“The room looks great,” Jessie said, shoving the thought aside.
“Thanks,” Maisey said.
Her mother asked, “Why are you doing all the work? You’re supposed to relax.”
“Relax is not in my vocabulary,” Maisey said.
“Control freak is,” Blake muttered.
“I prefer the term detail-oriented.” She tucked her long brown hair behind her ears. “I’m going upstairs to get ready for the bonfire tonight. You coming?”
“We’re looking forward to it,” her mom said.
“We’ve got other plans,” Blake said before Jessie answered.
“We do?” she asked.
“I’ve got something I want to show you.”
He reached out and she took his hand. “Sounds good,” Jessie said, but the mysterious tone in his voice lifted the hair on the back of her neck.
…
Minutes later, they sat next to each other on the couch in Blake’s suite of rooms. “Tell me about the day of the accident.”
Something coiled around her lungs, squeezing. “I got the blasting cap under control, but something was off. Before I could get a fix on the situation, Rodriguez took the hit. I lived. He died.” She crossed her arms. “And I don’t know if I’m the one who should be six feet under.”
“Let’s check the data.” Blake leaned forward, opened his laptop, and clicked a video icon. “There were four of you at the site. You, Constanza, Woodall, and Rodriguez. Have the three of you ever put your heads together to piece together the missing details?”
“We don’t talk about that shit. We want to forget that damn day.”
“You haven’t forgotten.” Blake entered a set of commands, and four computerized people appeared on the screen’s display. “You’ve given yourself a serious case of survivor guilt. I’ve spoken with Constanza and Skyped with Woodall. None of you have the same set of information rattling around in your brains. You need to give me your version and determine what happened that day.”
That Blake had taken the time to communicate with her team caught her off guard. And touched her in places she’d tried to shield. “You talked with Constanza? Woodall, too? And they didn’t mind?”
“They’re your teammates, and they want to help. None of you has the same set of information. Constanza’s memories have holes in them. Woodall’s got good recall up until after the explosion. Then he went into serve-and-protect mode, focusing on getting all of you to the JERRV, containing your injuries, and radioing for help.”
Curiosity warred with uncertainty. “What did Constanza and Woodall tell you about the explosive device?”
“That you’d driven into dangerous territory to dismantle it.” Blake added a standard issue military vehicle to the computerized scene. “After everyone exited the JERRV, Rodriguez hauled the explosive materials back to the truck.”
“Rodriguez was about ten feet from the truck. Constanza and Woodall were in charge of putting the rest of the device’s components back on the truck.”
“Did you see them?”
Jessie tasted metal. “No. I was focused on neutralizing the explosive device’s cap. It was over a foot wide and a routine dismantling. But…” She couldn’t remember what had happened afterward.
“Take a breath,” Blake said. “You’re focusing on what you couldn’t see. My director usually films Quinn Sawyer’s scenes from below, giving the moviegoers the impression that I’m the most powerful, dominant character. I’m not always aware of the other people in the scene or the extras.”
“So?”
Blake zeroed in on her computer-simulated counterpart as she steadied the cap. Jessie’s attention was riveted on the device. “When you dismantled the rest of the device, you only had your point of view. Do you remember where your team members were as you finished the job?”
“Woodall was next to the truck, scouting the desert for enemies.” She pointed. “Here.”
Blake repositioned the digitized person. “That’s what he said. Constanza was walking toward you, ribbing Rodriguez about letting a little girl do all the work. Go on.”
Though she hated revisiting the memory, something jogged loose as Blake recreated the landscape of that day. “Rodriguez had loaded the other components on the truck, and I heard him call that I could handle it. The canister tipped. I steadied it, brought the blasting cap under control, but I must have screwed up.” Her throat closed around the fear resurrecting in her heart. She’d remained calm on the surface when she’d worked that day, but thinking about what had gone wrong brought back the surge of adrenaline spiking along her nerves. She could feel the rapid beating of her heart—the months between then and now evaporating, transporting her back to those moments of horror.