Page 42 of Crave Me

One of the firefighters steps forward and opens the door, his face dirty from the leftover smoke and sweaty from the heavy protective gear he’s wearing. “Can I take her in?” Curran asks him.

He nods. “Keep to the left and watch out for the puddles.”

“Thanks, Keegan,” he tells him.

I shadow Curran, stepping where he steps, avoiding the dirty water and the waste strewn from the sprinkler system and hoses. There’s enough light coming in from the wall of windows to show me this side of the building isn’t too bad off, minus the water damage. Where it’s bad is near my office.

Exactly where the truck came crashing through.

“You all right?” Curran asks when I freeze.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My office wasn’t just some small enclosure—a place where I sealed my deals, answered questions, and worked my ass off all day. It’s where drivers found their dream cars, a job became a career, and clients became friends.

My office was my second home. To see it now, and remember how it was . . . it shouldn’t twist my insides the way it does, but like with Colin and Marianne, this was my blood, my sweat, my hard work. Glass made up the front. It had a nice desk and set of industrial chairs, and a picture of me and Colin posing in front of the first car I sold when I was twenty.

“Wait here,” he says, walking toward the warped pieces of metal and shattered glass that’s left.

A cop, waiting by where the door once stood, glances up when he sees Curran. He waits for Curran to don vinyl gloves before passing him something in a clear plastic bag. He says something to Curran I can’t hear. Curran nods, not that he seems any happier, and walks back to where I’m standing.

“Is that your office?” he asks.

“You know it is,” I say. Why is he asking me this? He’s visited me here before.

He lifts the clear bag. “This yours?”

My eyes widen when I look at what he’s holding. It’s a picture from my memory wall, the one I made to commemorate my sales. The picture is torn, but recognize enough to see it’s the one of Amy, the young woman I sold an Escort to last year. “What the hell?” I ask.

Curran seems to be waiting for me to explain. “It’s from a collage I made,” I tell him. “My customers send me pictures of themselves posing next to the cars I sold them.”

“I know what it is,” he says.

And he should. As a joke, he and Killian took one next to the trucks I sold them with their middle fingers extended. They were daring me to hang it, and I did, with me posing with mine since I negotiated us such a sweet deal.

“Wren, what aren’t you telling me?”

He’s trying to pull me back into the moment, but my mind is already telling me more than I want to know. No, not . . . no.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks again, this time louder.

“Someone was mad,” I say, my voice oddly vacant.

“No shit,” he says cutting me off. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, even though I already know who it is.

“I don’t believe you. Out of all the cars in here, whoever did this chose an F-150. The same damn truck you drive to plow through your office.”

“It’s the biggest one we have in stock and can do the most damage.” I’m not trying to lie or come up with lame excuses. It’s more like I don’t want to believe what’s happening.

“Bullshit,” he says.

“Curran,” I say, although nothing follows.

He doesn’t give me time to respond, spouting everything he knows. “He poured gas over the same model truck you drive, crashed it into the building, and aimed it at your office. I could have chalked it up to an angry customer, someone unstable, maybe. But he didn’t just torch the truck and walk out, he took an extra few seconds to rip up something personal of yours and write ‘whore’ across your desk.”

Nausea burns my throat as I feel myself go white. He pauses, his voice quieting when he takes in my face. “Wren, who was it?”

I shake my head, not wanting to speak, but doing it anyway. “It must have been Bryant.”

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