Chapter 9

It was late, and Camille knew she should go to bed, but her mind wouldn’t turn off. One of Micah’s drawings had given her an idea for a piece—an intricate design that had the potential to be vastly difficult and very possibly heartbreaking. Past experience told her that she’d lie in bed, sleepless, until she at least got her idea sketched out on paper, so she headed for the workshop.

The shelves looked empty, since she’d finished all of the pieces for the ranch. Too excited about seeing Steve and the kids the next day to sit around, she’d packed up everything and even put the box in her car so she was ready for her trip tomorrow.

“Silly. You’re not even going there until evening,” she scolded herself as she shuffled through the notebooks stacked on the shelf beneath her workbench, trying to find one with blank paper remaining. “What’re you going to do all day tomorrow except fuss around trying on different outfits and—Oh no.” She froze in the middle of lifting a half-filled pad. What was she going to wear?

“Stop.” She said the word firmly, setting the sketchbook down with a sharp slap. “You’ll wear casual, normal clothes like you did the last two times you went to the ranch. It’s pizza at his house with his kids. You’re not going to a ball.”

Despite her lecture, she knew the only chance she had of not obsessing about which jeans made her butt look the best was to lose herself in a new project. Grabbing a pencil, she started sketching, letting the piece take its initial shape on the page. As she drew, she grew more and more excited about it, and she knew that it was going to be amazing if she managed to pull it off. She already had a feeling that this was going to be Steve’s Christmas present, rather than just another piece for the store.

By the time her eyes started blurring from exhaustion, she had ten pages of sketches, with lists to the side of metal parts and pieces of scrap she had on hand that she might be able to use. Tapping the screen of her tablet, she woke it up and started scrolling through old photos. “Two horses or three?” she muttered, flipping back and forth between the pictures. She was leaning toward three, liking the wild, almost out-of-control feel that the galloping horses had when they were three abreast.

Yawning, she pushed the tablet and sketchbook to the back of her workbench and laid her head on her folded arms. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute, and then I’ll drag my tired butt up to bed. Despite the rough surface under her arms and the hard seat of the stool, she felt her eyelids sinking shut.

* * *

A shriek startled her awake.

Her eyes popped open, but what she saw didn’t make sense to her sleep-clouded mind, as if a thick haze covered the familiar landscape. The shrill blast came again, cutting through her mental fog, screaming at her that something was very wrong. She straightened so abruptly that she almost fell backward as her brain fumbled to figure out where she was. It was hot, and there was a strange red cast to the light. The repetitive high-pitched squeal and a roaring, crackling sound drowned out the music.

She’d fallen asleep in her workshop. But the once-familiar space was blurred now, alien. Nothing around her seemed to make sense. It was loud and smoky, and the light was all wrong, too bright one second and too dark the next. Stumbling to her feet, her disorientation cleared in a snap.

Her workshop was on fire.

As soon as the realization struck, her lungs felt as if they were being squeezed in a clamp. Her gaze darted around, taking in the flames licking at the walls and ceiling, their bright light muted by the thick fog of black smoke filling the air. The acrid smell burned her nose and throat, scraping its way into her lungs. Her eyes watered, and she started coughing. The force of the hacking made her bend double, and suddenly the smoke was thinner, allowing her to gasp in a few breaths. It reminded her that air was clearer closer to the floor, and she dropped to her hands and knees.

Get out! her mind screamed, and she started crawling toward where she knew the door to be. Even down so low, the smoke still stung her eyes. As she tried to blink them clear, one of her shelves collapsed in a line of flame, crashing to the floor. Burning shrapnel flew in all directions, and she curled forward instinctively, trying to protect her face and front.

