Sandra Orchard - Identity Withheld

“Yeah.” Jake jutted his chin toward the suspect—a mercenary type sporting military fatigues, a shaved head and the muscles to back up his threats. “Is that our arsonist?” And if his guess was right, an ex-husband or ex-boyfriend, too.

“You say she was here?”

Jake’s heart jackhammered his ribs. “She’s not now? Was there another guy? Did he take her?”

“Slow down.” The sheriff waved off the deputy who’d manhandled him and led Jake toward the front door of the shop. “The waitress said there’d been another customer, but that she disappeared before the gunman came in.”

“What do you mean disappeared? ”

“She thought she went to the bathroom. Except she isn’t there now. But the window was unlatched.”

“So she escaped?” Except that meant she was out there alone. Unprotected. “You need men searching for her. A K-9 unit.”

“We don’t have one, but trust me, we’ve got men combing the streets. Seems your first instinct about her at the fire might’ve been right. Sounds as if she could’ve been the gunman’s accomplice. The waitress said she’d been texting just before the gunman stormed in.”

Jake snatched his cell phone from his hip. “You got her number?”

“Yeah.” The sheriff flipped open his notebook and recited the number as Jake punched it in.

“Her friend was supposed to meet her here.” The phone rang and rang. Voice mail never picked up. He clicked it off. “She’s not answering.”

The sheriff opened the shop door and motioned to the paramedics tending to a guy on the floor. “That the friend she came to see?”

Jake recognized the victim’s leather coat, longish hair from the coffee shop window. At the sight of the man’s bloodied face, Jake almost heaved. That could’ve been Kara.

“He wrestled the gunman to the ground while the waitress called 9-1-1.” The sheriff let out a soft clicking sound. “But the gunman got in a couple of nasty gun butts to the head.”

Jake hadn’t gotten the impression this guy was who Kara came to see, but... “Sounds as though he might’ve been.” Kara had said he’d keep her safe. Apparently she’d been right. Jake hoped.

The sheriff flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “So what am I supposed to make of the woman being at two of my crime scenes in one night? If she was the target and not the instigator, why didn’t she ask for protection?”

Jake’s gut tightened. He could think of one reason. Maybe whoever Kara was running from was good at convincing the authorities he was an upstanding guy. Just like his father-in-law. Cop by day, abuser by night.

A waitress hovered over the paramedics, mascara streaking her cheeks.

“You know the victim?” Jake asked her.

She nibbled nervously on her fingernails. “He’s my boyfriend.”

The sheriff’s gaze snapped to Jake. “You sure you’ve got your facts straight?”

Jake refocused on the waitress. “The customer you mentioned to the sheriff, was she wearing a dark hoodie, about five-four, shoulder-length brown hair?”

“Yeah.” The waitress pulled her fingers away from her mouth, curled her hands into her apron. “She was the only customer I had all night.”

“Besides your boyfriend?” Jake clarified.

“Well, yeah.”

“Did she talk to him?”

“No. She sat at the counter.”

Jake’s gaze tracked to the unfinished mug of black coffee, the muddy puddle beneath the stool.

“I got the sense she was waiting for someone.”

The sheriff cocked his head toward Jake, lifting a brow.

No, she did not flee a fire to wait for a gunman in a coffee shop. That made no sense at all. Jake maneuvered around the sheriff to talk to the victim on the ground. “Did you know the female customer who came in?”

The guy’s eyes fluttered open then closed like leaden curtains.

“Afraid it’ll be a few hours before you get any answers out of him,” the paramedic said. “We’re ready to transport,” he added, directing that to the sheriff.

“Go ahead. The scene is secure.”

The waitress started for the door, then flailed her arms helplessly. “I need to go with him, but am I supposed to lock up?”

“The owner is on his way,” the sheriff reassured, “but I need you to answer a few more questions before you go. I’ll have one of my deputies drive you to the hospital. Okay?”

She gazed forlornly after the disappearing gurney and sank onto a stool. “I already told you everything.”

“You’d be surprised what you might’ve picked up without realizing it.” The sheriff clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Thanks for the tip on the woman. I’ll be in touch about the fire investigation.” And just like that Jake was dismissed.

Outside the shop, Jake scanned the dark streets, beyond the swirl of emergency lights. Lord, please let them find Kara safe.

He zipped his jacket against the fine rain that had started up again, like the niggling feeling he’d let another woman down this Thanksgiving. Five years ago, his gut had told him to take his wife to the E.R. in case the bleeding wasn’t normal postbirth hemorrhaging. Instead he’d let her sway him into believing she’d be fine.

As he’d done tonight.

He climbed into his truck and slammed the door on the memory. Lord, what is wrong with me? She was obviously in trouble, no matter what she said. Why’d I walk away? Then. Now.

At the sound of Beethoven’s Fifth—the ringtone reserved for his parents—chiming from his hip, he snatched up his phone. “Is Tommy okay?”

“Yes, but we’ll soon be heading to bed ourselves. Wanted to say if you were going to be much later, you might as well just leave him here for the night.”

And face an empty house alone? Not tonight. “I’m on my way now.” There was nothing more he could do here.

With one last glance toward the suspect warming a seat in the back of a cruiser, Jake hiked back to his truck. If his guess was right, and this was the guy Kara had been afraid of, at least she’d be safe now.

The thought didn’t ease the hundred-pound weight parked on his chest. He pulled a U-turn onto the empty street and headed home. He was a firefighter. His job was to put out fires, rescue victims. Chasing after Kara at the scene had been above and beyond. So why did he feel as if he hadn’t done nearly enough?

Glancing at the snapshot pinned to his dashboard, of April cuddling their newborn son, Jake tamped down the urge to go out looking for Kara and leaned on the gas.

A thump sounded in the bed of the pickup. Must’ve missed a firewood log when he’d emptied the couple of cords he’d picked up yesterday. Seemed as if he was missing things left, right and center these days.

If not for wanting to try to catch Kara at the hospital, and hopefully a lead on their arsonist, he never would’ve let the chief of Hadyn’s volunteer crew convince him to leave the rest of the cleanup to them. What if they destroyed key evidence?

The cops didn’t call firefighters evidence destroyers for no reason.

Ten minutes later, he stopped at the intersection leading to his street and clicked on his turn signal. As he touched the gas, a shadowy movement in the rearview mirror caught his attention. He punched the brakes and more than just a thump sounded from the back of his truck bed. That had sounded like a yelp.

He rammed his stick shift into Park, grabbed a crowbar from under the seat and jumped from his truck. He clanked down the tailgate and yanked on the tarp bunched over a hump in the far corner. “Kara?”

She shrank into the corner of the rain-slicked truck bed, drenched and sickly white under the glare of the streetlight.

“What are you doing back here? Get into the cab before you catch your death!” His throat closed on that last order.