Isabella didn’t even wait for her Mustang to make a full stop behind the cluster of lights-flashing emergency vehicles before throwing the car into park and flinging the driver’s side door wide on its hinges. Her boots flew over the pavement, temples pounding from all the thoughts trying to wedge their way into her over-crowded brain, but she swiped them out of the way in favor of the only one that mattered.
She needed to find Walker.
“Excuse me.” Station Seventeen’s rookie—Smith? No, Slater—stepped into her path over the weed-infested sidewalk. “Ma’am? I’m sorry, but you can’t—”
Isabella didn’t even slow by a fraction. Thrusting her badge over her head, she half-hollered, “RPD,” continuing over the concrete and crab grass. She searched wildly for Kellan, the tang of smoke strong enough to leave a bitter taste in her mouth as her breath moved in and out. The small clapboard house in front of her was no longer on fire, but from the look of things, the status change was recent. First responders milled around the front yard, some returning hoses and equipment to the half-dozen emergency vehicles lining the block, some moving into and around the house, probably to make sure the fire stayed out. Isabella looked at every face, her eyes darting over the names emblazoned in reflective letters across the back of every coat, and for the love of all things sacred and holy, where the hell—
“Walker!” Isabella’s heart slammed into her sternum as she caught sight of him by the side yard, away from the throng of other first responders. He stared at the scene, his bright red suspenders locked in a tight line over equally tight-looking muscles, and sweet Jesus. He looked awful.
“Isabella.” Relief flared over his soot-streaked face, although the emotion lasted less than a second. His dark hair stuck up in a thousand directions as if he’d been tugging on it without mercy, and his T-shirt and turnout gear were covered in heavy layers of sweat and grime. But none of those things froze her to the grass in panic and fear.
It was the look in his eyes that did that, pinning her into place with the sort of bone-deep sadness that felt like it went on forever, and oh. Oh God.
“Tell me,” she blurted, closing the rest of the space between them with a handful of brisk strides. Kellan’s hands found her shoulders as he swept a gaze over her from head to toe, and she reached up to curl her fingers over his. “I’m fine, Kellan. Please just tell me what the hell is going on.”
“How do you know DuPree had Angel this morning? Do you have proof?”
“N-no.” She shook her head, trying to process the question. “Someone working with DuPree called me this morning after Angel didn’t show. Somehow he found out I’m a cop, and he knew she’d agreed to meet me, but…”
Realization clicked like a row of dominoes falling one right into the other, sending a hard shot of fear through her blood like ice water.
DuPree didn’t have Angel. She was here. Inside.
Dead.
Isabella felt herself lunge toward the house only after her legs had started to go, but she barely made it three steps before Kellan moved in to stop her.
His arms hooked around her shoulders, her waist. “Easy, Isabella. Hold on for a second.” His grip was tight enough to be unforgiving, but she struggled against it anyway.
This wasn’t happening. Not again. Isabella had promised. She’d promised.
Panic seized her lungs, turning her breath to sand. “I need…you have to let me…”
“The fire’s barely out. You can’t go inside,” Kellan said, his mouth somewhere by her left ear, but no, no, no, she had to help Angel. She had to get into that goddamned house.
With another push, she struggled against the vise-like hold keeping her grounded. Kellan shocked her by letting go of her shoulders, then shocked her even harder by staying in her path and cupping her face between both palms to keep her from running.
“Isabella, stop.”
Her chest hitched at an unnatural pace, hot, traitorous tears burning beneath her eyelids. “Angel is in there, isn’t she? DuPree killed her.”
“Isabella…”
She gripped the sleeves of his T-shirt so hard, her knuckles ached. “Yes or no! Walker, I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kellan said, sadness scraping over the words like sandpaper. “We did everything we possibly could, but yes. Both Angel and Danny Marcus died in this house fire.”
Oh. God. “Danny Marcus is dead too?” Isabella’s knees buckled.
But Kellan stepped in closer to steady her. “Yes.”
For a second, she couldn’t speak or think or breathe. Angel had trusted her. She’d promised the woman safety, and instead, Angel was dead.