23
JAXON
Danny's big SUV rumbles past, driving over hoses and power cords still stretched out. I lean against the side of the truck and rub soot from my face with the hem of my T-shirt—the only thing not totally black on me, because I wore a flannel most of the night.
I stink, and I'm exhausted. Helping fight a fire and move materials away from it so we didn't lose everything took a lot out of me. Dad gave up hours ago and went home so devastated. I can't blame him. Hit after hit after hit, and it feels like we're pounding our head against a brick wall.
"Tough night, huh," Mike says, taking off his hard hat. He tucks it under his elbow and mops his own forehead with a dirty shop rag.
"That's one word for it." I spit black onto the gravel and wipe my mouth. My throat is raw from breathing smoke for the better part of six hours. And I don't have a muscle in my body that isn't sore.
Russ is across the lot coiling hose with one of the volunteer guys, and they're moving slowly. The adrenaline has drained out of their systems and all that's left is the weight of what just happened. No one can believe how this place went up in smoke so quickly, but I heard one of the firefighters mention something about an accelerant. They think this might be arson.
Mike leans against the truck beside me and we stand there for a minute watching the last of the crew clean up. The new construction is gutted on the inside. The walls held but the roof came down in sections. But it doesn't matter that part of it survived. The whole thing is a total loss. Weeks of work just gone.
"Your old man doing okay?" Mike asks.
"He will be." I don't know if that's true. Dad was sitting on the curb with his head in his hands when one of the volunteers loaded him into a truck around two in the morning. He looked like a man watching his whole world burn up, and I don't think he can take a single thing more. I feel sad for him and furious at whoever did this because if the fire team thinks it was arson, so do I.
"Get some sleep, Jax. You look like hell." Mike pushes off the truck and walks toward Russ who finishes with the hose and shakes Mike's hand.
These men are better than me. They are so at peace, not letting the anger get to them. But to them it's just a job site, another day, another dollar. To me and my dad, it's our livelihood. If shit like this keeps happening, Cole and Son's will go belly up at twice the rate. As it is, with Langford breathing down our necks, we're barely making it.
But there's nothing I can do, and I'm too tired to stand here any longer. I climb into the truck and dig the charger out of the glove box to plug my phone in. It's been dead since midnight, so it takes a second to respond. The battery icon blinks red for a while before the screen finally comes up.
I start the truck while I wait for it to get a bit of charge, and when the messages and calls start coming in, I get more and more concerned by the second. I've missed at least seven calls from Emily this morning and several messages, all of which grow progressively more intense until the last one, sent just fifteen minutes ago.
Emily: 8:12 AM: I really needed you today and you weren't there. Again. Don't bother calling me back.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark, thumb frozen over the power button like I could somehow undo the last ten hours. Emily’s final text burns behind my ribcage like I've been stabbed in the chest. I know she couldn’t possibly know what I was doing, but hearing her be so dismissive without any information is hurtful. It means something has happened and she feels I should've done better.
I rub my face, feeling fresh grit smear across my cheek, and try to push past the bone-deep exhaustion. The fire took everything I had—hours of hauling lumber, watching Dad crumble, the sick smell of accelerant hanging in the air. But missing Emily’s calls feels like a separate wound. I should’ve found five damn minutes to check my phone and now all I’ve got are guilt and a sick feeling that I've set us back again.
Sleep can wait. I need to see her.
I swing out toward the bakery first. Ten minutes, tops. Maybe I can grab her favorite latte, explain the night from hell, and start fixing whatever broke between us through those messages.
The morning sun cuts across the dash, making my eyes sting after hours in the dark. I roll the window down, letting cool air wash over me and whip away some of the acrid smoke stench that still clings to me. I'm covered in soot, but it'll go a long way toward explaining what I was doing at least.
I pull up to the bakery expecting the usual warmth—chalkboard specials, steam on the windows, Emily moving behind the counter in that blue apron she loves. Instead, the door is locked tight, and a big white sign is taped dead center on the glass written in bold red letters that feel like another slap.
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE BY ORDER OF THE NORTH CAROLINA STATE DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH
I sit there with the engine running, staring in disbelief. The bakery looks hollow—chairs stacked on tables, lights off, no golden glow from the ovens.
The inspections were today, which I remember vaguely as I kill the engine and climb out on stiff, sore legs. I cup my hands against the glass and peer inside. Something must've gone wrong, but I swear Dan and Russ said they did things right. I never double checked, but I'm not their boss. Mike is, and if he signed off, it means things should've passed.
Tension throbs through my chest as I rub my sternum and grit my teeth. If Langford fucked with things again I'll kill him myself. This is bullshit. Shut down? For what?
I can't do anything but bang on the door and glare at my reflection on the window. This place should’ve passed with flying colors, and I have no clue what went wrong. Anything could've happened. If Langford can force a surprise inspection, he can pull other stupid shit. And knowing what I know about him now, I wouldn’t put it past him.
When Emily doesn't come to the door, I assume she's not here and get back in the truck. Her parents' house across town is my next stop. I didn't even ask her where she lives now, but I know Tom and Susan will know.
I park behind his old Ford and cut the engine. My body protests as I slide out of the truck and walk up to the porch. Every muscle screams, and my conscience warns me it's early to be knocking, but I can't turn around now. If Emily is upset I wasn’t there, she'd be even more upset if she knew I found out and waited longer just to check in.
When the door swings open, Tom steps out, closing it softly behind him, coffee mug in hand and a cold expression on his face. “Jaxon.” Normally, Tom is a reasonable man, but this morning, he looks more fatherly than friendly. I suppose she's told them all about how I failed her.
“Tom. I saw the bakery. Is Emily okay? I got her messages late—there was a fire at the site and I was out late… My phone died and?—"
