Page 25 of Sparks Fly
I set the bar down. "For what?"
"Field trip. They're doing some kind of county government day for the preschool and the elementary. A couple of classrooms." He racks his own bar and sits up. "Cora's class is going too."
That puts something warm in my chest. Cora in Trish's office, probably talking the entire time, probably telling whoever will listen about her tutu and her bracelet and her very specific opinions about firework colors.
"Trish mention it?" Gunner asks.
"No. She probably figured I didn't need a rundown of the school calendar. I’ve not exactly moved in yet." Even though I kind of want to.
"She's careful about that stuff. Probably doesn't want to assume that you want to know, and she’s been doing this shit for a long time by herself."
"She should assume." I roll my shoulders back and move toward the water cooler. "I want to know about Cora's field trips and everything else with the two of them."
Gunner looks at me with the expression he gets when he's trying to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't say it. He just nods and reaches for his own water.
The alarm hits before I get the bottle to my mouth.
It's not a drill tone. It's the real one, a full station alert, and my body responds before my brain has finished processing it. I've done this long enough that the sequence is automatic — drop the bottle, move to the bay, gear up, and the information comes through the speaker in pieces as we move.
There’s a structure fire downtown, and the address is the county clerk’s office. I stop moving for exactly one second and let the fear of what that means flow over me, but then I move faster.
I'm pulling my coat on when I grab my phone and type out a text to Trish one-handed.
Me: You okay? Heard there's something happening at your building.
I hit send and pocket the phone. The truck is already running by the time I climb up, and we're rolling before the bay door is fully up. The drive is four minutes, and I watch my phone the entire way. There’s no answer to my question, and I’m fucking terrified, but I know I have a job to do.
"Gunner." My voice comes out flat.
"I know." He's already got his phone out. "Amy's not picking up either."
The smoke is visible two blocks out. This isn’t a small fire, or an electrical short that caught some insulation. This is structural smoke, dark and angry. It tells you that it’s been smoldering for a while before anyone called it in. My jaw tightens and I want nothing more than to hope that this isn’t what I think it is.
We pull up and the scene is already active. There are two other units on site, the chief coordinating at the perimeter, civilians streaming out of the building from the main entrance. I'm scanning the people who are standing on the sidewalk before the truck stops moving.
People are coming out from staff to visitors, and I notice a group of kids. They’re in a line with two teachers counting heads, another group behind them. I search the faces automatically, looking for the little girl that has stolen my heart.
I look for Cora.
There she is, and my heart starts to beat more regularly. “Cora,” I yell, waving at her. She’s third in the second line, orange Converse, hand gripped tight to the kid in front of her, eyes wide and wet but moving. More than anything she’s out of the building.
I exhale, allowing myself to relax for a split second.
Then I look for Trish, and I don't find her.
I do a full sweep of everyone gathered at the perimeter. Staff members in lanyards, a security guard with a radio, the county receptionist I recognize from the front desk. I move toward the nearest cluster of employees coming out. "The records department," I say to the woman closest to me, a woman in a county ID badge with her hand pressed over her mouth. "Where are those staff members?"
She looks at me, and the expression on her face makes my stomach drop straight to the ground.
"That's where it started," she says. Her voice breaks on the last word. "Some people got out through the stairwell but I don't,” she coughs. “I don't know if everyone?—"
I'm already moving. Running toward the danger.
"Mark." Gunner is right behind me, and his voice sounds just as scared as I feel. "Mark, wait for the team."
"She's not out here,” I argue, pointing to everyone. “She’s not here. She’s in there.”
"I know. Wait for the team. We go in as one," he yells.
