The Off Season (16 page)

Tears streaming down her face, Annie nodded, then carried the wailing toddler back toward the SUV.

Harris backed up, staring at the unmoving woman lying prone on the porch roof’s edge and wondering how the hell he could get to her. With the roof overhanging the columns supporting it by at least ten feet, he couldn’t climb up that way. And he spotted the interior staircase through one of the unbroken windows and saw it fully engulfed in flames.

Still, he refused to give up, though he had no idea how he’d manage. And no idea whether the woman he’d once felt far more for than he could allow himself to admit was still breathing . . .

Or whether he’d find her stare as cold and blank as Fiorelli’s.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The first thing Christina was aware of was the quality of Lilly’s weeping. No longer panicked, but hopeless and exhausted, as if she’d been left alone to cry for hours.

“Bad lady,” she cried. “Bad lady kill Katie.”

Desperate to reassure her daughter that she would always be there to care for her, Christina fought to open her eyes. But her lids were so damn heavy, and she couldn’t move a muscle.

“Mommy’s only sleeping,” someone whispered. Annie, warm and gentle as a summer breeze.

Lilly abruptly stopped crying, then, in a knowing voice, insisted, “Mommy dead.”

Gasping as she jerked awake, Christina fought to sit up. To break free of this nightmare. But someone was pressing down on her right shoulder with a hand so large and strong she couldn’t—

“Don’t fight, Christina. You’ll hurt yourself.”

She went still. There was something familiar in the male voice. Something that triggered a memory.

“You’re gonna have to trust me.”

Shards of the recent past spun back together. The fire, the ice, the weight of her daughter hanging from her own injured, outstretched arm.

“It’s morning now—almost noon,” Harris told her. “You’re safe at the hospital.”

Her eyes shot open. “I—I dropped her. I dropped Lilly,” she said despite the painful tightness in her throat. “Where is she? Where’s my daughter?” With her head pounding, and the room—so bright she raised a hand to shield her eyes—whirling around her, Christina had no idea whether the voices she’d heard earlier had been real.

Her skin prickled as her daughter’s words reverberated in the small room.
Mommy dead.

What if, instead, Lilly had been the one lost forever? If Lilly was stranded in the next life with a father who’d scarcely made time for her before his own death?

“Easy there,” Harris said, his voice as ragged as her own. From the smoke, she remembered. Those billowing black clouds that had melted off the snow before it reached them. “They had to do a little surgery to stitch up that gash on your arm.”

His warning came too late. As she moved, a slicing pain brought tears to her eyes.

“Be still,” Harris said. Unnecessarily, this time. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to, couldn’t do anything but clench her teeth as she waited for the worst to pass.

“Lilly’s going to be fine,” he told her as his thumb rhythmically stroked her shoulder. She held on to those tiny movements, used them to tether herself to consciousness.

“You dropped her to me, to safety. Remember?” Harris asked her. “She’s been checked out and admitted for observation, but just as a precaution.”

When she could speak again, she said, “But I heard her talking. She was in here with me. With Annie.”

He moved to adjust the shades so the impossible white glare of the snow outside wouldn’t force her to squint. “You might’ve heard her in the ambulance. Lilly was so hysterical to be with you, the EMTs made an exception and let you ride together, with your sister to help keep her calm.”

“But they were . . . right here, just a minute ago.” Christina’s protest died as she became aware of the bandages on her left arm, the IV in her right.

“Nurse said it’s just some kind of saline solution to rehydrate you,” he explained, as if she wouldn’t recognize Ringer’s solution when she saw it. “I think they’ve given you something for the pain, too. Something pretty strong, from the sounds of things.”

She winced, irritated that he thought her whacked out of her mind on pain meds. And annoyed because he was most likely right. “Why did they admit Lilly? Tell me everything.”

“She was coughing quite a bit, so I understand they’re monitoring her lungs for swelling. But your sister hasn’t left. She said to tell you Lilly’s doing great, that you don’t need to worry about anything else—”

“Anything
else
? The house is gone, right? Burned because someone—someone tried to kill me.” It hit her that the owners would be devastated by the loss. Her mother, too, when she found out what had happened. But the idea of how close her own daughter—both of them—had been to dying came hard on the heels of the first thought, along with so many unanswerable questions.
Who would do this? Why? What could I have done to make someone so angry?

