I know it now as Burke pulls up to the morning’s carnage in my Camaro—he’s driving—and it’s a good thing because I could barely think enough to put on pants, my soiled dress shirt, grab a suit coat.
Frankly, I only move now because Burke is out of the car and striding ahead, toward Booker, who watches the scene with folded arms.
Burke hasn’t spoken to me since we left my apartment, his question still ringing in my head. How did you know?
I had no answer for him as I walked out of the bathroom, because my only explanation feels pitiful and even irreverent. I dreamed it?
This can’t possibly be a dream.
The pungent odor of burned flesh hazes the air, turning my gut. The smoke bites my eyes, and sirens rend the air. The drizzle of spray coats my neck, and behind the raucousness, I can hear Minneapolis’s finest shouting as they work to douse the fire.
It’s a house turned coffee shop. Why didn’t I remember that? I had all the pieces—the barking dog—not a German shepherd, but a Doberman running the length of the yard across the street, imprisoned behind chain link. And, down the street, an ice cream truck, parked in a driveway. Maybe I imagined the bells ringing.
The house is an old Victorian-turned unique venue. Now, it’s simply a house fire, flames consuming the upstairs windows, the porch collapsing, the front windows blown out. Glass glints orange against the flames.
Smoke blots out the skyline, just the finest edge of sunlight through the black.
I’m without words, caught in the catastrophe, one thought like a fist in my still hammering head. I could have stopped this.
Should have stopped this. Right?
I join Burke, the questions tangled in the chaos of my brain.
“Four dead, one on the way to HCMC,” Booker says without preamble. Hennepin County Medical Center. Two more ambulances are coming, but the only victims remaining are covered in tarps.
Burke glances at me. “This place was on the list.”
I frown, because the last thing I want John Booker to know is, well, everything.
Booker looks at me anyway, frowning. “What list?” He wears a stony, all business expression.
“A list of coffee shops,” I interject before Burke can throw me under the bus. “Possible other targets.”
Booker raises an eyebrow. Frowns.
That’s the moment my gaze falls on his wrist. On his watch. The watch I’m currently wearing. It’s a lightning bolt, right through me. The watch.
The one I’m also wearing. I look at it.
It’s still ticking.
“Rem thought it was going to happen again,” Burke says, the Judas. “And he was right.”
Booker’s frowning at me and I parlay the words into action. “The bomber could be in the crowd, right now, just like last time. We should be looking for a familiar face.”
For the first time, something reasonable appears on Burke’s expression and he doesn’t look like he’d like to pin me to the wall for some questioning. Instead he heads back to the car, and it takes me a second to realize he’s probably going to consult the pictures Eve gave us yesterday.
Booker is still staring at me, however. “Possible other targets? Why?”
“Bombers usually have reasons for their targets. Why a coffee shop? Why this coffee shop? There has to be a connection between these two.” Or three, I think, but I’m keeping that to myself for now.
Booker draws in a breath, then nods. But his gaze lingers on me, as if searching for something. He finally turns away. “Find that reason. Now.”
I hear ticking in my head as I follow Burke to the car. He’s retrieved the pictures now and has them spread out on the hood of the car.
Beyond him, Eve has arrived, her CSI side-kick Silas in tow. She looks tired, her kinky hair pulled back, and she wears no makeup as if she, too, got yanked out of bed.
She’s probably reeling, trying to find her footing, like me.
“We should interview people, see if anyone saw anything,” Burke says as I join him. He glances up at the crowd, as if searching.
Onlookers have assembled, just a handful of them this early in the morning, and God help me, I suddenly don’t remember anything. Did we interview anyone before? Did we track down the employees, cross-reference any of them with the other store? Did we discover commonalities?
Did we suspect that this was all connected? It’s a strange deja vu because I know I’ve been here before, but my memory is liquid.
“You see anyone watching?” Burke says, his voice cut low.
I glance at the pictures, casually, then scan the growing crowd. This area of town is rife with young professionals, many on bicycles, a few standing at the bus station. Neighbors congregate on porches, at the doors of their homes. A few cars have drivers standing with their doors open.
I’m going to need help.
I find Eve, still struck by the scene, judging by the look on her pale face.
“We need crowd pictures. Lots of them.”
She turns, her eyes wide. My tone is dark, brusque, but this is no longer a what-if.
“Now.”
She frowns, and I know that face. The one I get when I’ve pushed her, when she’s debating a retort. But we don’t have time for feelings, not when the suspect could be vanishing into the crowd.
I feel the passionate, darkly focused Rembrandt I’ve left behind working his way to the surface.
Good. Frankly, I need him.
“Right.” She has her camera and she starts snapping shots, along with Silas.
I return to Burke. He’s interviewed a couple spectators, written down names, and now he’s leaning against the car, staring at the crowd, then back at the pictures, comparing.
“Anything?”
He glares at me, his eyes dark.
“Tell me, right now, that you don’t know anything about this,” he says, low and nearly under his breath. But his tone contains enough of an edge that it leaves a mark.
“Of course not. I told you, it was—is—a hunch.”
He nods then and holds up a picture to the crowd assembled behind the
