Page 81 of Shattered Dreams

Anyway, Dad pretended nothing was going on, but there was more sexual tension at our table than in my old dorm atschool. Is Mom cheating on Dad? I can’t blame her if she is. I know Dad has been less than faithful. And Dr. Mallory is good looking, in a tired kind of way.

It was a relief when dinner was over and I could go home. I don’t want to imagine Mom screwing another man. Thinking about her and Dad is bad enough.

Maybe I do need a girlfriend, but I think my parents are having enough sex for everybody.

I slam the journal shut.

Dr. Stephen Mallory was the man Mom was having an affair with? He never mentioned anything when we went to talk to him, but what was he going to say? “By the way, Davenport, your mother and I were sleeping together and she’s good in the sack?” It’s something Rourke would say about one of his conquests, but I can’t picture Mallory being so crass. Especially when it sounds like Mallory and Mom could’ve actually loved each other.

I grab my cell and bring up Mom’s number. The only thing I can do is ask. I don’t know what this will change, but it feels significant. Maybe not a turning point, but close to it.

Something bursts through my window, glass flying everywhere, and a recliner I rarely sit in explodes into a ball of flames.

Surprised, I fall off the couch and onto the floor, clipping my elbow on the edge of the coffee table. I stagger to my feet, my heart pounding.

Fuck.

Baby growls, her hair standing up along her back.

Heat scorches my skin, and the acrid odor of melting plastic plugs up my nose. The fire leaps and catches the curtains Mom insisted I hang when I moved in here.

I don’t keep a fire extinguisher in my apartment, but the management stores one in the hallway. I run to the door andturn the knob, but the door doesn’t budge. Whoever threw that firebomb cut off my quickest way to escape.

Any firefighter will tell you to exit the building immediately, and I’m totally on board with that, but I shove my cell into the back pocket of my jeans and grab Max’s journal first, fire licking at the ceiling above my head. My eyes water, and breathing shallowly through my mouth, I call Baby and she follows me upstairs to the loft. There isn’t a way out downstairs, not anymore. The window’s frozen shut, and I slam Max’s lockbox against the glass. It cracks and shatters, and I use a throw blanket to brush the shards away.

Smoke and flame climb up the stairs and fire eats at the wall. I don’t have much time, and the shrieking alarms threaten to deafen me. Someone must have already called nine-one-one—the faint sound of sirens wails at me through the broken glass. “This isn’t going to be much fun, but you have to trust me,” I say to Baby.

She whines in response, but she stiffens and lets me pick her up and set her on the fire escape’s landing. There’s no way I’m letting her go down the steep and narrow stairs alone, and I keep her still snapping, “Stay.” I need my hands free, and I tuck Max’s journal down my jeans at the small of my back. Carefully, I climb out the window, avoiding the jagged pieces of glass still stuck in the windowpane. I don’t have my boots on and didn’t think to grab a jacket.

Wind slaps at my face and hair blows into my eyes. With a frustrated swipe, I clear my vision. I pick Baby up and lean against the rail, steadying myself. I’ve never had to use the fire escape before, and I pray it’s anchored well to the wall.

Black smoke plumes into the sky, and several people who live in the apartment complexes near mine come out to watch.

At the bottom of the fire escape, I drop Baby to the ground. She wades through the snow and waits for me. I jump, the driftsreaching my knees, and I follow her path as she plows through to reach the snowbank hugging the road.

I round the corner, my feet blocks of ice, and a firetruck is rolling to a stop near the building. From what I can tell, the living room and my loft will be the biggest loss, and I’m glad I thought to grab Max’s diary. His award is still sitting on my bookshelf and I left my laptop on my desk, but there’s no use hoping they’ll be okay.

Firefighters hose my apartment down, and a woman who lives in my building stands next to me. “Your butt’s talking,” she says, shivering, watching them spray thick streams of water into what used to be my living room.

“What?” I don’t know her name. I’ve never introduced myself to my neighbors, only cursed them for hogging the washers and dryers in the laundry room.

“Your butt’s talking. Do you have your phone in your pocket? Maybe you accidentally called someone.”

“Shit. Thanks.” I pat Baby and she licks my hand. I’m relieved I was able to get her out without her getting hurt. My nerves are already so raw, I don’t know what I would do if something happened to my dog. I answer my phone. “Mom?”

“Gage? What’s going on? I heard an explosion. Are you okay? I called the police.”

“Someone threw a firebomb through my living room window. The fire department’s here now. Baby and I are okay.”

“Thank God. Gage, this is frightening. Who’s trying to kill you?”

“I don’t—” I stop.

Like a key aligning tumblers in a lock, everything I know about this case lines up and clicks into place.

“Mom. Do you happen to know where Jerricka Solis’ lake house is located?”

“Why do you want to know that at a time like this?”

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