I shrug. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“No, it’s not.”
I sense there’s something more, something he’s keeping back, something I’m not going to like. “I can tell you’re holding out on me, Izzy. So, give me the rest of it. What’s the catch?”
“Well, with the new setup you will be working directly with the homicide detectives, not only in the collection of evidence, but with the subsequent investigation. All evidence must be collected, stored, and signed off on by both the detective on the case and someone from our office. Same thing with any investigative reports.”
Hmm, more time with Hurley. This doesn’t seem like a bad thing at all. But before I can breathe a sigh of relief, Izzy drops the other shoe.
“But because of the corruption problems, it also means there can be no hint whatsoever of any conflict-of- interest issues. That means absolutely no fraternizing.” He pauses and stares at me with a regretful look, waiting for me to make the connection. I do so, with a groan.
“Are you telling me that if I want to keep my job, I can’t have a relationship with Hurley outside of our working one?”
“Yes. Sorry. It was dicey enough before this, but once the new system is in place, it will be imperative that everyone remain above suspicion.”
“Damn!” I punctuate this comment by pounding my fist on the table and it startles Hoover, who sits up and looks around with a wary expression, a low growl emanating from his throat. “Sorry,” I mutter. Then I give Hoover a reassuring pat on the head. “It’s okay, boy. Settle down.”
Hoover goes back into sentry mode as Dom enters the room wearing a full apron and carrying a baking dish full of eggplant Parmesan. The heat of cooking has curled the ends of his auburn hair and put a rosy flush in his cheeks. He looks very feminine and utterly adorable.
“Hey, Mattie,” he says with a smile. He sets the baking dish atop a trivet in the center of the table and then pulls his hands away with great flourish. “Dig in. I’ll be right back with the salad and bread.”
“Let’s eat and we can talk more about this at the office tomorrow,” Izzy says.
I manage to get through both dinner and dessert without looking or acting as upset as I feel. And my emotional state isn’t just because the government has put an unwitting damper on my future love life. I’m also more concerned than ever about my current situation with Hurley. The partnership, no fraternizing thing is bad enough. But if it’s hoped that this new arrangement will somehow halt police misconduct, my clandestine activities with Hurley aren’t going to look very good if anyone finds out. My job is more at risk now than ever.
I shove my concerns to the back of my mind and focus on the meal. Fortunately our dinner discussion centers on Dom and Izzy’s Thanksgiving plans, which include an invitation to Dom’s family’s house, which is in Iowa and a four-hour drive away, and another dinner invite to the assisted-living facility where Izzy’s mother, Sylvie, lives. Unfortunately Sylvie isn’t too crazy about the fact that her son is gay and as a result, only Izzy is invited to this latter function. Dom wants to spend the day at home, ignoring both invitations, but Izzy feels obligated to spend some time with his mother. I spend most of the meal playing mediator as the two of them argue.
By the time dinner is finished, they have decided to drive down to Dom’s family the night before, spend the night and have brunch there on Thanksgiving Day, then drive back to Sorenson so Izzy can have dinner with his mother. They will rejoin at home for dessert. Hints of a similar dilemma during the upcoming Christmas holiday are raised during dessert, but I manage to escape before it turns into a major skirmish.
Hoover and I head home, both of us well-sated. I caught Dom slipping treats to Hoover several times over the course of the evening, everything from garlic bread crusts to a chunk of eggplant Parmesan. I curl up on the couch and watch TV for an hour or so—Hoover seems quite intrigued by the tiny human creatures in the big black box—before deciding it’s time for bed. Though I feel exhausted, it takes me well over an hour to fall asleep because my mind is so busy digesting the ramifications of my current situation and the upcoming job changes.
My stomach is pretty busy too, digesting the remnants of Dom’s meal. The rumbles and gurgles emanating from my GI tract make Hoover go on growl alert several times, though he calms with my shushing. But just as I finally fall asleep, he starts barking and no amount of reassurance, chastising or shushing will stop him. In fact, the harder I try to make him be quiet, the louder and more incessant his barks become. When he starts running back and forth between the bedroom and the front door, I start to wonder if all the crap he ate over at Dom and Izzy’s place has upset his bowels.
“Aw, come on, Hoover,” I moan. “Can’t you hold it until morning?”
Resigned to getting up, I throw back the covers and shuffle my way to the door. When I open it, he dashes out, still barking, and stops a few feet away, facing into the woods that lie between my old house and Izzy’s. It’s then I notice the fur along his back has raised itself into a ridge, making me wonder if there is some critter in the woods that has him riled up.
I walk out onto the porch and peer into the trees, expecting to see a dark void. Instead the woods are aglow and I realize there is a strong smell of smoke in the air. Barefoot, wearing only my flannel pajamas, I step off the porch and make my way closer to the woods. Hoover charges ahead of me, still barking like crazy. It only takes me a few steps to realize what the source of both the glow and the smell are.
My old house, the one David still lives in, is on fire.
Chapter 22
I run back into the cottage with Hoover barking excitedly at my heels, grab my cell phone, and dial 911. While waiting for the 911 operator to answer, I dash over to Izzy and Dom’s house and pound on their back door.
“Dom! Izzy! There’s a fire!”
When I see a light come on in their bedroom window, I set off running through the woods, still barefoot and dressed in my jammies. After four rings the 911 operator answers.
“911 operator, do you have an emergency?”
“My house is on fire!” I yell into the phone. I rattle off the address and then add, “I don’t know if there’s anyone inside or not. Please hurry!”
My foot catches on a tree root and I go sprawling headlong onto the ground. The phone flies from my hand and I’m momentarily stunned as all the wind is knocked out of me. By the time I pick myself up I can’t see the phone anywhere, so I leave it behind and continue my run.
By the time Hoover and I reach the house, there are flames licking out broken front windows and running up the side of the house to the roof on the side closest to me. I skirt them and dash over to the garage, peering inside the window.
David’s car is there, which means he most likely is, too. I holler out his name several times but the only thing I hear back is the snap-crackle of the fire. There is steamy smoke coming off the wooden front door so I avoid it and dash around to the back of the house, Hoover at my heels barking out the alarm. Scrambling up the deck stairs, I glance in the kitchen window and see that this part of the house is untouched, though I can see the orange glow of the fire down the hallway. I try the back door, but it’s locked and I curse the fact that I didn’t think to bring my key. I still have one even though I haven’t used it since I moved out, and I debate running back to the cottage to get it. But even as I consider this, the orange glow grows brighter, taunting me, and making me realize that time is of the utmost importance. The front stairs are probably inaccessible already, but there are back stairs off the kitchen and so far the fire hasn’t reached this part of the house. By the time I can run back and get my key, it may be too late.
Given the hour and the fact that the house is darkened, I assume David is sleeping. After years of pulling on- call duty he tends to be a very light sleeper, and the fact that he isn’t already awake and out of the house makes me wonder if he’s taken one of the sleeping pills he uses on his off days to help him sleep better. Unfortunately, they also make it harder for him to wake up. If he isn’t already unconscious from smoke inhalation, he soon will be.
Several thoughts race through my mind. Though the fire station isn’t that far away, I can’t hear any sirens approaching yet; our fire department is all volunteers, and the firefighters answer the night calls from their homes, slightly lengthening their response time. I pray the 911 operator got all the info I gave her before I lost the phone,
