Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
I nearly choke on my own coffee. "Logan!"
"What? I'm just making an observation. Your hair is still messed up from someone's hands, you've got that glow that comes from excellent sex, and you arrived home at the same time I got here." He takes a delicate sip. "Elementary, my dear Watson."
Heat floods my cheeks. "And how do you know I didn’t have to go to the store? I could have been all out of vanilla oat milk. And you’re nosy."
"I'm observant. There's a difference. And you had no groceries." He leans forward, studying my face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "So. How was your evening with Sheriff Tall-Dark-and-Brooding?"
"It was..." I search for words that won't make me sound like a lovesick teenager. "Good. Really good."
"Good? That's it? Honey, you look like you got thoroughly claimed by an alpha male. I'm going to need more details than 'good.'"
Before I can respond, the front doorbell chimes. I frown, wondering if it’s Colt, but when I pull the door open there’s a police officer standing there instead.
"Morning," he says, nodding to both of us. "I'm looking for Emery Langston."
My stomach drops. "That's me."
"Ma'am, I have some paperwork for you. From the state." He hands me an official-looking envelope. "Regarding your testimony in the Hendricks case."
The world tilts sideways.
Hendricks. As in Jenna Hendricks. As in the fire four years ago that changed everything.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
The officer nods and leaves, and I'm left staring at the envelope like it might burst into flames.
"Emery?" Logan's voice sounds far away. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I..." I can't form words. Can't breathe. Because suddenly I'm fifteen again, standing outside a burning house and watching firefighters carry people out. Watching one particular firefighter—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with purpose even through the smoke. The one who saved me.
I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for him.
Pulling open the envelope, I walk in a daze back to the kitchen table and flick through the papers. Details on the fire, on how it started, how it spread, who was involved…
"Oh my God," I breathe, nearly dropping the papers.
"What?" Logan is beside me now, his hand on my shoulder. "Talk to me."
"I told you about the fire? Four years ago. Jenna... My best friend." I look up at Logan, my eyes wide with realization. "It was him, Logan. Colt Boone was there. He was one of the firefighters."
His eyebrows draw together as he tries to peer over my shoulder at the report. "Are you sure?"
The papers are part of a subpoena to testify in the wrongful death lawsuit that Jenna's family filed against the property management company. The case has been dragging through the courts for years, but apparently, it's finally going to trial.
But it’s the incident report attached to the legal documents that I hold up for him. The official fire department report that lists all the responding personnel.
Including one Colt Boone, firefighter, rescue team.
"Jesus," Logan breathes. "He was there. He actually was there."
I scan the report, my heart hammering. Three people rescued: Margaret Hendricks, age 43. Jenna Hendricks, age 15. Emery Langston, age 15.
Wait. That's not right.
I read it again, more carefully this time. Margaret and Jenna Hendricks rescued at 11:47 PM. Emery Langston rescued at 12:03 AM.
Jenna died at 12:15 AM when the second floor collapsed.
Which means...
"She went back in," I whisper. "After they got us out, Jenna went back in for her cat."
And Colt tried to save her.
The report is clinical, factual, but I can read between the lines. Firefighter Boone attempted rescue of victim who had re-entered the structure. Access blocked by structural collapse at 12:09 AM. Victim located deceased at 12:47 AM after fire suppression.
My phone buzzes. A text from Colt.
Colt: Good morning, baby girl. Did you get to work safely?
I stare at the message, my chest tight with a mixture of emotions I can't even name. He saved me. Four years ago, when I was just a scared teenager, Colt Boone carried me out of that burning house and gave me a second chance at life.
And he's been carrying the guilt of not saving Jenna ever since.
"You have to tell him," Logan says quietly.
"Tell him what?"
"That you know. That you remember. That you don't blame him for what happened to Jenna."
"But I don't remember," I admit. "Not really. Just flashes. Smoke and noise and someone lifting me up." I look at the report again. "I was unconscious when he carried me out. I never saw his face."
"But you know now."
"Yeah. I know now."
My phone buzzes again.
Colt: Everything okay? You haven't responded.
Then, a minute later:
Colt: I'm coming over.
"Shit," I breathe. "He's coming here. Well, to work. He thinks we’re there…"
"Good," Logan says firmly. "You two need to talk about this."
I jump at the sound of a truck door slamming outside. Through the window, I can see Colt striding toward the office, his expression dark with concern.