I’ll always be here.
11
“You got really lucky, Miss Dunn. An electrical fire that starts inside the walls is extremely dangerous. We’ve seen whole houses go up in minutes. These old Victorians are especially susceptible because of the outdated wiring. You’re gonna need to get all the electrical replaced, like, yesterday.”
A firefighter named John is speaking to me. Under his yellow-and-black fireman’s helmet, John has sparkling brown eyes and a toothy grin, and seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself. I think he’s disappointed there wasn’t more action when he arrived, because he immediately started barking orders at his men, deploying all the hoses and every piece of equipment from the truck, and marching around the property like a big game hunter out to bag an elephant.
It was like watching a general rousing his troops for the final assault of the war, only to find one scrawny guy with a slingshot waiting for them when they got there.
“Uh-huh,” I respond absently, my gaze glued to the front door of the house for any sign of Theo.
I’m standing across the street where Theo left me, in my sleep shorts and T-shirt, barefoot and shell-shocked, oblivious to the cold. My wedding album is smashed against my chest, and my arms are wound like a vise around it.
“Yeah,” says John, grinning. “Electrical fires are a real bitch. Heat in the tens of thousands of degrees from the initial arc flare. Combine that with an enclosed space filled with combustible materials like insulation and wood framing, you’re lookin’ at a nightmare. We had one call last month where this guy had about ten things plugged into a really old power strip—”
“Here you go, ma’am.”
Another firefighter appears, interrupting John’s story. This one is younger and more serious than John. He settles a blanket around my shoulders, then shares a nod with his boss.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You okay, ma’am?”
“Yes. And please call me Megan, I’m not that much older than you.”
His smile is bashful. He’s cute in a clean-cut, all-American-boy sort of way. I wonder if Suzanne has met this guy. If I told her about him, she’d probably set her kitchen on fire.
“How’s it going in there?” I ask him.
“We’re making sure there are no other hot spots. For now, it looks like you’re good, but we have to check everything before we leave. Theo was real smart to shut off the power when he arrived. That probably prevented things from being a whole lot worse. As long as the current is live, the arcing can continue farther along in the wiring. If that happens, you can kiss your house good-bye.”
At the mention of Theo’s name, my attention snaps into focus. “You know Theo?”
The cute fireman shrugs. “Sure. Everybody knows Theo.”
Of course they do. Seaside is a small town, and Theo’s lived in it his whole life. I’m the stranger here, not him.
“Did he happen to mention how he got here before you did? Is he on the volunteer fire team or something?”
John says, “Nah, he’s just a night owl, I guess you’d say. We see him wandering all over the place at night. Likes to keep an eye on things.”
Things? I look up and down the beach. The nearest structure is a three-story condo building a quarter mile up the coast.
I think of the man I saw standing on the beach just after I got off the call with Craig this morning. The man with wide shoulders and long legs, wearing a black windbreaker. The man staring down the beach with an air of melancholy, like he was looking for someone, or something he’d lost.
That was Theo. Now I’m sure of it.
I should be disturbed by that realization, but oddly, I’m not. There’s no fear, only curiosity. Perhaps a case of wishful thinking, but my intuition tells me Theo Valentine isn’t a danger to me.
If anything, though I don’t understand why, I think I’m far more of a danger to him.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Theo appears in the open doorway. Across the distance, our gazes meet. He’s lit in flashing red and amber from the fire truck lights. He’s removed the windbreaker he was wearing when he came in and stands in a white long-sleeved T-shirt smudged with soot. There’s a big black smear like war paint straight across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It highlights his eyes, darkly glittering under a lowered brow.
He makes a beeline for me.
“Oh, here he comes,” says John. He holds up a hand in greeting. His cute subordinate waves.
They like him. Everyone likes him, this sphinx of a man who roams the town in the middle of the night, mute and sleepless from whatever demons haunt him.