Page 540 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

I felt it as I stared at Mickey’s bike, my breath catching.

I know it now as Burke pulls up to the morning’s carnage in my Camaro—he’s driving—and it’s a good thing because I could barely think enough to put on pants, my soiled dress shirt, grab a suit coat.

Frankly, I only move now because Burke is out of the car and striding ahead, toward Booker, who watches the scene with folded arms.

Burke hasn’t spoken to me since we left my apartment, his question still ringing in my head.How did you know?

I had no answer for him as I walked out of the bathroom, because my only explanation feels pitiful and even irreverent. Idreamedit?

This can’t possibly be a dream.

The pungent odor of burned flesh hazes the air, turning my gut. The smoke bites my eyes, and sirens rend the air. The drizzle of spray coats my neck, and behind the raucousness, I can hear Minneapolis’s finest shouting as they work to douse the fire.

It’s a house turned coffee shop. Why didn’t I remember that? I had all the pieces—the barking dog—not a German shepherd, but a Doberman running the length of the yard across the street, imprisoned behind chain link. And, down the street, an ice cream truck, parked in a driveway. Maybe I imagined the bells ringing.

The house is an old Victorian-turned unique venue. Now, it’s simply a house fire, flames consuming the upstairs windows, the porch collapsing, the front windows blown out. Glass glints orange against the flames.

Smoke blots out the skyline, just the finest edge of sunlight through the black.

I’m without words, caught in the catastrophe, one thought like a fist in my still hammering head.I could have stopped this.

Shouldhave stopped this. Right?

I join Burke, the questions tangled in the chaos of my brain.

“Four dead, one on the way to HCMC,” Booker says without preamble. Hennepin County Medical Center. Two more ambulances are coming, but the only victims remaining are covered in tarps.

Burke glances at me. “This place was on the list.”

I frown, because the last thing I want John Booker to know is, well,everything.

Booker looks at me anyway, frowning. “What list?” He wears a stony, all business expression.

“A list of coffee shops,” I interject before Burke can throw me under the bus. “Possible other targets.”

Booker raises an eyebrow. Frowns.

That’s the moment my gaze falls on his wrist. On his watch. The watchI’mcurrently wearing. It’s a lightning bolt, right through me. Thewatch.

The one I’m also wearing. I look at it.

It’s still ticking.

“Rem thought it was going to happen again,” Burke says, the Judas. “And he was right.”

Booker’s frowning at me and I parlay the words into action. “The bomber could be in the crowd, right now, just like last time. We should be looking for a familiar face.”

For the first time, something reasonable appears on Burke’s expression and he doesn’t look like he’d like to pin me to the wall for some questioning. Instead he heads back to the car, and it takes me a second to realize he’s probably going to consult the pictures Eve gave us yesterday.

Booker is still staring at me, however. “Possible other targets? Why?”

“Bombers usually have reasons for their targets. Why a coffee shop? Whythiscoffee shop? There has to be a connection between these two.” Or three, I think, but I’m keeping that to myself for now.

Booker draws in a breath, then nods. But his gaze lingers on me, as if searching for something. He finally turns away. “Find that reason. Now.”

I hear ticking in my head as I follow Burke to the car. He’s retrieved the pictures now and has them spread out on the hood of the car.

Beyond him, Eve has arrived, her CSI side-kick Silas in tow. She looks tired, her kinky hair pulled back, and she wears no makeup as if she, too, got yanked out of bed.

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