Page 16 of Single Mom's Firefighter SEALs
Nearly everything is covered with a grayish-brown film. The bookshelf has collapsed, there are blobs of plastic so melted I can’t tell what they used to be, and the floor is scarred with a dark, ugly stain.
I point to the charred mark, a few feet in front of the desk. “Is this where the fire started?”
“Yes. It appears there was a pile of things there that burned. What was in that spot yesterday?”
“Nothing,” I say. “The floor was clear.”
“Was there clothing in this room, or sewing supplies?” he asks.
My eyes go immediately to the closet, where the fire-damaged door is still intact and open. “Tyler’s dress uniform was there.” Stricken, I point at the empty, half-melted garment bag.
Buck crouches near the desk and picks up a cluster of metal buttons fused to charred threads. “The firefighters were as careful as they could be to leave the room the way they found it. Uniform remains were over here, near the origin, not in the closet. Is there anything else missing that you can tell?”
The box of Tyler’s awards and mementos I’d carefully placed back in the closet is several feet from where it should be. “This box was full,” I tell Buck as I swivel around and look for missing items. “Most of what was in here is gone.”
“What’s missing?” he asks.
“There were medals, certificates, and bundles of letters. Official commendation letters,letters Tyler wrote to me. And packets of photos. I was just … ” A sob chokes me, and I can’t finish my sentence.
“The burn pattern indicates that things were piled here,” Buck says. His voice is gentle. “Whoever did this wasn’t trying to level the house. They wanted to destroy certain items, and because you called quickly, the fire stayed where the fuel was concentrated.”
Gentler still, he holds out a blackened item in the palm of his gloved hand. “This was at the top of the stack of charred remnants.”
Tyler’s SEAL Trident.
“Was this pinned to his uniform?” Buck asks.
I shake my head and try to answer him, but the words get stuck.He’d been so proud of that pin. It represented so much hard work and sacrifice. Commitment.
I close my eyes for a moment to pull myself together, but I’m nearly undone when I feel a hand come to rest on my shoulder. A sense of comfort comes over me that’s so intense, it nearly drops me to my knees.
I wasn’t prepared when Weston and Calder reached out to assist me on the porch, and now Buck is caressing my shoulder with his strong hand, which is warm even through my coat.
I’ve been fine on my own since Tyler died, but everything in me wants to lean into Buck’s touch, and how can I even be thinking about that when I’m standing here next to the burned remains of items my husband held so dear?
I feel warm and sick and confused and angry. All of it, all at the same time.
I lift my chin and meet Buck’s eyes, and I don’t know if I feel better or worse when he appears to be in as much pain as I am. His expression looks as conflicted as I feel.
We stand there for a few long moments, just looking at each other. Inside, I’m crumbling like an imploding building, but I stand firm. Whoever did this, whatever the hell they’re trying to do, I won’t let them get to me.
No matter how much I want to fall into Buck’s arms and hide my head from the world, I won’t do that, either.
His fingers press into muscles at my upper back, then he squeezes my shoulder and releases me, but he doesn’t look away for several more seconds.
“There’s something else,” he says finally, his voice ragged, almost tortured. “This was apart from everything else, purposely shielded from the fire.”
I gasp as he shows me the same photograph I was looking at yesterday morning, only now it’s charred at the edges, as if lit with a lighter then extinguished, like the photo at the house in San Diego. It’s also been marked up with a red pen.
There’s an X through Tyler’s face, and circles around the faces of Buck, Weston, and Calder.
“I’ve always believed he was murdered.” My voice is shaky but not quiet.
Buck lets out a breath and sets the picture somewhere outof my sight. “Tyler died doing the job. It was operational. And someone out there knows it.”
His admission isn’t a surprise, but it’s still huge. It’s a relief for someone to tell me the truth, even though it’s only a broad overview of the truth. It wasn’t a training exercise. He died while he was on a mission.
“I can’t give you details,” he says, “but I can keep you safe. From here on out, you’re covered.”