Embers stung her arms where they landed, quickly burning small holes through her clothing to sear bare skin. She smacked at the spots where pieces had landed as she tried to suck air into lungs that wouldn’t stop coughing. Another floating fleck of debris hit her cheek, and she quickly batted it away. It reminded her of the sparks her welding torch gave off when she used it on metal, and she scooted back to the bench. Reaching up, she fumbled along her workbench until her fingers touched her welding helmet. Grabbing it, she yanked it on and then felt for her gloves. She knocked a pad of paper to the side before she stood briefly so she could see the top of the workbench.

Even that short time spent standing made her lungs seize up, and she hurried to grab her gloves and return to the floor. After covering her hands, she shuffled forward, trying very hard not to look at the flames surrounding her. The shrieks of the fire alarm made it hard to think, but she clung to the only important thought right now: she needed to get out.

The smoke had thickened. Even with the mask protecting her eyes, it was hard to see. The leaping flames seemed to surround her, and she didn’t know if she was crawling in the right direction. It almost felt as if the room was spinning around her, an exit-less trap of fire and smoke. Only the concrete floor beneath her palms and knees was safe, and even that was growing dangerously warm.

The alarm suddenly went silent. The sudden cessation of high-pitched shrieks made Camille freeze in place. Tipping up her chin, she stared at the flames blanketing the ceiling. The fire roared unabated, but the alarm had quit, and she knew that was a bad sign. Although the absence of the piercing squeals was a relief, it also terrified her. The fire had won over the alarm, and she was next if she didn’t manage to get to the door.

The helmet’s mask limited her peripheral vision, and she tried to ignore the roaring of the flames and the walls of heat on all sides, focusing just on crawling forward. The stacked pile of barn wood blocked her way, and she felt a pang of sadness that this lumber had lasted over a hundred years, only to be incinerated in her workshop.

She moved to go around it, but a loud cracking sound made her freeze. With a whoosh of displaced hot air fanning her arm, a large, flaming chunk of the ceiling hit the floor next to her with a crash. Jumping at the close impact, she shoved away from the fiery wreckage, rolling in the only direction that was left to her.

For a moment, she lay still, futilely gasping for oxygen, the close call making her heart pound so loudly that it blocked out the roar of the flames around her. Her head was spinning from adrenaline and smoke inhalation, but she forced herself back onto her hands and knees. She couldn’t let herself lie there. If she didn’t get out soon, she’d be burned alive. Slowly shuffling forward, she continued crawling around the bonfire of barn wood. She was completely turned around now, and reaching the door seemed like an impossible feat. A sob burned its way up her throat, and she clenched her teeth to hold it back.

Think. Despite her dizziness, that firm, commanding voice was still clear in her head. This was her workshop, her space. She knew it better than she knew the house she’d grown up in. She wasn’t about to get lost in her own shop, fire or no fire. If she was going left around the pile of wood, then she needed to follow a diagonal line, and she’d hit the door.

Ignoring the confusion of the flames and the heavy grayness of the thick blanket of smoke, she crawled, the heat from the floor searing her knees. She couldn’t let the pain and her paralyzing fear overwhelm her, or the fire would win. She pressed forward, knee and hand, other knee and hand. It felt endless, this slog across the floor of her workshop, her sanctuary.

If she’d been able to get any air in her lungs, she might have laughed at that. Nice sanctuary it had turned out to be.

There was something lighter ahead of her, a rectangular shape that was slightly less gray than the surrounding area. She shuffled closer on her hands and knees and realized what it was with a rush of relief so intense that tears came to her eyes.

She’d found the door.

Blinking away the blurriness, she scrambled forward, moving faster now. Rising onto her knees, she was grabbing the handle with her gloved hand when a crash behind her made her duck and turn to look. Her display shelf had collapsed, leaving just flaming, charred remains, but her attention quickly moved past the wreckage. Fresh flames licked up the wall—the one connecting the workshop with the kitchen.

Lucy!

She started crawling toward the interior door before she realized what she was doing and stopped, forcing her mind to work, for logic to override panic. Rather than trying to make it through the fire-engulfed workshop, she needed to get out and go around to the front door. If the fire had started in the garage, it would take a few minutes to make its way into the house…she hoped.

