Page 45 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

Holding tight to the sheet, I began lowering myself hand over hand, my feet “walking” down the wall—until I ran out of both sheet and wall. I hung there for a minute, panicked; to my left, flames were breaking through the kitchen window. The guest bedroom was built to overhang the bottom floor, the bedroom floor providing the cover for the small patio. I had no more wall to walk down, and below me was an eight-foot drop.

What the hell. I’d been higher than that when I was at the top of a cheerleader pyramid. And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I’m five-four. With my arms stretched over my head I can probably reach six and a half feet, give or take a few inches. That left just a foot and a half to the ground, right?

Not that I was hanging there doing math. I just looked down, thought, “How far can it be?” and let my legs swing down. When my arms were fully extended, I let go.

I think it was farther than a foot and a half.

Still, I landed with my knees bent the way I had trained, the cool damp grass absorbing some of the impact, and rolled.

I came to my knees and stared at the spectacle before me. Sparks were shooting into the air like obscene fireworks. The fire made a roaring sound, as if it were alive. I’d never heard a fire before, never been close to a burning building, but it’s this…this own thing in itself, something with a whole new identity. For now, while it burned, it was alive, and it wouldn’t die without a fight.

I was still trapped, there in the tiny fenced backyard with the flames devouring my home, looming over me, blackened walls threatening to collapse. Scrabbling around on the ground, I located the dark tote and this time looped the straps diagonally over my head and shoulders, then darted for the gate. I shoved the heavy latch open, pushed on the gate—and nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge.

“Son of abitch!” I shrieked hoarsely, so furious I could barely stay in my skin. Forget the knife; if I could get my hands on that moronic psycho nutcase bitch, I wouldn’t need a blade, I’d do the job with my bare hands. I’d tear her throat out with my teeth. I’d set her hair on fire and toast marshmallows in the flame.

No, wait. That could get icky. Forget the marshmallows.

After climbing out a second-story window, a six-foot fence wasn’t about to get the better of me. Reaching up, I caught the top of the fence and hauled myself up far enough to hook my right leg over, then I pushed upright, swung my left leg over, and vaulted to the ground.

Red lights were flashing everywhere. Men in yellow turnout suits were moving with urgent purpose, stringing out thick fire hoses, attaching them to pumps and fireplugs. People in their nightclothes were spilling into the street, some of them with pants hastily pulled on over pajamas, the fire and flashing lights throwing weird shapes and shadows over them. A fireman grabbed me and yelled something but I couldn’t understand him, because the fire trucks themselves made a god-awful amount of noise, added to the roar of the fire and sirens from other emergency vehicles that came racing toward us.

I guessed he was asking if I was hurt, so I yelled, “I’m okay!” Then I yelled, “That’s my condo!” and pointed to it.

With one arm he literally lifted me off my feet and rushed me away from the fire, away from the showers of sparks and exploding glass, away from the blasting streams of water, the sagging electrical lines, and didn’t let go until I was safely on the other side of the street.

I still had the wet towel tied over my mouth and nose; I’d lost the one I’d thrown over my head, somewhere between dropping and rolling. Whipping the towel free, I sank to my knees and sucked in fresh air as deeply as I could, coughing and gagging at the same time. When the coughing subsided a little and I could stand up, I began working my way through the crowd of people, pushing when I had to, wiggling my way through when I could, looking for a psycho bitch who would, obviously, be dressed in regular clothes instead of a nightgown or pajamas.

Chapter

Eighteen

Wyatt!

His name flashed in my brain and I paused in my woman-hunt to fish in the tote for my cell phone. This time, damn it, I did nick my finger on the knife. Snarling, I stood the knife, blade down, in one of the inside pockets—why hadn’t I thought to do that before? Oh, yeah, preoccupied with trying to escape a burning building—and stuck my finger in my mouth. When I pulled my finger out to examine the damage, there was nothing but a thin hairline of red on the pad of my finger, so no great harm done.

I found the cell phone, and when I flipped it open the little window lit up and told me I’d missed four incoming calls. They were probably all from Wyatt, because someone would either have recognized the address and called him, or he’d been sleeping with the police radio beside him. I dialed his cell.

“Blair!” he yelled furiously as a greeting. “Why haven’t you been answering your fucking phone?”

“I didn’t hear it ring!” I yelled back. My voice was so hoarse I didn’t recognize myself. “A house fire and all the alarms make a lot of noise, you know! Besides, I was busy climbing out the upstairs window.”

“God almighty,” he said, sounding shaken. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m all right. My condo’s a goner, though.” I looked across the street at the scene of destruction and a horrible realization sank in. “Oh, no! Your truck!”

“Never mind the truck, I’m insured. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure.” I understood why he was double-checking. With my recent history, he was no doubt expecting me to be in critical condition. “Other than cutting my finger on the knife in my purse, I don’t think I have any injuries at all.”

“Find a police officer and stick to him like glue,” he ordered. “I’m almost there, another five minutes at the most. I’m betting this isn’t an accident, and the stalker may be right behind you.”

Startled, I spun around and stared right into the face of an elderly gentleman who had been standing behind me, watching the fire with wide-eyed interest and horror. He jumped back in surprise.

“That’s why I have the knife,” I said, fury roaring through me again. “When I find that bitch—” The old man’s eyes got even bigger and he began backing away.

“Blair,put the knife away and do only what I told you to do,” he barked. “That’s an order.”

“You weren’t in that fire,” I began in hot defense of myself, but the sound of dead air told me he’d disconnected.

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