“Cool,” he says. “Then if the tones drop, try not to make me look bad.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me. Almost.
Then the tones do drop.
Sharp. Loud. Immediate.
The sound cuts through the station and slices every thought in half.
I’m already moving before dispatch finishes the first sentence.
“Structure fire. Carrington House Inn. Caller reports active flame at rear of property.”
Everything in me shrinks. No more dayroom. No more stale coffee. No more Mom and hydration and Beckett pretending concern is a joke. Just movement.
I’m off the couch and into the hall in one stride. Beckett is already ahead of me. Ray comes out of the kitchen at a dead run. Mac’s office door bangs open.
“Move,” he says.
We do. Bunker pants. Coat. Gloves. Helmet. My body takes over. My hands know the sequence. Strap. Buckle. Pull. Secure. My mind catches up in pieces.
Carrington House Inn.
The old place at the edge of the historic district. Big structure. Aging roofline. Detached carriage building at the rear, if I remember right. Enough dry overgrowth to matter if the fire reaches it.
The engine roars to life beneath us. Mac drives, and I climb into the passenger seat, and the truck surges forward, bay doors opening to spill us into the night. Siren tears through the quiet town.
Dispatch crackles through the radio. “Caller still on scene. Female. Attempting to contain with hose. States fire is threatening to spread toward the main house.”
That hits something in me hard enough that my jaw tightens before I can stop it. Ray hears it too. I know by the way his eyes flick up from checking his straps.
Mac keys the radio. “Advise caller to back away from the structure immediately.”
A pause. “Caller states she’s trying to keep it from reaching the house.”
Beckett mutters, “Of course she is.”
I’m already looking through the windshield, willing the road to be shorter . Coral Bell Cove at night feels different from how it does during the day. Smaller. Quieter. More intimate somehow. Porch lights glow warm in windows. Cars are fewer. The town folds in on itself. The roads belong to the people who know them. We cut through the center fast, storefronts dark and locked, the marina lights glinting low to our right. Main Street gives way to older stretches of road lined with thick hedges, wide porches, and old live oaks.
Smoke appears before the property does. Darker than a brushfire. Heavier. More anchored. Then flame. Not towering. Not fully out of control. Enough to matter.
Carrington House rises ahead of us, broad and old and dim in the dark. The front porch sits in shadow while the rear side throws off an ugly wash of orange. The place is bigger than I expected , even in the middle of the call. Four-square bones. Tall windows. Deep porch. Historic and vulnerable in a way newer structures aren’t.
Mac brings us in hot and controlled, tires kicking gravel. I’m out before the engine fully settles.
“Rear side!” Mac shouts. I run.
Around the left edge of the house, my boots pound over uneven ground, and smoke hits my lungs before I see the full shape of the fire.
The carriage house—or what’s left of it—is taking the worst of the burn. Flame has crawled up one side and into thebroken roofline, and brush stacked too close is feeding the edges. Sparks lift into the air and get carried sideways on the wind toward the main house.
And standing too close to all of it— Her. Garden hose in both hands, feet planted in dirt and dead grass, hair coming loose around her face, aiming a weak stream of water toward a fire far too stubborn to care.
“Ma’am!” I shout. “Move away from it!”
She turns. And for one brief, ridiculous second, the whole scene seems to sharpen around her. Dirt streaked across one cheek. Tank top damp through one shoulder from splashback. Eyes fixed and furious and fully locked in on what’s burning.
She doesn’t look panicked. She looks determined enough to make bad choices. Lark Carrington isn’t the kind of woman you save. She’s the kind who makes you want to be better before you even touch her.
