Pitch Imperfect(92)

“If Rob phones could you ask him to call me? I need to discuss Castle Manor. In person. We could meet here when he gets back or he could come to the house...if he wants to.”

Mrs. P. patted her hand. “Of course, dear. Rob’s agreed to a September start date in Boston. He doesn’t want to leave Mac until she’s on her feet. After that there will be nothing to keep him here, will there?”

Anjuli hiccupped, trying to catch her sobs before they escaped. Viking saw her and looked away, embarrassed. Damn it, she’d gone from being unable to cry to joining the weepy women club. All she had to do was will herself not to blubber and she was sobbing.

And suffocating.

Her head had somehow ended up in Mrs. P.’s hibiscus-scented bosom and her nostrils were crushed against the big plastic buttons of her cardigan.

“You can still win him back, dear,” Mrs. P. soothed. “My bet has never changed. ‘Donald,’ I said, ‘those two will be together by the end of the summer.’ But you’re running out of time, and I hate losing. Maybe you should put out. That is the right term, isn’t it?”

Anjuli half laughed, half sobbed. She accepted Mrs. P.’s lacy handkerchief and blew her nose. “It’s too late for us. I ruined everything.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some restoration work.”

* * *

But Anjuli found that she couldn’t restore anything, much less herself. The only way to fix what was wrong was if she destroyed the blasted walls she kept screaming at in her dreams. How do you force yourself not to fear? Not to feel guilt or remorse? Was there a magic pill she could take? A panacea for heartache? If she told Rob she wasn’t afraid to love him it would be a lie, and no matter how much she missed him she wouldn’t do that.

Maybe she would have this dream she was battling through forever, see herself punching through castle walls only for them to spring up again. The man on the parapet wouldn’t see or hear her shouts; the brown mist would get as murky as exhaust fumes and she would end up choking on it. Her lungs would fill with loss while the castle moved farther and farther away.

Her only companion would be Reiver, barking loudly in her ear and sinking his teeth into her leg. Anjuli jolted awake. She tried to breathe and filled her lungs with acrid smoke.

Her house was on fire.

Her chest felt as if it was bursting and her throat was closing over. Reiver barked and whined, nipping at her legs while she coughed. Anjuli dropped to the floor, where the air was thinner. The wood felt like hot coals under her palms.

In the distance she heard a siren and, low to the ground, she summoned the willpower to move. She couldn’t tell if the entire bottom floor was on fire, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Adrenaline kept her going, made her grab Chloe’s album from her bedside table and soak her dressing gown in water from the bedroom basin. Thank God for listed buildings that didn’t allow tearing out period basins. She threw the towel over her face and followed Reiver’s lead. Black smoke billowed up from the sitting room, and she tried to hold her breath, but couldn’t make it to the front door without breathing in the burning air.

Once outside and at a safe distance, Anjuli collapsed, retching and struggling for breath, then fell onto her back. The sky was starless, unforgiving black. Maybe there were no stars when you died; maybe they blinked out along with your soul. Oh God, was this it? Was this how she died?

She was going to suffocate and Rob would never know how she felt about him. Anjuli reached out to emptiness as black as Rob’s hair, seeing him instead of the smoke, wanting to tell him she loved him, but he slipped through her fingers. She tried to get up so she could follow, fell and cracked her skull on something hard before total darkness overtook her.

* * *

Smoke inhalation.

Concussion.

Broken heart.

Nothing the doctor could do about the last one, but after two days in hospital she no longer felt as if her nostrils were burning with every breath and her chest was free of fumes. She was being released in the afternoon, waiting for Ash and Viking to pick her up and writing an email to her parents, telling them she was fine and the police were investigating the fire, treating it as arson.

And her like a criminal. Ben had dropped by to question her, though it had felt more like an interrogation.

“Any other injuries?” he’d asked, lifting his brow when she told him Reiver had woken her up.

“Lucky.”

What the hell did he mean by that? “Yeah, it was,” she answered.

“We found your stolen building materials last night. They were on Angus Buchanan’s farm. A few of his farmhands hid them under a tarpaulin in a cow shed. We also found spray paint the same colour as the graffiti.”