Once inside my place, I slam the door shut and tear the place apart, counting the seconds in my head. I reasoned on the way up and gave myself forty seconds to search. Less than a minute but doable and safe.

Ten seconds . . . no pearls on the coffee table or under the cushions.

Twenty . . . not in the kitchen, where I opened the wine.

I skid around the corner to the bedroom, eyes bouncing over textbooks on my desk, clothes on the bed. Nothing. Frustration washes over me, mixed heavily with fear.

Thirty . . . smoke dances around me as I hit the bathroom, kicking open the door, fumbling through lotions, perfumes, and makeup. After jerking out a washcloth, I use it to cover my mouth. It’s fine, it’s fine. I have good lungs. I’m a runner. Just . . . Nana. She died after Dad, and nothing was ever the same. And she wore them every day. She loved them; she touched them. I wasn’t her favorite—Elena was—but she did love me.

Forty . . . I jerk back from the room and run to the door and stare at the smoke rushing in like a tidal wave from underneath. My eyes water as I cough. Can’t go that way now. Don’t know what’s waiting for me. Could be flames. Could be smoke gets me before I get down the stairs. Nausea sits in my stomach like a thick wad of concrete.

Backpack in hand, I stride to the bedroom; snatch my laptop, phone, and purse; and shove them inside and run back to the kitchen, my frantic hand already working the window latch next to the small table. Off in the distance, I hear the blare of fire trucks, see the flash of red and white lights.

Rain drenches me, a bolt of lightning crossing the sky as I swing my legs over the ledge to the barely there balcony and stare down at the concrete below. Perfect, let’s add electricity to the mix while I get on a metal ladder. I look over the edge. Forty-five feet, I estimate in my head quickly. “Not afraid,” I mutter.

Water pelts me from the sky as I sling the backpack on my shoulders, then unhook and push the metal ladder, listening to it clatter down, screeching and groaning. It’s rusty, but I know it works. A girl like me has a plan. The day I moved in, I was checking the exits.

Fear zips down my spine as I take the first wobbly steps, my grip tight as I concentrate on staring at each brick I pass.

Forty-five feet. I can do it.

Grip of death on the ladder. Move foot down. Repeat.

Wind buffets me, tugging at me, and the grasp of my right hand slips. My left pulls me back just as fast, but I take a minute to take deep gulps of air and get my heart under control. At least the air is fresh. I adjust the backpack and start again. Dimly, about halfway down, I’m aware of my name drifting up from the chaos, a roar of a sound layered in under the rain and sirens, but I don’t look, just keep going. I’m on the side of the building next to the street, so I can’t see who’s at the front, where firemen shout orders. Out of the corner of my eye, an ambulance flashes past. That’s normal, I tell myself. They always come when the fire truck is called.

I reach the top of the first floor and freeze at the huge floor-to-ceiling window that Myrtle loves, the antique glass old and wavy. Flames flicker and lick from the basement door just a few feet away, crackling and dancing. Smoke hovers thick and black, billowing like a monster down the hall. At the end is the stairwell, although I can’t see the door.

I drop down off the last rung and sprint down the alley and circle to the front.

“Myrtle!” I call as a paramedic puts her on a stretcher. What happened to her? She got out! How long was I . . .

Guilt slams into me, and I bend over to catch my breath at the street, gasping for air, some of the adrenaline dropping. I made it, I made it. But if she’s hurt—

My gaze scans the scene, past the red trucks, and every thought stops at the man I see.

What’s he doing here?

“Devon!” I scream over the melee, at the men who are holding him back from the entrance.

It feels like a million seconds before he flips around, his wild eyes zeroing in on mine. Then he’s turning and walking—no, running, running so fast, like I’ve seen him on TV, only . . .

Strong hands land on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. His normally tan face is white, his mouth pulled back in a snarl.

I lick my lips, gasping for air. “We . . . really . . . need to . . . stop . . . meeting like this—”

He jerks me to him, growls, and kisses me.

Chapter 5

GISELLE

“I’m fine,” I tell the paramedic who made me sit on a bench across the street from the building a few minutes ago.

She shines another light in my eyes. “You didn’t hit your head? Fall? No dizziness, nausea, coughing?” Her businesslike tone is calming, but nothing stills the jackhammer in my chest.

“One cough.” I take in the pacing man behind her, the one who’s currently sending me looks that say, I plan to kill you as soon as I know you’re okay. Not able to hold his eyes, I inhale more air and check out the firemen scurrying around the building. The fire is out, but smoke spills from the windows. God, it happened so fast.

“Her ankle is swollen,” Devon barks, and I flick my eyes down at the ugly yellow bruise on the outside of my right foot.

The paramedic looks at my ankle.

I wince. “Oh. I fell down the stairs to get to Myrtle. It doesn’t hurt, just a little sprain . . .”

“You should have come out with her!” Devon rakes a hand through his hair. Another tell that he’s upset. He’s said this only a hundred times since the moment he grabbed me.

The paramedic turns around and asks him to take a few steps back. He heaves in a great breath and paces off.

I tear my eyes off him and press my hand to my chest. My heart still hasn’t slowed, teetering on exploding.

After checking out my ankle, the paramedic rises and tells me what I already know, that it’s fine and just needs some ice and for me to go easy on it. She’s been sweet, especially since I refused to let her look me over until I talked to my best friend. Myrtle’s okay, I keep telling myself. Before she left in the ambulance, she patted me on the cheek and assured me she only twisted her knee on the last step of the stoop. Worry knots my stomach. She’s frail. Ugh. And John’s cat jumped out of his arms and ran away as soon as he came out. We’ll find his cat. I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do.

John left in the same ambulance with Myrtle, his complexion gray as he held an oxygen mask to his face. Welcome to the neighborhood, new guy. Normally, it’s not on fire.

A whine comes from my lap, and I smooth a hand over the Yorkie left with me. “Shh,” I croon. “It’s over now, sweet Pookie. Your mama is fine.”

“I can hold the dog at least,” Devon says, walking over from where he was pacing. He seems to have calmed down, and the paramedic nods, giving him permission as he takes the shivering animal. I frown, half expecting her to nip at him, but she takes one look at him and stuffs her nose right in the bend of his elbow. I give up. He’s irresistible to all females.

With a final searching look at me, as if looking for other injuries, he marches over to a group of firemen huddled near the building, ignoring the yellow tape someone has already put up. Just shoulders his way in and starts asking questions. They don’t seem to mind. Must be nice to be famous.

I catch snatches of conversation. The fire was localized in the basement. Structural damage is widespread. Fire marshal is en route to assess. Yes, a crew will be out to board up the busted windows and door so looters don’t get in. We need approval to get inside once the tape is up. My eyes go up to the third floor. Did my stuff get wet? No doubt it reeks of smoke. At least the rain has stopped, the cool air rolling in.