Page 2 of When the Smoke Clears

“Nah. He’s very welcoming. And it’s fire season, so he’s not home as much.”

I don’t make direct eye contact. She’s probably a human lie detector. Calvin Fitzgerald (Fitz) is not welcoming, but I’ll let Jamie and him work that out. However, he is a busy Missoula Smoke Jumper, so it’s only half a lie. After I turn and take several steps, Everleigh says my name, and I sigh before pivoting toward her again.

“I can’t thank you now,” she says, “because I’m upset about Marie Curie, but I’ll come around and find it in me to properly thank you. I know I’m overreacting, but this is”—she sniffles, staring at the rubble—“a lot.”

“Don’t sweat it. I just did my job.” Again I turn and make it two steps closer to the rig and my crew waiting for me before she clears her throat.

“I hope it wasn’t arson. A troubled patient. I know statistically it’s an error on my part. I don’t smoke, so it wasn’t a cigarette. It’s unlikely that I left the stove or oven on because I usually order take-out food, and when I do cook, I use the microwave or my toaster oven. Do you think it was an overloaded power strip? Dryer vent? I put a load of towels into the dryer before I left for dinner.”

“Coming, Lieutenant?” one of my guys calls.

“Everleigh, I have to—”

“Sometimes I leave my hair dryer plugged in. Do you think that could have been it?” She squints, studying the ruins of her house.

“The investigators will figure it out. I need to—” I jab a thumb over my shoulder.

“What about my robot vacuum? Have you seen those cause fires?” She slowly shakes her head again, blotting a few tears. “My whole life was in there. I need to rebuild a sense of safety and control. There will be feelings of loss and grief. Maybe even guilt. Yes, it’s all just stuff, except”—she swallows hard—“Marie Curie. And the stuff isn’t important, but it was a connection to my identity.” She clears her throat, nodding several times while trying to regain her composure. “It’s okay to grieve material things. It doesn’t make me materialistic.”

Do I need to be here while Dr. Everleigh Reichart, psychiatrist, self-treats her way through this trauma?

“Everleigh, oh my goodness. Dear, I’m so sorry.” A woman with curly gray hair and a red cardigan opens her arms while rushing across the street to embrace the good doctor.

My work here is done. Thank god.

And now, I await the call.

Chapter Two

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The next morning, I get the call from Fitz as I pack my duffel bag for the two-hour drive north to Somers, Montana. The bag is old and worn and still smells like the bottle of citronella bug spray that leaked on a camping trip a few years ago.

“My dad is sick, and he fell, so I’m taking a few weeks of family leave to be with him and my mom,” I say, but not to make him feel like a dick. I’m just protecting myself from the fallout of suggesting Everleigh stay with them.

“Shit,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry, man. What happened?”

“I’m not sure yet. My mom was vague. Something about rapid mental decline. He’s in the hospital, and my mom is beside herself. My sister can’t take any more time off work since she just spent three months on maternity leave. But yeah, it sucks that Dr. Reichart lost her home. I’m sure she’s eternally grateful for good friends like you and Jamie.”

Fitz mumbles something inaudible. I think there’s a goddamn and a fuck involved.

“It’s for a few nights. I bet she’ll have a new place before you know it. She’s not hurting for money. And there are at least three other houses on the same street with For Sale signs in their yards. Hell, if my dad’s health continues to decline, my house will be on the market too. I might have to look for a job closer to them so I can help him and be there for my mom.”

“That’s messed up, man. It’s one thing to no longer be your roommate. It’s another to no longer live in the same town together,” Fitz says. “When they moved back to Montana, why did they have to live in Somers instead of Missoula?”

I toss half a dozen socks into the bag atop my bed. “Well, that’s easy. A lake home on Flathead. But yeah, it is messed up to think about not living near you guys. That’s life. I feel too young to deal with a parent’s declining health.”

“Dude, you and your sob story have completely taken the wind out of my sails.”

I laugh. “I’ll trade you—Jamie and a houseguest for a dad with mental decline and a mom who’s having a breakdown on top of her other mental conditions.”

“Guilt me with your sob story. Whatever. Give my best to your mom.”

“Will do. Kiss Jamie for me. Tell her to take good care of Dr. Reichart.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face,” Fitz says.

I laugh, zipping the bag. “You can’t see my face.”