Page 32 of Midnight Clear

“Why are we whispering?” he asked, grinning.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I love you. Merry Christmas.”

“I love you too. It’s crazy the difference a year can make. A year ago today was a very different experience.”

“That’s an understatement,” she said, snuggling as close as her stomach would allow. “I guess I should thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For your patience,” she said. “For loving me when I had a hard time loving myself. For asking me to marry you. For figuring out a way for the bookstore to survive and making sure the stained-glass window is there for everyone to see and for me to remember. For helping me realize my dreams. The list is long.”

“Well, I had help,” he said, rubbing her lower back so she purred with pleasure. “Sometimes things are a gift in disguise. Who could have planned that the building across from The Lampstand would ever become available? And your great-grandfather’s window shines as a symbol of hope. Just like The Lampstand shines as a beacon of light for the people in Laurel Valley. I’m proud of you.”

“We’re a good team,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Now if you don’t mind,” she said. “Maybe we could get out of bed and get dressed. I think the next O’Hara is going to show up right on time.”

And twelve hours later, he did.

Theslap, slap, slapof his shoes hitting the pavement echoed in the fog that crept over the sleeping city.

He was slicked with sweat and his lungs burned with each laboring breath, but still he ran faster, punishing his body, punishing himself, as he fought the urge to look over his shoulder. It never seemed to matter how fast he ran, because his past continued to haunt him.

Shane Quincy knew all about ghosts and personal demons. He knew about the terror of the innocent and their screams that still filled his head. He knew about heartbreak and sorrow because it plagued him with every breath he took. And most of all, he knew about fear—fear that clawed its way up from the pit of his belly and left a bitter taste in his mouth—and horrors so devastating they could break the soul of a man who’d been trained for the worst humanity had to offer.

He’d been the best the government had to offer. But even his best hadn’t been good enough.

He slowed his steps as a heavy drizzle blanketed the deserted New Orleans street and hunched over, propping his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath and tried to ease the aching in his chest. He knew from experience that the ache would never go away, but he tried just the same.

For two years his routine hadn’t changed. The nightmares would come, waking him in a cold sweat with the taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. The covers would be damp and twisted beneath his restless body and his senses would be primed. But the echoes of the screams were only in his imagination, so he’d slip on his sweatpants and a T-shirt, leave his empty apartment, careful not to disturb the dark-haired woman in 3A, and he’d run for miles through the Big Easy. Fast and hard, as if he were running for his life. And in some ways he was.

The drizzle turned into a downpour and Shane laughed bitterly as he raised his face to the sky. He began running again, this time at a slower tempo, and turned left off First Street onto Prytania.

The old white gothic mansion sat on the corner, surrounded by stooped oaks that dripped Spanish moss, and a black iron fence gave the residents a semblance of privacy. He never would have been able to afford the place when he was working for the FBI, but he’d found out very quickly that moving into the private sector offered him a way of life he’d never imagined. Of course, he’d never meant to live that life alone. But here he was.

His skin was chilled and his dark hair, which was in desperate need of a trim, dripped into his eyes as he typed in the security code for the wrought-iron gate that protected him and the other residents. Only four of the six units were occupied, the effects of the pandemic still making people wary of putting down roots.

There was a young couple on the first floor, both of them Loyola law graduates and college football fans based on the weekly gatherings they hosted. They’d given him an open invitation to stop by anytime, but being around people for long periods of time tended to make him itchy.

There was a tenured NOU professor who lived on the second floor. He tended to have frequent overnight houseguests, many of them young enough to be his grad students, and he liked to cook. Shane knew this firsthand because his balcony was just below his own and he often left the French doors open.

Then there was the woman who’d moved in across the hall from him a few weeks before.

She was quiet. He never heard her television or radio on. She had Chinese food delivered at least once a week, and she didn’t stick to any pattern of coming and going at particular times of the day. She hadn’t had any visitors and she was skittish to the point that every time he passed her he felt like he needed to look over his shoulder, just to make sure.

Despite her neighborly qualifications, he found her presence irritating. It had been two years since the longing for a woman had reached up from inside him and taken hold. He’d not felt anything in the two years since Maggie had died. Nothing but emptiness and grief and anger.

But this woman had broken his fast. She was Maggie’s complete opposite—hair dark as night and piercing blue eyes—and she walked with a confidence that would intimidate most men. Most being the key word. He’d never been like most men. And he’d always enjoyed a good challenge.

But every time he felt the attraction come over him, it was followed by a rush of shame. As if he were being disloyal to his wife. Parts of him had died with her, and dead men weren’t supposed to feel things.

The gate clattered closed behind him, and he moved quickly to the side of the house where white wooden staircases led to the upper floor apartments. Shane was almost to the third floor before he smelled the smoke. The rain and the wind had dampened the scent so it was barely recognizable, but it was there. He was sure of it.

He raced the rest of the way up the stairs to the third floor and saw the licks of flame taunting him from the windows. The sight was hypnotic, the reds and oranges of the fire as it danced a path of destruction. The front door and one of the windows were open, feeding the inferno with much-needed oxygen so it spread quickly through the rooms, up the thick drapes and onto the ceiling. And even from the entrance he could smell the pungent scent of gasoline.

Black smoke billowed out the open window and door, and he cursed himself for leaving his cell phone on his nightstand. Fire alarms shrieked and he hoped the other tenants heard them.

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