Forcing herself to turn back, Camille fumbled with the knob in her gloved hand and yanked the door open. As the cold air rushed in, the flames around her billowed up with a deafening roar, and she automatically ducked, her arms flying up to protect her head. She dove out of the opening, scrambling to her feet and running for the front door. Her breath was loud under her helmet, and the mask had gone foggy, either from condensation or soot, but she couldn’t slow down long enough to try to wipe it clear. She needed to get Lucy out of the house before she burned with it—or they both did.

Taking the four porch steps in one leap, she reached for the storm door handle. Just as her gloved fingers were about to close around it, hard arms wrapped across her middle and yanked her back.

Shock stole her voice for a brief second, allowing the person behind her to drag her several steps away from the house before she started struggling. “Lucy!” she shouted, but her voice was drowned out by sirens and truck engines she hadn’t even noticed until that moment. “I need to get Lucy!”

She shoved at the iron bands locked around her waist, twisting her body from side to side in frantic attempts to free herself, but she couldn’t get away, couldn’t stop them from pulling her farther and farther back from her burning house, away from any chance she had to save Lucy.

“Stop!” she cried out, a sob harshly burning her throat, her eyes locked on the black smoke curling out of the eaves, the windows glowing red. “Lucy’s in there!”

“Camille!” It was Steve’s voice. “Listen to me. You can’t go in there. You’ll die, and so will Lucy. I’ll go get her. I have the gear, so I can go in that house.” As he continued to talk in his calm but firm way, his words started making sense and she began to still. This time, her sob was one of overwhelming relief. Steve was here. He’d save Lucy. It’d be okay. They’d both be okay.

Turning, she fumbled with her welding helmet, and he helped her pull it off. The sirens had ceased, but the flashing red and white lights still lit up her yard in pulses. The only sounds were the fire-truck engines, people shouting commands, and Steve’s calm, steady reassurances. She concentrated on his words until even the fire became a muted roar in the background.

“You with me?” he asked gently. A face shield and breathing equipment masked his features, and bunker gear added bulk to his already sturdy frame, but his voice reminded her that he was here. He would make everything okay.

“Yes.” Her voice shook and rasped, raw from the smoke. “Please get Lucy out.”

“I will.” There wasn’t any hesitation, and Camille believed every word. “Who’s Lucy?”

“My cat.”

Another firefighter Camille recognized as Rose Marie Mackenzie ran toward them with a medical bag, but Steve didn’t look away from Camille. “Is there a place she likes to hide when she’s scared?”

“My bedroom. S-second floor.” She tripped over her words, tears welling in her eyes at the thought of how scared Lucy must be. “Top shelf of the bookcase.”

“I’ll get her.” There it was again, that sure, steady assurance that made Camille believe that he could do anything.

“Thank you.” Her heart ached with gratitude. “Be careful.”

“I will.” He turned the simple phrase into a promise. “Stay with Mackenzie here, and don’t try to go back in that house, okay?”

“I won’t.” She tried to put as much resolve into her words as was in his, wanting him to believe her so he wouldn’t have to worry.

She must have succeeded, because he tipped his head in a nod and left her with the other firefighter. Mackenzie wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and tried to lead her away, but Camille didn’t want to move.

“Just a few steps over there,” the firefighter said, her voice soothing, though not as reassuring as Steve’s had been. “That way, you can sit down and still see everything that’s happening.”

By the time she was seated on the back of the fire rescue truck with an oxygen mask on and Mackenzie checking her blood pressure and blood oxygen levels, Steve was entering her front door. Light caught the reflective stripes on his bunker coat, and the sight reminded her of the photo Mrs. Lin had taken on her phone. The dark image seemed even more foreboding now, as if it had been a prediction of this terrible night.