“Did you see the bastard?” Harris asked.

Now that her eyes had adjusted, she saw that the jeans he wore were smudged with ash, the sweatshirt smeared with what she suspected was her blood. His face needed both a shave and washing, dirt lining the creases in his forehead. And his hazel eyes were somber, carrying a weight that she sensed ran far deeper than physical fatigue.

She shook her head in answer to his question. “I heard someone moving downstairs. At first, I figured it was Annie coming home. Then the smoke alarms went off, and I smelled gasoline. I couldn’t find Lilly. She was hiding somewhere.”

“Little kids’ll do that in fires,” he said.

Blinking back tears, Christina said, “By the time she finally came out, the place was black with smoke, the stairs were completely engulfed. There was no way out, nowhere but that icy roof.”

“I’m glad you thought to go there,” he said, his gaze meeting hers as he took her uninjured right hand and squeezed it gently before releasing it.

She found herself wishing that he hadn’t let go. “I can’t—I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you found us, Harris.”

“I only wish I could’ve done more.” He raked dark hair off his face, a flush reddening his skin beneath the grime. “I ran to the garage for a ladder, thinking I could get you down. But it took forever to even break down the damn door, and with this freaking hand of mine—”

“Well, I clearly got down somehow,” she said. “I sure don’t remember climbing.”

“The firefighters showed up a couple of minutes later. But as a cop, I damn well should be capable of—”

Reaching toward him, she grasped his hand and turned it over, then carefully examined the web of scarring on it. Though some might find it unattractive, she marveled at the surgical skill that had clearly gone into its reconstruction . . . and at the strength he’d found, whether or not all of his old dexterity remained.

“This hand caught my daughter, Harris.
Caught
her, when she might’ve been killed by that fall.” As she squeezed his fingers, she couldn’t imagine anyone, no matter how fit, moving an unconscious person down a household ladder alone. He most likely would’ve broken both their necks in the attempt—because she absolutely knew he wouldn’t have let the fire take her. “That’s no small consolation. It’s everything to me.”

“I was at the right place at the right time. For her, at least,” he said brusquely as he withdrew his damaged hand from hers.

“What do you mean?” she asked, sensing there was more to the story.

“We lost an officer there last night.” His voice went bitter as he added, “
I
lost one.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“It’s not official yet, but the ME’s saying it looks like knife wounds to the back. I’d asked—I ordered my guy to keep a close eye on your place. Appears he was attacked after getting out of his car, possibly to investigate something he hadn’t figured was serious enough to call in.”

“I—I never heard a thing from outside, not with the storm,” she said, scarcely able to comprehend that someone had died attempting to keep her safe. What kind of monster was this killer? “I’m so sorry. Who was the officer who died?”

“Frank Fiorelli,” Harris said. “You met him at your house a few nights back.”

“I remember,” she said, recalling the dyed black hair and bulging gut. There had been some kind of tension between him and Harris, she remembered, but the look on Harris’s face told her that wasn’t making this one bit easier.

“I had to tell his—his wife this morning.”

“That must have been terrible.”

“That’s one word for it,” he said. “No kids, but they’re real close to their nephews. And they were going to Hawaii. They’d been saving up for years.”

Christina nodded, understanding his need to recite the awful litany. She’d done far too many death notifications, in waiting rooms and exam rooms, crowded corridors, and even speaking to distant relatives by phone. But as hard as it was to lose a patient, how much worse would it be if she’d been responsible for putting that person into harm’s way?
In this case, though, you were, weren’t you, if this arsonist was really out to kill you?

As impossible, as unthinkable, as it was, she couldn’t deny the reality of it any longer.
Someone wants me dead.

“If I’d had any idea that the person who damaged the car would do something like this, I would’ve—” She shook her head, horror mingling with frustration. “I still have no idea why anyone would come after me. Before, I hoped it was a random thing, like you thought at first. Just some vandal confusing me for the homeowner.”

“It must be tough to face,” Harris acknowledged. “But if there’s anything you can think of that might help us bring this asshole to justice, we need it. Any possibility, no matter how slight. I’ve looked into your husband’s first wife and the kids, called in other agencies to check their alibis. But all three were at Evelyn Paxton’s mother’s viewing last night, plenty of witnesses to vouch.”

