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The flashlight beam moved higher. “We can’t go upstairs,” said the fire marshal. “I don’t like the look of those steps.”
Michael thought about what that meant. He had his phone in his pocket—if it had even survived the swim in the creek. The case was water resistant—an investment he’d made after losing a phone in a koi pond once. He checked now and found it working. Did his brothers have theirs? What about clothes? Schoolbooks?
Identification? Car keys? His own wallet was plastered inside his back pocket, but his ID and credit cards seemed intact. He had no idea what his brothers might have on them, if anything.
Marshal Faulkner hadn’t waited for a response. He’d moved into the dining room. Michael watched the flashlight beam play along the floor, the walls, then the table.
Everything had a fine layer of soot.
The marshal stopped at the far side of the room, until Michael couldn’t see him through the haze, just the bouncing beam of his flashlight. “How long did the fire burn?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“When we broke in, we didn’t see anything actively burning,” Hannah said. “The place was hot and full of smoke.”
The fire marshal’s flashlight stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Do you remember stopping the fire?”
“No.” Michael suspected Gabriel had, but it wasn’t like he could say that. His brother certainly wouldn’t have used a fire extinguisher. But Michael had no other explanation. If he admitted not being here when the fire started, would that look better or worse? He didn’t know.
night felt like a year ago.
But maybe this was the real Jack Faulkner. Maybe a crisis brought out the dad in him, breaking down the awkward barriers.
Michael nodded and had to clear his throat. “I’m all right.”
“What about your brothers? Are they holding up?”
Michael nodded. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Sweat and grit. Sand, soot, whatever. He’d kill for a shower. A hot one. “More or less.”
“You have somewhere to go?”
For an instant, the question didn’t make sense. Why would he go anywhere?
Then reality knocked on his skull. The fire marshal was asking if he had a place to stay.
It hadn’t even occurred to him yet, but now that he had to consider it, Michael had no idea where to take his brothers. Insurance would come into play at some point, but it wasn’t like he could call up his agent and money would appear in the checking account tomorrow. They could ride on credit cards for a while, but feeding and housing five people on Visa’s dime would only last so long.
But what was he supposed to say? He knew from experience that he couldn’t admit uncertainty in front of anyone official. He held back any emotion and wished his voice didn’t sound as if he were speaking through ground stone. “I have to make a few calls. I’ll work it out.”
Hannah slipped her hand under his and laced their fingers together. The motion felt comforting—but somehow defiant, too.
Michael couldn’t tell if Marshal Faulkner noticed. Rain was collecting on the shoulders of the man’s jacket. “It might just be smoke damage. There are a few local companies who can help with that. You’ll have to get an engineer out to check the foundation after that earthquake.”
Or Michael could just walk a loop around the house and feel it out for himself.
As if the insurance company would take his word for it.
Marshal Faulkner turned and looked past the ambulance, his eyes on something in the distance. “A lot of damage here. You guys are lucky.”
Lucky. Yeah, right. Michael hadn’t felt lucky since . . . ever.
The fire marshal stepped closer. “How did you put the fires out so quickly?”
Michael opened his mouth to respond, but Hannah squeezed his hand, hard. “Don’t answer that.”
Michael blinked. She’d asked him pretty much the same thing. “I—I . . . what?”
Her tone was even. “He’s not being nice. He’s trying to interrogate you.”
