I look up from my phone and into his eyes. My heart thumping, I demand, “Tell me why.”
He sits there beside me, breathing unevenly, wild-eyed and tense.
“Theo. You’re not getting the job unless you explain yourself. I’m done with this cloak-and-dagger routine.”
He looks down at the demolished remains of his omelet, as if for help. Then he briefly closes his eyes, thinks for a moment, and picks up his phone.
Because you’re so hideous.
Honestly, I’ve seen prettier faces at the zoo.
“Okay,” I say, irritated because I thought I was close to getting to the bottom of this incomprehensible situation. I toss my phone onto the table, where it lands with a clatter. “Good to know you think this is such a joke. It’s been interesting knowing you. Have a nice life.”
I push my chair back, ready to barge past him or climb over him if he won’t move, but he reaches out and touches the back of my hand with his fingertip.
Static electricity crackles over my skin, hot and sharp as a knife. I yank my hand away, suck in a startled breath, and stare at him, blinking in surprise.
His lips part, and I swear, I swear he’s about to speak. But then he exhales a sharp breath, angrily shakes his head, and reaches into his wallet. He throws money down on the table, leaps from his chair, and leaves me sitting alone, gaping after his retreating back as he strides off through the restaurant.
Several minutes later, another text comes through on my phone.
Because you make all my broken parts bleed.
When the waitress arrives with two plates of key lime pie, I’m sitting right where Theo left me, reading his text for the hundredth time.
* * *
The long walk home in the cold doesn’t clear my head or settle my nerves, and I’m still rattled when I open the front door of the house. I spend a few hours on the internet researching more contractors until I have a small list of new prospects. Feeling dejected when I can’t get through to the first two I try to call, I decide I’ll leave it until tomorrow.
I pass the rest of the afternoon in a funk, paying bills, doing laundry and other distracting busywork chores, until it’s time for bed. I get undressed and climb under the covers to the sound of my stomach growling. After the Strangest Breakfast Ever, I wasn’t in the mood to eat.
I make his broken parts bleed? What on earth am I supposed to do with that?
Nothing, answers my pragmatic side. Forget it. The man is a lost cause.
The problem with lost causes is that they’re so seductive to those who know what it is to be lost.
Around midnight, I’m staring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about Mr. Mysterious, when I smell something burning.
My heart slams into my throat. I jolt upright, throw off the covers, and turn on the lights. Everything in the bedroom looks normal, but that acrid scent is unmistakable. I run downstairs, fighting panic, and follow my nose through the house, hitting every light switch I pass until the house is lit up like a Christmas tree.
I find what I’m looking for in the parlor.
Black fingers of smoke billow from an electrical outlet near the window. It’s the same outlet I’ve heard crackling on several occasions. A thin gray cloud hangs on the ceiling above, moving outward in slow, widening waves, like ripples on water after a stone has been tossed in.
Cursing, I run over to the window and throw it open in an effort to clear the smoke from the room. Cold night air rushes in, and smoke starts to rush out. I run back upstairs to get my cell phone, dialing 9-1-1 on my way back downstairs. A woman’s brisk voice answers.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“My house is on fire!”
“Tell me your address and call-back number, ma’am.”
I do, she repeats it back to me, I confirm, then she asks me to tell her exactly what’s happening.
“There’s an electrical fire inside the wall on the first floor, west side of the building, facing the beach. I don’t know how large it is yet, but there’s a lot of smoke.” I manage to sound rational, though my hands are shaking and I can’t catch my breath.
“Where are you now, ma’am?”
“Looking at the outlet.”
“I need you to leave the house immediately, ma’am! Get to a safe spot and wait for the fire department to arrive. Do you understand?”
The dispatcher is aggravated with me. I can’t say I blame her, but I’m reluctant to leave.
“Ma’am!” she barks when I don’t respond.
“I’m going.” I spin on my heel and run toward the front door, but skid to a stop at the stairway. Inhaling a breath that feels as cold as snow, I look up toward the second floor.