Page 132 of Now and Then

Sutton even laid out the ugly sweater I’m supposed to wear to the holiday party. I pull it on quickly, but as I’m driving away from the house, I can’t get the image of the warehouse out of my mind. Those idiots had to have left behind piles of evidence. Donnelly, the fire investigator, is good, but he’ll only be concerned about the fire’s origin, not preserving evidence that might lead us to the assholes running this operation.

There are still a few hours before the holiday party starts, so I put in a call to Donnelly, asking if I can tag along so that I can look for evidence. I breathe a sigh of relief when he says yes.

The sun is descending when I pull back into the lot beside the old lumber mill. The air smells of smoke, the charred interior brittle and hollowed out. A thin wisp of heat curls up from the cooling embers along the bay wall, a warning that it’s still dangerous to be walking around here.

Donnelly’s already there, pacing with clipboard in hand. He spots my truck and waves. “Still dreaming you’d chosen fire instead?” His tone drips with that practiced irritation firefighters and cops reserve for each other.

“No, sir,” I say, stepping out. “I chose right the first time. Unlike you.”

He chuffs, handing me a borrowed helmet and a pair of heavy gloves. “I wasn’t planning on having company, so this is about all the extra gear I have.”

“Thanks for letting me shadow you,” I say. “These guys don’t just blow up a warehouse and disappear. They leave a trail.”

“That’s probably true.” He gives me a long, assessing look. “But I don’t have time to babysit detectives.”

“Understood.” I ignore the jab and follow him toward the damaged bay doors.

The floor is littered with blackened wood, twisted metal, and broken shelving. A faint chemical smell clings to the air. Somewhere deeper in the mill, metal groans, a last protest of a structure that’s been burned and left to settle.

“Nice sweater, by the way,” Donnelly adds, smirking.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

“Watch your step.”

He hovers near the center of the building, scanning the perimeter and occasionally glancing toward the rafters while I crouch to examine scattered debris. Heat radiates from the wreckage, rolling off the twisted metal like an open oven. Hot drums send heat waves in the air above them.

“Looks like they weren’t fully operational yet,” I say.

“Most of the flammable chemicals burned off,” Donnelly replies as he nudges a scorched barrel. “But some of these are still cause for concern.”

Above us, the upper platform creaks, a dry, splintering sound. Ash drifts from the rafters. My eyes track upward just as a narrow beam tilts loose from the edge of the deck.

A second later, it drops.

I see it at the same time Donnelly does, only he’s standing directly under it.

“Watch out!” I shout. I shove him out of the way just as it crashes down.

The beam snags the length of my body instead.

Splintered wood scrapes down my arm as I slam into the ground. Pain flashes sharp and electric followed by a burning heat through my forearm and wrist.

My chest slams into the curved side of a blackened metal drum. Residual heat bleeds through my shirt like a branding iron, searing my flesh.

I glance down. The unnatural angle of my hand tells me exactly what I’ve done.

My world narrows.

“You idiot,” Donnelly roars, dragging debris off me. “I fucking told you I don’t babysit detectives!”

His voice fades as he drags me backward toward the open bay and what little daylight remains.

The sky spins overhead.

My arm throbs.

Everything blurs together.