Then Steve stepped inside, and all her anxiety focused on him, on the fact that he’d just gone into her burning house to save her cat. She thought of his kids, of how they’d be orphaned if Steve never made it out. Terror and guilt churned together in her stomach as all the horrible possibilities ran through her head. Why hadn’t Lucy been her first thought once she’d realized the workshop was on fire? She should’ve gone into the house, rather than just thinking about her escape. “It should’ve been me,” she said softly, her eyes locked on the open front door of her house.

Despite the oxygen mask, Mackenzie managed to hear her words. “No, it shouldn’t’ve.” Her tone was upbeat but firm. “He has the training and the equipment, and you barely managed to get yourself out. He’s done this hundreds of times. It’s his favorite thing, saving kittens. He’s great at it, too.”

The matter-of-fact way she spoke made Camille’s tightly wound muscles relax the slightest bit. She remembered the way Steve had said he’d be careful and that he’d get Lucy out. It’d been a firm promise, and she needed to trust him to keep his word. “That’s a dangerous hobby. Aren’t you worried, watching him walk in there like that—or when you walk into a fire?”

“Sure.” Mackenzie unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from Camille’s arm. “It’s always there, at least a little, on every call. It keeps me careful. I can’t let it take over, though. Panic never helps anyone. We just have to trust in our training and our partners to keep us safe.”

As true as that was, Camille couldn’t keep from staring at the house, willing Steve to walk out unharmed. The red glow seemed to be brightening in the lower-level windows, and Camille flinched at the sound of breaking glass. “Did something explode?” Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest.

“No.” Mackenzie sounded just as calm as she had before, and Camille took comfort in that. “The glass just got too hot.”

Her gaze raked the windows and doors for any sign of Steve, but there was nothing. “Shouldn’t he be out by now?”

“It hasn’t been very long,” Mackenzie reassured her. “It just feels that way.” After a pause, she nudged Camille with her elbow. “Look over there.” She pointed at a trio of firefighters carrying a tall ladder toward the house.

“What are they doing?”

“Opening a back door.”

As Camille watched, they set the ladder against the house, next to her bedroom window. Two of the firefighters stayed at the bottom, supporting the ladder, while the other quickly scaled it. By the time he reached the top, the window had opened and a helmeted head poked out.

“Steve,” she murmured, relief pouring through her at the sight of him, alive and upright and apparently unhurt. As he climbed out of the window, assisted by the fireman already on the ladder, her heart dropped again. He wasn’t holding a cat. “He doesn’t have Lucy.”

Gently rubbing Camille’s back, Mackenzie said, “I’m sorry.”

The simple words made Camille realize that it was true—Lucy was gone. Steve hadn’t been able to find her. Grief hit her hard, making her rock forward as she clutched her arms around herself. She’d had Lucy for over eight years, since the cat was an ill-tempered stray who’d started sleeping on Camille’s porch one winter.

Now Lucy was gone. Camille was completely and utterly alone in the world.

As ravaged as she felt on the inside, her eyes stayed dry. It hurt too much to cry. For the first time that night, she wondered what had caused the fire. Had she made a mistake, left something burning, missed a smoldering spark? Had she done this—killed her cat and destroyed her grandma’s house, her home?

Steve strode over to her, and she braced herself to hear him say it, to tell her that he hadn’t been able to keep his promise, that Lucy would never curl into the bend of her knees at night or drop a live mouse on her toes again.

He pulled off his helmet as he approached, and unzipped his jacket partway. His expression was his usual implacable one, but she knew it had to be hard for him to admit that he’d failed, and Camille added his pain to her growing pile of guilt so she could agonize over it later, when the numbness she was feeling now started to wear off.

Completely empty of words, she silently watched him approach. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault and that she was grateful—hugely grateful—that he’d attempted to save Lucy, but she couldn’t manage to say a thing. Instead, she watched blankly as he reached into his jacket. He stopped in front of her and withdrew his hand, extracting a small bundle. The harsh area lights the firefighters had set up illuminated a ball of calico fluff. Camille blinked, her brain trying to process what she was seeing, and it wasn’t until she heard Lucy’s deeply unhappy growl that the truth sank in.

