Page 33 of Ink and Ashes
“Haven’t found anything so far.”
My shoulders relax some. “Well, let me know if you do.”
Dom nods, heading back to the bay. I glance at the clock on the wall briefly, noting that it’s nearing four o’clock.
“Hey, Dom?” I call out, pulling his attention back to me. “You can head over now. We’ve got things covered here, and I’m curious about what she found.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Shift’s done in a couple hours anyway. We’re good.”
He thanks me then heads out to his truck. But the tension I felt a moment ago with him doesn’t fade even after he’s gone.
I’ve given lots of thought to my dad’s suggestion at dinner and Dom’s urges to hear her out, but I still haven’t decided whether or not to do so. Every time I pick up the phone to call her, I stop myself.
Are you denying her theory because you’re sure it’s just that, or simply because of your resentment toward the press?
I still haven’t figured out which is the truth.
The only thing I know for sure is that all this has Dom and me glancing over our shoulders at every turn. It’s created a rift between the two of us, knowing he’s working with who I’d consider to be the enemy. I don’t like it, but at this moment in time, I feel powerless to stop it. Because despite the things I know about her, a voice in my head won’t stop screaming at me.
What if she’s right?
What ifs fucking suck.
The next day,our entire shift passes without a single call. Beau and I stopped by Wildfire, the town’s one and only bar, after work fora beer and an attempt to clear my head from everything over the past few weeks. By the time I arrive home, it’s after eight p.m. Part of me feels grateful the day is almost over, knowing that whatever the timeline Holland found was likely just a fluke. But the other part of me feels uneasy, and I’m having a hard time placing my finger on why.
I eat a few slices of the pizza I picked up after leaving the bar, then turn on the TV to drown out my thoughts for a while. After a few episodes ofFamily Feud, I start flicking through channels to find something new. When I land on a channel showing a recording of a benefit concert from last summer in Toronto, my mind rushes right back to the woman who’s turned my life upside down over the past few weeks.
I have so many questions about her. What happened back home that was so bad she doesn’t want anyone to know her real name? So bad that she had to move across the country to escape it? And why, of all the cities and towns she could’ve picked from, did she choose this one?
I’m pulled from my thoughts when my pager buzzes on the coffee table, and I let out a groan. I thought we’d gotten lucky with not getting called to a wildfire; that it would prove Holland’s timeline theory wrong, since she was so sure we’d have one today. But as I stare at the vibrating pager, my shoulders tense.
All Dom said yesterday when he mentioned the timeline was that one would happen today, and though it’s nearing eleven p.m., it is still the sixteenth. When I pick the pager up to see the wordFIREwritten across the small screen, my stomach plummets.
I have no good explanation for why Holland was able to predict a fire would happen today if not for her being onto something.
I grab my gear and head for my truck without hesitation. When I arrive at the station ten minutes later, Dom, Beau, Liv, and a handful of the volunteers are already here.
“Structure fire at one-five-three-eight Creighton Valley Road. All units responding,” repeats over the loud speaker inside the station. Within minutes, those of us who are here are in our turnouts and loaded on the trucks.
The moment I slam the passenger door closed, I pause, turning to Dom in the driver’s seat.
“Didn’t Holland say it would be a wildfire?”
His brows pull together, and after a moment, he nods.
I feel like I should be relieved knowing that this may just be a coincidence. Instead, the pit in my stomach grows larger.
“Wait, fifteen thirty-eight Creighton Valley. Why is that address familiar?” Dom asks as he turns on the sirens and pulls the engine out of the bay.
I shrug, too focused on pulling up the address on the truck’s GPS.
“Fifteen thirty-eight. Fifteen thirty-eight,” Wade Turner, one of the volunteers, mutters from the back seat. I turn around, brows pulled together, as realization settles over his features. “Isn’t that the old Welland Ranch?”
My eyes widen as I turn to Dom, whose face is scrunched in confusion.
We all know the history of the Welland Ranch.
