Wind brushed against the nape of her neck. She whirled, as a large figure loomed. Two hands landed on her back and shoved.
Pain erupted along her shoulder and hip as she tumbled down the stairs. Objects whipped by in a blur. Landing in a heap at the bottom, her head rapped against the cement floor. Stars exploded across her vision.
From a distance, the door above her slammed shut. Megan moaned. She put a shaking hand to her head. Blood, warm and slick, coated her palm.
Move.
Urgency cut through her shock. She rose onto her knees, using the wall for support. The bumpy cement bit into her hand. A black object lay a short distance away.
Her phone.
On hands and knees, Megan crawled forward. The pain in her hip made her whimper. She hoped it was just bruised and not broken. The phone swam before her eyes, and she shook her head to clear her vision. She unlocked it and the screen glowed. Megan called 911, but nothing happened. The reception bars were nonexistent.
Above her, there were scraping sounds. What was he doing? Did he assume the fall alone would kill her, or would he come down to finish the job? She needed to move to a more strategic position.
Megan struggled to her feet. The bulb above her provided enough illumination so there weren’t shadows in the corners. She turned, looking for a place to hide, and gasped. The entire far wall was covered in paper. Megan took a shaky step forward and instantly recognized the face in the crime-scene photograph. Franny Dickerson. From the extent of her aunt’s notes, June’s investigation was far bigger, far more complex than Megan could’ve imagined.
A giant whoosh came from above. Megan’s attention shot to the door. Her heart stuttered and the hand holding the phone trembled.
Was that…was that an explosion?
Black smoke seeped into the basement through the cracks in the door like an ominous fog answering her silent question. Panic welled in her chest. Megan hobbled up the stairs. She slipped and rammed her knee on a step. Clutching the banister for support, she kept moving.
The smoke attacked her. It burned her lungs. Coughing, she lifted her shirt, stretching it over her nose and mouth. She blindly reached for the door and felt the heat of the fire through the wood. The handle burned her fingers when she twisted it. Nothing happened.
She backed up a few steps. Desperate, Megan rammed herself against the door. The wood vibrated under her shoulder but didn’t give.
Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her as much as the smoke. The need for oxygen forced her back. She stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, dropped to her knees on the cement floor and sucked in a few breaths. She searched the room for something to pry open the door, even as a bigger part of her knew it was hopeless. The earlier scraping sounds suddenly made sense. Something had been pushed in front of the basement door.
A sob rose in her chest as hysteria threatened to take hold. Megan knew she should pray, but God seemed so far away. With everything she’d been through—from her parents’ death to the attack on June—she was certain He didn’t listen to her anymore.
The Lord helps those that help themselves.
Her aunt’s saying filtered through her mind as if June was right there, whispering it in her ear. Megan shoved her terror away and willed herself to focus. Finding a way out needed all her energy.
She unlocked her phone. It flickered on before going dark. Her fingers trembled as she tried again. The screen lit up. But for how long?
Phone calls wouldn’t go through, but maybe something else would work. Pulling up the text messages, she typed one out. It was garbled, the cracked screen and damaged phone making it nearly impossible. She could only hope Luke would understand.
At the top of the stairs, she hit send. The smoke was as thick as gravy and her lungs seized. Megan sputtered and coughed, the need for fresh air sending her back down the basement stairs.
This time when she tried to unlock her phone, it didn’t work.
The screen stayed black.
Luke hung up the phone with Grady, his breakfast sitting like lump of coal in his stomach. The forensic team couldn’t determine June’s accident was caused by foul play, but he knew it was.
“I don’t understand why you think it’s a murder attempt.” Weston leaned against the counter. “June could’ve accidentally put steering fluid in her brake line causing them to fail. People have done it before.”
“That’s what someone wants us to believe.” Luke settled his hat on his head and grabbed his keys from the peg by the door. “But June was a plane mechanic in the Air Force. I’ve seen her fix tractors and pull apart engines. She never would’ve put steering fluid in her brake line.”
Weston’s mouth opened, but Luke’s phone beeped with an incoming message, cutting him off. He glanced down at the screen to find a garbled text from Megan. Not much made sense except for two words. Help and fire.
“Megan’s in trouble.”
Luke bolted for his vehicle. Weston’s boots pounded against the concrete behind him. They jumped in the Suburban, and he shoved his key in the ignition.
“Call in to dispatch.” Luke peeled out onto the street, his pulse beating a rapid tempo. “Tell them there’s a fire at 124 Hickory Lane.”
“How far out are we?”
“Three minutes.”
Luke flipped on lights and siren while pushing the accelerator to the floor. Three minutes. It might as well be an eternity.
Hold on, Megs.
Horrific scenarios flickered like a movie in his head. He’d seen what fire did to a person, how it killed. Once, during his days as a trooper, he’d been called out to assist with a three-car pileup. One of the vehicles caught fire and went up in a flash before he or anyone else could render aid. The screams of the man inside still haunted his nightmares.
No. He willed the image