Steve had saved Lucy after all.

Sucking in a harsh breath and ignoring the protest of her sore throat, she stared at Steve’s smile and then back at her cat—her beautiful, angry, totally alive cat. Even with the evidence in front of her, she found it hard to believe. Steve and Lucy began to blur as tears filled her eyes and ran unchecked down her cheeks.

“You found her?” Her voice came out hoarse and breathless, the last word catching on a sob.

Steve held out the squirming, spitting cat. “She was just where you’d said she’d be.”

Taking Lucy into her arms, she hugged the cat to her, not caring that Lucy’s claws were digging through her clothes and pricking her skin. She welcomed the pain, actually. It was what convinced her that Lucy was really and truly alive.

“You saved the cat!” Mackenzie cheered, and Steve gave her an offended look.

“Of course I saved the cat. I always save the cat.”

Camille gave a soggy laugh. “Thank you. Sorry I doubted you. I just…” The tears started again, clogging her voice. “When we d-didn’t see her at first…” She couldn’t say it. It was too fresh and painful, even with Lucy now safely in her arms.

“Sorry for scaring you.” Steve crouched down so they were face-to-face. “I needed my hands free for the ladder.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t need to apologize. You’re wonderful. You saved Lucy. I—” I love you almost slipped out, but she caught it in time. “Thank you, Steve. Thank you for Lucy…and for not letting me go back inside to die.”

“I’ll always keep you safe.” In the charged silence that followed his quiet declaration, he dropped his eyes for a moment. When he raised them again, his gaze was cautious. “That’s part of my job description, after all. Keeping everyone safe…people and cats.”

There was tension in his voice and in the way he rushed out his words that Camille didn’t understand. On a good day, she wasn’t that great at subtext, and this definitely was not a good day. She was stripped raw inside and incapable of saying anything except the truth.

“It’s not just the job,” she told him honestly, holding his gaze. “It’s you. You’re an honest-to-God hero, Steve Springfield.”

He went still, his eyes heating as they focused on hers. “Camille…” He moved closer, his expression intent.

It was Camille’s turn to freeze. The way he leaned in, his gaze locked with hers, that intense stare that made her belly squeeze with anticipation, made her breath catch. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. The butterflies in her stomach looped and swirled, and Camille tightened her grip on the cat in her arms. Now? Steve was going to kiss her now, when she was sooty and snotty and still hiccupping with sobs? He shifted even closer, until their faces were only inches apart, and Camille’s eyelids fluttered shut.

Her heart was full to bursting with emotions for Steve, pushing aside all of her other worries. If he was going to kiss her, she was surprisingly okay with that.

“Springfield, I need you on the engine. There’s an issue with one of the pumps.”

Chief Rodriguez’s shout made Camille’s eyes pop open. Steve was still close enough that the air from his sigh brushed her lips. Looking discomfited, he stood up.

“Sorry, Chief.” He gave his head a small shake, as if reorienting himself. “I’m on it.” Turning back to Camille, he gave her an intense look that only lasted a second but made her heart squeeze with the weight of his gaze. “Glad you’re okay, Camille.” Before she could pull herself out of her flustered daze to reply, he’d already jogged off toward the engine’s malfunctioning pump.

“You okay?” Mackenzie asked. Camille realized that the woman had been focusing on the contents of her medic bag while Steve and Camille had been caught up in each other, and she gave Mackenzie a small, appreciative smile for her discretion. “The EMTs should be here in less than a minute.”

“I’m wonderful.” Camille gave the firefighter a tired smile, all the stress and horror and adrenaline of the night hitting her at once.

Mackenzie gave her a careful once-over. “Okay, then I’m going to jump in and give one of the others a break. Just let the chief—he’s the one in the white helmet who keeps shouting orders at people—know if you start feeling dizzy or cold or not right in any way, okay?”

