Page 48 of Anchor Point

People assuming and making more of this than it was.

I plucked the toothpick from my mouth, shifted my stance, and let my best glare loose. “You realize that she’s been targeted, threatened by the same asshole that put Thoren in the hospital?”

The smug expression on his face faltered, so I drove my point home. “And this same perp killed, excuse me, allegedly killed those kids in that fire earlier this year.” I stuck the toothpick back in my mouth, planted my hands on my hips, and looked at him like the dumbass he was. “If you’ve got something you want to ask me, here’s your chance. Otherwise, you need to quit making assumptions.”

“Sorry, Capt.”

I grunted in acknowledgment of his apology and crossed my arms over my chest, forcibly shifting my focus to the passing traffic.

The problem was, he wasn’t wrong.

I was making more trips downtown than I had in the entire year before she’d come on board. Granted, they were all valid reasons. But still.

Obviously, people were talking.

And where gossip went, attention went, and she had enough on her from administration already, without these bozos adding to it.

A beat-up older-model red Toyota cruised by, a bevy of female voices and loud rock music pouring through the open windows. As they passed, the driver honked the horn multiple times. Cal, like an idiot, tossed up his hand.

“Mistake,” I muttered, watching as the car hit the left lane to make the loop back through town.

“What? I’m just being friendly.”

I shook my head. He’d learn.

Not five minutes later, the red car hit the lane closest to the station, the passenger leaning halfway out the window. “I’ve got a fire… in my pants!”

I chuckled quietly. “See what I mean? That’s trouble, with a capital T, cruising around in that car.”

Cal’s smirk returned. “Yes, sir, it is.”

Tones dropped, echoing from our radios and through the speakers in the bay behind us. We listened to the call-out for Station Four, and I headed to my pickup. The address was familiar.

I beat the engine to Francis O’Malley’s house to find a frantic Leah Miller on the front porch waving at me. Leah was the fiancée of Fire Marshal Mike Harrison, and Mrs. O’Malley had become the adopted grandmother of their group. On occasion, I’d spent time with the sweet elderly lady. She was an incorrigible flirt, loved a good romance novel, and was a staunch supporter of the annual fundraiser calendar.

“Mac. Thank God it’s your crew. Maybe you can deal with this stubborn old woman.”

I mounted the steps two at a time, noting the pinched lines at Leah’s eyes. Regardless of her frustration, she was concerned for her friend.

“What happened?”

Leah led me down a long hallway of the older house, the wood floors creaking in places and our footsteps echoing off the high ceiling.

“She fell. Swears she didn’t hurt herself, but she can’t move. She called me to come help her up. I called 911 when I got here and realized how bad it is.”

“You hush your mouth, missy. It’s not that bad.”

I rounded the doorway to find Francis splayed on the floor, leg jutted at an awkward angle. A hip dislocation at best, broken at worst.

“Hey, Mrs. O’Malley.”

“Hey yourself, Mr. December. And it’s Francis.” She tried to smirk, but pain laced her features.

“Looks like you took a little spill.” I kept my tone gentle, conversational, but my instincts kicked into overdrive. At her age, a fall like this could lead to so many more life-threatening problems. I needed to assess her more thoroughly, but I’d wait for the others before trying to stabilize and move her. Chances were, she’d pass out from pain if I tried.

“Aw, I got tripped up in these silly slippers. This hard floor isn’t very forgiving. I just need a little hand up, if you don’t mind.”

I dropped to a knee beside her and placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “Just hang tight until the others get here, to be on the safe side.”

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