“Be careful what you wish for.” She glanced at the clock. How many hours would have to pass before sleep returned? Too many.
Frustrated, she tossed her blankets aside. As much as her mind ached for the release of art, her bones needed a break. In Baltimore, nights like this were spent watching television. She had an intimate relationship with the top infomercial presenters on television, and she’d caught just about every movie made in the 1960s. Here, though, she had no television and relied on a downloaded movie.
“Maybe Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn will keep me company tonight,” she said.
With daylight just a couple of hours away she dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater. Running a brush through her hair, she tied it up in a ponytail. She might not be able to control when she slept, but she would control what she could.
She was nearly in the den when she smelled the first traces of smoke. Smoke? Her thoughts went first to an electrical fire. She thought about her coffeemaker and wondered if she’d left it on or if the automatic shutoff hadn’t worked. And where was her cell? Most nights she charged it by her bed but hadn’t tonight.
The scent of smoke grew heavier and heavier and when she reached the living room, a wall of flames rose up. Her entire back deck was on fire and it had eaten into her living room. Thick, black smoke billowed and whipped up the wall and over the ceiling. Fire had slithered across the floor closer and closer to her art supplies. Not her art!
How had the fire started? The question rattled in her head for only a moment before she realized that right now the answer didn’t matter. Her art didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. What mattered was getting out of the house. She coughed and hurried toward the front door, grabbed her purse, and ran outside.
She drew in a breath of fresh air, coughing and sputtering. She fished her cell out of her purse and dialed 9-1-1.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, August 25, 12:20 A.M.
Flashing lights of three fire trucks and a rescue vehicle greeted Rick when he pulled up at Jenna’s house. Leaving Tracker in his car, he strode toward the rescue truck, doing his best not to run or give in to fears. God, what the fire could have done to her.
He found her sitting on the back tailgate of the rescue vehicle, an oxygen mask on her face. She glanced up at him, removed her mask, and said, “Insomnia rocks.”
Relief washed over him, extinguishing the worry in a loud hiss. “What the hell happened?”
“I can’t sleep. I prowl a lot at night. I got up, went into my living room, and my entire back deck was on fire as was the back of my house.”
“It started on the deck? Do you have a grill?”
“As I told Inspector Murphy, no grill. No candles, no lanterns, no funky wiring issues, no stored fuel. Plain old deck.”
He rested his hand on his hip. “I suppose the firebugs have put you through a lot of questions and answers.”
“As they should. My place did just burn down for no reason. And I know about the other fires. They should be grilling me.”
She was a cop, logical in the face of turmoil. Later, when the adrenaline deserted her, she’d be left with a lot of unanswered questions and maybe some fears that would let loose. He turned back toward the house, now a charred stick structure. It was a complete loss. “Damn.”
“You’re telling me.” She put the oxygen mask aside and moved beside him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing that?”
“I’m fine. If I breathe any more oxygen, I’ll float away. Don’t suppose you can give me a ride into town? My Jeep is blocked in by the fire trucks. I’m not even sure if it escaped the flames.”
“Where’re you going to go?”
“Hotel. I’ve also got to call my landlord.” She held up her purse. “I did manage to grab this, so I can at least function.” Adrenaline coursed through her veins and her body all but vibrated with it.
A slow shake of his head told her he understood what was happening to her physically now. “You can stay with me.”
“No, thanks.” With this kind of emotion surging through her, it wouldn’t take much for her to seek a sexual release with the good detective. And right now, the last complication she needed was a relationship.
A quirk of his lips suggested the same idea had also crossed his mind. “If it will make you feel better, Georgia lives at the house from time to time. She said she’d be bunking with me tonight so you’ll have company.”
“I thought she lived in town.”
“She’s kept her apartment in town and stays there when she works a long shift, but off times she’s at my place.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“She doesn’t like to publicize the fact that she basically moved home. She wants everyone to believe she’s fine but last year was tough for her and she needs home base to catch her breath from time to time. You can do the same. There is a guest apartment on the property above the garage. It’s clean, though I’ve not had a chance to renovate it yet.”
An apartment over the garage meant doors and real estate separating her from Rick. She glanced toward the rubble that had been her home. Money saved on a hotel could go toward art supplies. Or a car rental that would take her back to Baltimore. “Thanks. That sounds great.”
“I’ll call Georgia and have her come get you. I’ll be here for a while.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s perfect.”
As the sun rose, Georgia handed Jenna a hot cup of tea. Jenna had showered the smoke and cinder from her skin and hair and changed into some of Georgia’s clothes. Jenna was a good three inches taller than Georgia so the sweats hit her midcalf. Top of her list today was to get wheels, and buy clothes and art supplies.
Jenna sipped. “My life just went up in flames.”
“Well, the stuff went up in flames.” Georgia sat across from her on the large couch and crossed her legs as she cradled a cup of coffee. Tracker lay on the floor at Georgia’s feet but his gaze went from the door to Jenna and back to the door. He was waiting for Rick.