“Got it. I’m fine.” It was the truth, now that Steve and Lucy were safe. “Go ahead.”

As Mackenzie headed to relieve one of the other firefighters, Camille held Lucy tightly. Now that she had her cat in her arms, she was able to look at the house and really notice the damage. She wasn’t a trained firefighter, but Camille still knew that the house wouldn’t be able to be saved. Even if they magically managed to put out the fire in the next few moments, there’d only be a blackened shell left.

Her tears came again, quietly this time, rolling down her cheeks one by one as she silently grieved for the house she grew up in. Her grandma had been so proud of that place and the care she’d taken to furnish and decorate it. Even after she’d died, Camille hadn’t had the heart to change much of anything. She wanted to keep everything the way it was so she could be reminded of her grandma. Now all that was gone. Her home, her workshop, her tools, every last keepsake and possession.

Gone.

Even more practical things, like her driver’s license and her bank card, would need to be replaced. Where was she going to stay? She couldn’t even drive somewhere and stay in a hotel, since she didn’t have an ID or a way to pay or even the keys to her car—although at least the Buick was still intact and parked safely at the curb. Her grief and exhaustion merged, leaving her feeling empty and completely hopeless.

“Camille!” a male voice shouted. She turned her head to see Nate rushing toward her, his expression tight with worry. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, pushing back all of her tumbling thoughts. “What are you doing here?” For some reason, the thought of all of Search and Rescue descending on her again made her want to hide.

“I was going home after a search-and-rescue call and heard the dispatcher give your address. What happened? What started the fire?”

“There you are!” Ryan jogged toward them, his gaze running over Camille’s bundled figure. “I came as soon as I heard about the fire. Are you hurt?”

“She’s okay,” Nate answered before she could.

Ryan reached her, opening his arms as if he was about to pull her into a hug.

“You might not want to do that,” she warned, drawing back. She tipped her chin toward the cat in her arms. Although Lucy had stopped growling, Camille was positive that the cat would not appreciate being smashed between two bodies. “My cat’s a little upset right now.”

“Understandable.” He eyed her like Mackenzie and Nate had, as if checking for any burns. “Were you hurt at all? I’m so glad you managed to get out.” He glanced at the bonfire of her house and then back at her. “When I heard the dispatcher give your address for a fire call, I had to make sure you were all right.”

“The dispatcher?” Camille felt like her mind had slowed down to half speed. What Ryan was saying didn’t make any sense. “Where’d you hear the dispatcher?”

He hesitated for a beat. “The radio was on in Steve’s bedroom.”

“Oh.” His answer reminded her of another question. “Who’s staying with the kids if you’re here?”

“Joe. I waited until he arrived before I left the ranch.” His hand moved toward her face, but she flinched back, oversensitive from everything that had happened. “Sorry. You have some black streaks. Is that soot?”

One of her shoulders came up in a half shrug. She didn’t really care about her appearance.

“Were you inside when the house was burning?” Nate sounded so worried for her, but Camille couldn’t seem to scrape up any emotions at all. It was as if she’d felt so much and so strongly that she’d hollowed herself out and couldn’t feel anything anymore—at least for a while.

“In the workshop.” The smell and the brightness and the heat of the fire came back at her in a rush, and she barely stopped herself from flinching back. “I got out, but Steve had to go in and get Lucy.”

“Lucy?” Ryan asked.

She tipped her head toward the cat in her arms again. “My cat.”

“Steve saved your cat?”

“Yes.” Her chest ached at the memory of those awful minutes before Steve had emerged from the burning house and placed Lucy in her arms. “I’ll never be able to repay him for that. It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Nate made a sound that Camille assumed was agreement. “He’s a brave guy, our Steve.”

She just nodded, not sure even where to start thanking Steve for everything he’d done in the past hour—from saving her life to saving Lucy’s. What thanks could possibly be enough for that?