“I told you, it’s not them,” she said.

“Let’s say you’re right,” he allowed. “Which may leave us with some coworker who seems a bit off, a former neighbor who gave you a bad feeling, an especially aggressive or fixated patient, one who’s sexually aggressive or inappropriate—”

“You’re thinking it’s a man, then?” The idea seemed off somehow. But whether it was pain meds or exhaustion, she couldn’t pin down the reason.

“I can’t rule out anyone for certain,” Harris said. “Statistically speaking, though, a male’s a lot more likely to physically engage in close quarters—and coming up behind an armed cop? I don’t see a lot of women doing that.”

“I see your point.” She’d seen drugs produce incredibly violent behavior in people of either sex. But this killer had taken out an officer and set her house ablaze, then escaped without detection, none of which sounded like someone blasted out of his or her skull on PCP or bath salts.

“I want you to really think about this, Christina. Help me stop this killer before he comes back for another try.”

He
again. Even more troubled by the assumption, Christina allowed her gaze to drift. When it reached the window, her mind shot back to the parking lot outside it. To last night’s argument with Renee, who’d called her the same name that had been emblazoned on her car. To Renee, who might be in league with the young man she’d seen at the little bakery . . . if she had really been there.

Christina shivered as Lilly’s voice echoed through her memory.
Bad lady hurt Katie.

Harris was staring, studying her eyes intently. “What are you holding back, Christina?”

She shook her head, alarmed to realize the hallucinations had clearly returned. Lilly hadn’t been speaking to her in this room before.

“I was just thinking of what happened on that rooftop,” she lied, fighting back tears. “How my daughter slipped from my hands . . .”
And how she could again, if I lose sight of what’s real and what isn’t.

“But you weren’t alone,” he reassured her, pulling tissues from the box on the bedside tray. When he leaned close to blot the moisture gathering beneath her eyes, there was something so intimate in the gesture that she held her breath. “And you aren’t now, Christina, or you don’t have to be.”

She looked up into his green-flecked eyes, understanding that once again, he was asking her to trust him. To trust the boy who’d used her and then sneered at her pain.

But there was no derision in the look Harris slanted down at her, not a trace of mockery. Instead, she read the swift play of emotion, regret warring with anguish.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she saw something else, too: an aching loneliness, a longing for something that had almost lived before he’d destroyed it. Drawn in by the intensity of his expression, she said nothing as he moved in even closer. When she caught his ashy scent, her pulse bumped at her throat, her dizziness returning as she understood he was about to kiss her.

I need to stop this. Right now. I have to remember.

For a single moment—which left her half-relieved, half-disappointed—she thought he would stop or give her a chaste peck on the forehead as if she were a small child. But since that summer so long ago, there had been nothing chaste or childish between them. Nothing but an artifact of old attraction, one she’d never imagined still capable of reigniting.

Then his mouth found hers, and the hunger of their eighteenth summer flared again between them, a pull so searing that it burned away the memory of the intervening years, the miles they’d traveled, the vows each of them had made to love and honor another partner. Dismissing the commitment to reason that had guided her life, Christina gave in to simple impulse, to the need to reach up, slide her hand over a strong jaw rough with stubble, to slip her palm along his neck, then let it glide beneath his collar.

Lost in sensation, she was breathing hard; they both were when she heard a footstep and a woman’s gasp. “Oh! So sorry—I’ll come back for vitals later.”

Senses flooding back at last, Christina jerked away, grimacing as she jostled her injured arm. Harris stepped back just as quickly, his face reddening as he shook his head. The doorway was empty.

“Damn it, that was so wrong. I’m sorry, Christina. I never should’ve—”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“No, but I—you’re barely out of surgery.”

“You’re not yourself, either. You’ve lost an officer,” she managed, her skin clammy and her stomach roiling as she fought back the waves of pain, along with the worry that this—this lapse would be all over the hospital in no time. “And I needed—I’m so scared now, Harris. Terrified and confused and—” It had been so damn long since she’d lost herself in a man’s touch like that. In something as simple as a kiss.

You’re fooling yourself if you think anything about that kiss was simple.