Flames were dangerously close now, eating up part of the doorframe and the carpet below. The rush of oxygen that came into the room with the opening of the door seemed to fuel the flames even more, and they burst forward in a great rush, completely overtaking the exit.
The bulky outline of Holt was suddenly concealed by flames.
I screamed his name again. Fear that he was burned turned my knees to Jell-O. I heard him cuss and call for me again, and then there was another crash and whatever was sitting in front of the window was gone.
Holt was there punching through the broken glass and reaching a bloodied arm through the opening.
“Come on!” he yelled.
I rushed to the window, pausing to grab my few shopping bags nearby and throwing them out the opening (hey, it was all I had to my name. I wasn’t about to let it be destroyed). Holt shoved them away and reached for me as I flung myself out the opening.
And then Holt was there, grabbing me beneath my arms and towing me over the broken vending machines that lay damaged in front of my room and across the parking lot toward his truck, which was haphazardly parked in the center of the empty lot. I couldn’t stop coughing. They were deep, menacing coughs that made it hard to walk, and I stumbled onto my knees.
I would have fallen, but he caught me, swinging me up and rushing the rest of the way behind his truck.
I heard more shattering glass and the groan of wood as he sat me down on the hard asphalt and leaned over me.
“I leave you alone for two days,” he shouted, shoving his hands through his hair. “What the hell happened!”
He was bleeding. Dark rivulets of blood trailed down his arm and dripped off his elbows onto the ground below. Slowly, I slid down the side of his truck until I was sitting on the ground, still grasping for breath.
“Katie!” he yelled, gripping my shoulder and leaning in to look into my eyes. “Stay with me.”
The distant sound of sirens filled the air, and I knew within minutes the place would be swarming with police officers and firefighters. It was minutes I wouldn’t have had. If Holt hadn’t gotten here when he did, I would likely be dead right now.
That had me looking up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came by to check on you. I was worried.”
“How did you know where I was?” I said, suspicion leaking into my tone.
He crouched down in front of me, my feet between his legs. “I saw your car in the lot,” he explained. “I knew you worked at the library nearby, so I thought you might pick somewhere close to stay.”
My shoulders sagged.
He put a hand under my chin and lifted my face. “Look at me,” he demanded.
I looked up.
“Do you think this was me?”
“No,” I said, ashamed of the catch in my voice. I really didn’t think he did this, but I was scared and I was so very tired.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice calm.
I looked up, surprised that he didn’t sound angry. I nodded.
He yanked me forward, folding his arms around me and standing up, bringing me with him. My feet touched the ground, but they didn’t support me. His arms, his body kept me up. He wrapped himself around me like I was a hand and he was a glove. I clung to the front of his shirt, praying he wouldn’t let me go. When his grip tightened, I sighed in relief. His clean scent encompassed me, pushing away some of the smoke, and tears prickled my eyes.
When the emergency trucks swerved into the lot, my muscles tensed at the thought he would release me, that he would push me away and deal with the fire.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t let go. Not once.
Even when some of the men he must work with came running up—addressing him by his last name and exclaiming over what happened.
He spoke calmly over my head, telling them everything he knew and telling them I wasn’t ready to talk. He didn’t seem embarrassed to be holding me so close in the center of a parking lot. He didn’t act like being seen in a vulnerable position like this wounded his pride at all.
He just stood there in the center of chaos with flames blazing, water spraying, and the shouts of responders all around, and he was completely still.
He was the anchor to my drifting boat. The roots to my growing tree. Without him, I surely would have floated away into some kind of unreachable place within the confines of my brain.
No matter how much I wanted to deny it.
Not matter how much I could say it wasn’t true.
There was no getting around it.
This wasn’t an accident.
Someone was trying to kill me.
8
The first light of day peeked through the sky when I stepped out of the police station after several hours of questioning. Even after the hours of invasive questions, I knew no one had any clue what was going on. The fact was I didn’t have anyone in my life. There was literally no one. And that meant whoever was doing this had motives I didn’t know about. Motives I didn’t understand.