Page 5 of Silken Chains
Or… is that just wishful thinking? God…I’m probably reserving a spot in hell.
“This is the fire department.”
My heart does a weird lurch thing in my chest. A bad sign.
Okay. It’s not about David.
But fuck, why are you calling me at unholy o’clock?
“We’re at Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave. There’s a fire.”
I can’t even muster a sarcastic comeback. That’s new. “My store?” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, which is embarrassing. I clear my throat. “Is it… bad?”
“I think you need to see for yourself.”
I frantically search for something—anything—to wear that isn’t doused in yesterday’s melancholy. I grab the first thing I feel: an old, faded nighty with a cheesy “Seduce me with paragraphs, tease me with prose” print. Damn, I thought I’d thrown this monstrosity out. My fingers snag on a lightweight cardigan, which I drape over myself as an afterthought, more for coverage than warmth. It’s November in New York, after all, and the last thing I need is frostbite in places best left unmentioned.
Living a few blocks away from my store had always been a point of pride. No commute, no morning rush, and the extra savings? That was the cherry on top.
A chilly wind picks up, tossing my hair wildly and making me second-guess the wisdom of those mismatched flip-flops I’d thrown on. Each step feels like an eternity, the chilled air biting at my toes and seeping up the hem of my nighty.
I hustle down the streets, the wind funneling through the urban canyons, forcing me to squint against its force. Every breath is a sharp sting, and I start coughing from the cold air slashing down my throat.
Damnit. It’s like inhaling ice shards.
There’s a low, gravelly laugh up ahead. A guy, definitely drunk and feeling a little too cocky, lurches from a darkened doorway. “Hey there, Cinderella, looking for your prince?” he slurs, leering at me.
“Only if he’s carrying a fire extinguisher,” I snap back, pushing past him.
As I get closer, there’s a distinct smell that hits me. The scent of scorched paper, burned wood, and a lingering, acrid stench that makes my eyes water.
And, well, shit.
My bookstore is charred. Like “There’s not gonna be a sequel” kind of charred.
All those hours, days, years… up in literal smoke.
Fuck.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
This is not happening!
Flames. Everywhere. Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave is an inferno at three a.m. Even the moon hides behind clouds, not wanting to witness the demise of my bookstore. My family’s legacy.
I stand, alone and cold, on the opposite street, with just the firefighters for company. They’re busy, their frantic movements dancing with the cruel, golden flickers that consume every memory of my store.
A firefighter is desperately aiming water at what’s left of my storefront.
Oh, my God.
That holiday window display I’d spent hours on last week? Annihilated. Dad had said it was a wasted effort, but the recent uptick in foot traffic begged to differ. My plans for the Christmas book readings, the New Year’s author meet-and-greet, and even that little corner I’d set aside for kids to dive into their first novels… all up in smoke now. Literal smoke.
Oh God, no.
The wail of sirens grows louder as I near the scene like some morbid alarm clock reminding me this isn’t a nightmare. The gleam of fire trucks pierces through the foggy haze, workers in uniform scrambling everywhere, directing powerful streams at the skeletal remains of what was my everything. Suddenly, a firm hand stops me, an officer’s stern face appearing through the smog.
“You can’t get closer, ma’am.”
