accept, only recently discovering that it didn’t sit well with her. She hated feeling useless, but the truth was, her skills and training couldn’t help the living victims. Her and Tully’s expertise wasn’t needed until the victims were dead and could no longer tell their stories.
She knew Tully was right on both counts. She did need a paramedic. If she didn’t have someone give her the all-clear signal, she’d have to put up with those damned looks of concern. So she stayed put.
Chaos surrounded them and an inferno roared on two sides. Rescuers stomped and yelled while they hauled equipment that lurched and whined. They pushed and shoved their way through. Some of the bystanders stood paralyzed and watched. And in the midst of the chaos, not fifty feet away, Cole and the camerawoman appeared totally unfazed by it all.
“This is Jeffery Cole,” Maggie heard him say into the lens, “reporting live.” He looked remarkably calm.
CHAPTER 11
VIRGINIA
Patrick Murphy had lost track of how many hours he’d gone without sleep,
That appeared to be true physically, too. He thought his body was well toned from a daily punishment of weights and two miles pounding the pavement, yet each time he returned from an assignment his muscles screamed at him in places on his body he had taken for granted.
Despite the aches and pains, he’d gladly get back on a fire truck for another assignment rather than be here, sitting in the luxurious lobby of corporate headquarters waiting to be reprimanded by his boss, whom he’d never met.
Patrick poked a finger into his collar, hoping to relieve the stranglehold. He’d also prefer wearing seventy-five pounds of gear rather than a suit and tie.
He checked his wristwatch. It probably cost more than a semester of tuition. It had been a signing bonus. Maybe they’d ask for it back. What was taking so long? Yet, according to the Swiss precision, it had been only eleven minutes.
At least Maggie hadn’t come back to the house before he had left. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain where he was going. Not that he had to. Their arrangement was more like roommates than siblings. They had to get to know each other, learn their quirks and pet peeves. Patrick had been on his own for a long time, even growing up. His mom had worked two jobs, leaving Patrick to fend for himself since he was the legal age to be left alone. Total latchkey kid.
She was a good mom, still was. And he understood she did what she did for both of them. As a result he’d grown up a bit sooner than his peers. While his friends were playing video games after school, Patrick sorted laundry and fixed grilled cheese for another dinner alone. He never minded. He liked that it had made him independent. And he knew all kinds of stuff that other guys his age didn’t have a clue about. His mom called him an “old soul,” and recently told him she regretted that she hadn’t given him a chance to be a boy.
Maggie told him she had also been on her own since she was twelve, but Patrick saw in her eyes and heard in her voice a sadness that told him it wasn’t the same.
She’d been great so far about his staying with her. Earlier this morning he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had conked him over the head. It was totally rude not to let her know before he came barging in, especially during the middle of the night. He’d been too upset to even think, yet he had told her they finished their assignment early like it was no big deal. Like it was true.
Instead, he had been sent home early and was probably lucky he hadn’t been fired on the spot.
“Mr. Murphy.” The receptionist’s voice was so soft and quiet Patrick wondered if she had called to him before and he just hadn’t heard.
He started to stand. Stopped. Corrected himself and, despite a bad case of the nerves, managed to make his eagerness look like a scoot to attention, to the edge of his seat.
“Mr. Braxton can see you now.” She smiled and nodded at the door to his right.
Then she swiveled to pick up a ringing phone while Patrick stared at her, expecting further instructions.
He stood and waited a second. The door was closed. Was he supposed to knock? But her eyes were back on the computer while she talked into the phone. Even her attention was not coming back to him. After his mistake of not warning Maggie of his presence and since he was already in hot water, he chose to knock.
“Come on in,” a voice with a Southern drawl answered.
The voice and the man who stood beside the sleek iron and glass-top desk were nothing like Patrick expected. The bank of floor-to-ceiling windows showed treetops and blue sky, and Braxton looked like he was posing for a photo with one of those fake too-good-to-be-true backdrops.
The mountain of a man with a sprinkle of silver in his hair offered Patrick a beefy hand. “You must be Murphy.”
The unexpected grip crushed Patrick’s hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m golfing in an hour, so you’ll have to excuse my attire.” The Southern accent made “attire” sound like two words, “a tire.” “My wife buys these shirts for me with the little polo player on them.”
The knit shirt was bright blue, the khakis well pressed. The tops of the leather moccasins were well polished.
“Guess she’s always hoping she can make this ol’ boy look fashionable.” Again, “fashionable” was drawn out into separate words. He gave Patrick an easy, genuine smile as he waved him to take a seat in front of his desk. “You married, son?”
The question disarmed Patrick, though he tried to conceal that. “No, sir.”
This wasn’t anywhere near the conversation he’d had going through his mind all morning.
“When you find the right one, son, don’t let her go.”
Braxton’s eyes were on the framed picture that took up the left front corner of his desk’s pristine glass top. The woman looked young and small compared to her husband, tanned, with lean arms and friendly crinkles at her eyes. Both of them wore khakis and polo shirts, hers pink, his a different version of today’s blue.
Patrick had no clue what the correct response was, so he simply said, “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”
This time Braxton’s eyes found Patrick’s and held them. “You be sure and do that, son.” But the playfulness had been replaced with something sober. There was almost a sad tinge to his voice. “Hands down, that’s the best advice I can give anyone. You find a good thing, don’t let go.”
Not hesitating, he tapped his index finger on the one file folder on his desk. “Well then, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said as he opened it.
Patrick’s palms began to sweat. Was it possible the man didn’t know yet why he was meeting with him? He realized he was holding his breath as he watched Braxton slip on reading glasses and start to thumb through the contents.
“Master’s degree in fire science,” Braxton said without looking up. “Impressive.”
This wasn’t supposed to be a job interview. Patrick already had the job. The question was, Would he be allowed to keep it? Or did his background somehow help plan his punishment? Perhaps Braxton had decided to go easy on Patrick because he knew how serious he was about being a professional firefighter. The man had to have already looked over his file, didn’t he?
“Worked your way through college as a bartender. Even volunteered for a community fire station. Very admirable.”
Patrick eased his back into the chair, relaxing a bit from being on the edge. He set his sweaty palms on his thighs. All those extra hours and all-nighters would finally pay off. Someone finally saw the value. He could breathe again and had to stop an almost audible sigh of relief.
“You must want to be a firefighter pretty bad?” Braxton looked up, gave him a tight smile.
“Yes, sir.”
Patrick had relaxed just enough that he didn’t see the undercut coming.
