The wedding album.
I sprint up the stairs to the master bedroom. The dispatcher must be able to hear my heavy breathing and the sound of my feet hitting the floor, because she asks, “Are you outside now?”
“Almost!” I answer breathlessly. “I have to get something. I can’t leave the house without it—”
She hollers, “Ma’am, I need you to exit the premises immediately!”
Now I’ve really pissed her off. She wants to reach through the phone and strangle me. I hurl myself into the closet, grab the white leather photo album from the shelf above the rack of clothes, tuck it under my arm, and head back downstairs, taking the stairs three at a time, panting and cursing under my breath, hysteria rising like a wave of freezing water in my blood. The dispatcher says something else I can’t hear over the roar of Please no, please no, please God no in my ears.
If the Buttercup burns to the ground and I lose the last thing tying me to Cass, if our dream literally goes up in flames, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
I’m at the bottom step of the staircase when Theo kicks open the front door.
It slams against the wall with a tremendous boom. Splinters of wood fly everywhere. I rear back in shock, lose my balance, and drop the album and my phone, falling on my ass in the process. Moving with incredible speed, Theo runs down the hallway toward the kitchen. He throws open the basement door. I hear heavy boots pounding down stairs. A heartbeat passes, then the entire house is plunged into darkness.
Panicked and disoriented, I scream his name.
Off in the distance, the wail of a siren breaks the night.
Within seconds, the thud of Theo’s footsteps echoes hollowly on the wooden basement stairs. Then a blinding white beam of light slashes through the darkness. It moves toward me, bobbing in time to the heavy thump of footsteps growing closer. He sweeps past me on his way into the parlor, so focused, he doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.
Along with the flashlight, he carries a sledgehammer and a fire extinguisher.
“Hello? Are you there?”
The tinny squawk of the dispatcher’s voice comes through my cell phone, lying on the step beside me. Ignoring it, I gather the photo album in my arms and stumble after Theo into the parlor.
As I enter the room, he’s setting the flashlight on the floor. It’s pointed at the wall, illuminating the outlet the smoke rises from in a wedge of white light. Then he takes the sledgehammer in hand and swings it high overhead.
The sound of plaster smashing into pieces is so loud, I jump.
With long, smooth strokes, Theo swings the sledgehammer over and over until he’s broken a large hole into the wall above the socket. Smoke pours out. Exposed to a new surge of oxygen, small licks of orange flame jump and flare.
Theo drops the sledgehammer, grabs the fire extinguisher, and sprays white foam over the wall, the fire, and the smoking socket, until there’s nothing left in the canister and it sputters out.
The wail of the fire engine’s sirens grows closer.
Theo sees me standing in the doorway, clutching my wedding album in my arms, shaking so badly, my teeth are chattering. He’s breathing hard. All the cords are standing out in his neck. In the play of light and shadow over the bones in his face, he looks beautiful, otherworldly, and terrifying, like an avenging angel coming to settle a score.
I say hoarsely, “W-what…how…” My stammering is interrupted by a hacking cough, brought on by all the smoke in the room.
Theo points to me, then he jabs his finger toward the front door.
I know he’s telling me to get out, but I can’t move. I can only stare at him. Shock has frozen me in place.
He drops the fire extinguisher and crosses the room in a few long strides. Then, with a swift bend of his knees, he sweeps me off my feet and into his arms. He walks to the front door while I cling to him with one arm and my wedding album with the other, my heart jackhammering inside my chest.
I stare at his profile as he carries me out into the night and across the street. He sets me gently on my feet on the sidewalk, makes sure I’m steady, then turns back toward the house.
“Theo.”
He stops and looks at me.
In a shaking voice, I say, “How are you here?”
Engines roaring, the fire truck turns the corner and starts to barrel up the street. Theo whips out the small pad he carries in his pocket and begins to write. When he’s finished, he tears off the sheet of paper and hands it to me. I take it with trembling fingers, and he turns and strides back into the house.
When the fire engine slows to a stop in the middle of the street in front of me, I read his words by the red flashing lights, the smell of smoke stinging my nose, the sea breeze a cooling balm against my flushed skin.