Page 18 of Burn

An alarm buzzed a warning and she hurried in three feet to turn the alarm off. Four minutes. I was getting rusty.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to look at me and then past me to where Lunchbox was in the SUV.

“You’re welcome,” I said, then I pulled out a card. It had our number on it and I’d already written down my private number on the back. “Here.”

She took it for a moment then stared at it before she looked at me again.

“Anything happens, even if you just want to talk—call. I’ll always answer the number on the back. The number on the front means you have to leave a message and that could take a little time to get to us. So for an emergency, always the number on the back.”

With a slow breath, she nodded. “Thank you—again.”

“You’re welcome, Gracie.”

She frowned a little as she split her attention between me and the card.

“Close the door, Gracie.”

“Oh.” Another flicker of a smile and as much as I didn’t want her to vanish, I waited as the door closed. Then one by one, the locks turned.

“Good girl,” I murmured before making my way down the steps and heading toward the SUV. My leg was aching, but I ignored it. It was a very familiar feeling.

Once I returned to the SUV, I climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. Lunchbox didn’t pull out and I didn’t say anything.

We just sat there.

After a couple of minutes, Lunchbox asked, “How long?”

“Let’s give it an hour?”

“Done.”

Chapter

Seven

GRACE

Standing in the middle of my living room was surreal. Nothing here had changed. A book I’d been reading sat on the coffee table. It was an old favorite, the spine long since cracked and even the pages had an almost cloth texture to them.

Three magazines lay fanned out. I was on the cover of one of them. It was a glossier one for fashion, but it was a nice image and came with a tidy paycheck. The colorful blanket lay over the back of the sofa where I’d pushed it after I made myself get up and go to bed.

Everything in the room was almost too white, too pristine, too—too sterile. The only splashes of warmth seemed to exist in that colorful blanket and the photos on the mantle. The blanket was oneMamanhad knitted when Am and I were little. We shared the blanket. A few months with me. A few months with her.

I should have taken it to our weekend and handed it over for her turn. At the same time, I was so damn glad I didn’t. It would have been sitting in my car after I’d been taken. Maybe it wouldn’t have survived.

The thought nauseated me.

“Come on,” I said, my voice unnaturally loud in the silent place. Why was I just standing here? I needed to do something…

Glass broke somewhere and I turned toward the doors that led to the kitchen. On lead feet, I made it two steps before a masked man appeared in between the sliding barn doors that separated the living room from the dining room.

Shock rolled through me.

Shock, and then hot on its heels, pure fury.

“Get out,” I yelled, as sound and color rushed in, puncturing the bubble that had kept me so separate. I reached for the first thing in range—a vase and I threw it. The book next. A crystal glass bowl. Everything was a weapon.

That was what self-defense class taught. I even threw my book. The projectiles barely seemed to slow the masked man down as he advanced toward me. I retreated.

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