. If I can’t, I’ll go to one of the windows on the side—”

My foot met something unexpected, and I fell sideways awkwardly. My ribs met something hard and unmoving, knocking the wind out of me. The damn table I sat at every damn day.

“I won’t have a chance to die of smoke inhalation at this rate,” I wheezed. “I’m going to clumsy myself to death.”

The immovable thing on the floor turned out to be my tote bag. I shouldered it, tucked the extinguisher under my arm, and crawled out the door.

“Sloane!”

Sergeant Grave Hopper was calling for me from somewhere, and he sounded pissed.

I sucked in a breath to call back, but another coughing fit overtook me.

I was the worst firefighter ever, I decided as tears streaked down my face. I stayed as low as I could, crawling with only one arm, and made my way toward the stairs.

“Sloane!” another voice called.

“Here.” It came out as more of a croak than a shout, but it was enough.

“She’s on the second floor.”

“There’s no exit up there.”

“I’m coming down,” I barked. “I have a fire extinguisher.”

“Drop the fucking extinguisher and get your ass to the stairs,” Grave ordered.

Drop the extinguisher? There were books to save. But I heard them then. The sirens. They would save the books.

I was so tired. My lungs hurt. My head rang. It was so dark. I just needed to rest for a minute.





38


Stupid Pills


Lucian




As the helicopter banked to the east over Knockemout, the sight of emergency vehicle lights slashing through the dark churned an anger I wasn’t sure I could control.

Sloane had been alone inside when the fire started. And I’d been miles away on a conference call with the West Coast.

While she blindly crawled down the stairs through smoke and flame, I’d been handling a minor PR crisis for a California state representative. A minor crisis that I could have easily handed over to someone else.

While Sloane was helped from the building by a cop and the firefighter who took her to her senior prom, while she was looked over by a paramedic who happened to be a member of the library’s book club, I had been pulling strings and smoothing ruffled feathers for virtual strangers.

“Preparing for landing, sir.” The pilot’s voice sounded flat and distant in my headset.

I had the door open and was climbing out by the time the skids kissed the ground at the private airfield just east of Knockemout. In less than a minute, I was behind the wheel of the waiting SUV and speeding toward town. I turned off my mind and focused on the road, the familiar scenery as it flashed by.

I didn’t let myself think about Sloane. Alone. Unprotected. I didn’t let myself consider the fact that I’d left her that way, believing she’d be safer.

The echo of Knox’s voice rang in my ear. “Nice of you to finally pick up, asshole. The fuckin’ library’s on fire, and Sloane was inside.”

It felt like an eternity before the flashing lights filled the windshield as I drove into the heart of Knockemout.

I got out and strode into chaos. The smell of acrid smoke burned my throat as I pushed through the gathered crowd. The two-story redbrick building still stood. The gold lettering that read The Knox Morgan Municipal Building was tarnished but still there. The front doors were propped open. Windows on the library side were broken, allowing black, billowing smoke to escape, tainting the night air.

I grabbed the closest first responder I could find, a tall, grizzled woman with soot streaking her gear and an axe slung over her shoulder. “Chief Morgan,” I snapped.

“Over there.” She pointed toward the police station parking lot where a tent was set up and a dozen first responders clumped.

No one tried to stop me as I made my way over. It was one of the many privileges of being Lucian Fucking Rollins. Most rules didn’t apply to me because there wasn’t anyone willing to stand up and enforce them.

“Nash,” my voice cracked like a whip over everything.

My friend looked up from his conference with Sergeant Grave Hopper, who was covered head to toe in soot, the fire chief, and Mayor Hilly Swanson. Nash looked grim, and I felt that anger inside me expand exponentially.

He excused himself from the others and put a hand to my chest. “She’s okay.”

I closed my eyes and let that permeate the panic.

“Where is she?” I rasped.

“I had Bannerjee drive her home about ten minutes ago.”

I wanted to go to her. I needed to see her. To see for myself that she was okay. But first I needed answers.

“You let her go home by herself? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why isn’t Knox with her? Where are Naomi and Lina?”

“It’s almost two in the fucking morning on a school night. Sloane sent them all home about an hour ago. Bannerjee checked the house, including all doors and windows, before she left.”

“What the hell happened here?”