“If you’re sure you’re okay, I’m going to see if they need any help,” Nate added, his eyes glued to the buzzing hive of activity. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before hurrying away. Camille watched him go, numbly observing the way he melded into the work the firefighters were busy doing. She couldn’t help but think that if Nate had been here, he would’ve braved the heat to try to save Lucy as well. The Springfield boys were pretty amazing. Her gaze moved to find Steve, and she couldn’t help but give a tiny, shaky smile when she saw him striding toward her.

“Where are you going to stay?” Ryan asked, dropping a proprietary hand on her shoulder as Steve rejoined their small group.

Okay, so maybe three of the four Springfield boys are amazing.

Camille shifted to shrug Ryan off, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks again at the question. “I-I’m not sure.” Her voice sounded small and choked, but she was too overwhelmed to care about maintaining a brave face. “I… Um, I don’t have an ID or a debit card or anything really. Maybe I can trade you a sculpture for a few nights in your barn? It is the season for sleeping in stables, after all. All the famous people do it.”

Her joking fell flat, and Ryan didn’t even crack a smile. “You’re coming home with me.”

“No.” Mrs. Lin walked over, her coat covering most of her pajamas and robe. “She’s staying with me. Her grandmother would haunt me for the rest of my days if I didn’t take her in.”

The thought of staying with Mrs. Lin was almost as horrifying as sharing Ryan’s cabin. The thought made Camille’s chest tighten with anxiety. She had to sleep somewhere, though, at least for the night. Maybe tomorrow she could go to the hotel in Ebba—if they’d let her stay without an intact credit card. “I…” she started, having no idea how she was going to finish her sentence, much less find a bed for the night.

“She’ll be staying with me.” The stern edge to Steve’s words was as sharp as an ax blade, but she didn’t even feel the cut as she smiled at him wholeheartedly. For the third time that night, he was saving her. Staying with Steve and his kids would be wonderful, she knew. She already felt like she fit with them, and now she’d be living with them. That, however, presented another dilemma.

“Where? The kids already share, and the bedrooms are full.” Ryan’s objections echoed Camille’s thoughts.

Before Steve could respond, she said, “I’m happy to sleep on the couch. Besides, it won’t be more than a couple of days, just until I can get my ID and credit cards replaced.”

“She’ll be staying with me,” Mrs. Lin insisted.

“No,” Camille said baldly. She knew it wasn’t polite, but she couldn’t live with Mrs. Lin, not even for a few days. One of them would end up murdered for sure. “I’m staying with Steve. Don’t argue with me about this. I’m not going to back down. My cat and I nearly died, and I’m right on the edge of losing it completely, so please, just accept that I’m going home with Steve.” Mrs. Lin looked so stunned that Camille felt a tiny spark of sympathy and offered a sop for her neighbor’s pride. “I would appreciate it if you could watch the property for me, though, and keep it safe.”

Mrs. Lin looked at the remains of Camille’s house suspiciously. The fire had burned surprisingly fast, and there wasn’t much left except the home’s blackened skeleton and an ashy heap. “From what?”

“Looters,” Camille blurted out, and she noticed that Steve had to look away, his mouth tightening in the way it did when he was trying to hold back a smile. “I read about it on…uh, the internet. There’s a gang that scans the fire stations’ radios and goes from site to site, picking through the wreckage. They could come anytime, and you need to be on guard. I don’t want thieves to get anything that’s left of Grandma’s stuff.” Mrs. Lin was softening, but Camille could tell she wasn’t there yet. “And the car. I don’t have keys for it right now, so I’ll need to leave it here, and a fire-scavenging gang like that would strip Grandma’s car in minutes.”

“Fine.” To Camille’s relief, Mrs. Lin went with the made-up story. “I’ll watch out for that gang.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lin.”

“In exchange, you’re going to tell me the truth about all those men.”

Camille was speechless, her mouth hanging open as she tried to come up with a retort. After a half second of silence, Ryan and Steve both asked the same question at the same time.

“What men?”