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Hannah edged closer to him. “If this is too much—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
It wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Hannah didn’t move away. Her voice was very soft. “You’re shaking.”
He was. He made sure his voice wasn’t. “It’s nothing. It’s cold.”
A new voice spoke from down the hallway. “Want me to grab a blanket off one of the ambos?”
Michael turned, glad for the distraction, for the reason to look away from those goddamn bookcases. I’m sorry, Mom.
Like he was a kid again, and he’d broken her favorite dish or something.
No, worse. Like he’d burned down her house.
You did burn down her house.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”
The new firefighter clicked on his own flashlight, creating another beam in the hallway, his feet crunching on grit as he came over to join them. When he got close, Michael recognized him as the firefighter who’d been with Hannah. The guy was tall, taller than Michael, and built like a linebacker. He had a bar in one hand, one end resting against his shoulder. A camera-like device hung around his neck.
His flashlight beam lifted almost to Michael’s face, so he could see everyone clearly, but no one was blinded. His expression was some mixture of surprised and intrigued. “I still can’t believe you’re upright and talking.”
Michael wasn’t sure what the right response to that was. “Give me an hour.”
“I checked the walls on this level. Thermal imaging doesn’t show anything. I think you’re clear.”
Again, no appropriate response came to mind. This man had dragged him out of a house unconscious. He’d helped perform CPR. He’d watched Michael lose his shit.
Actually, if he’d walked in here a minute later, he would have seen Michael lose it for a second time.
“Thanks,” Michael finally said.
“No problem.”
“This is Irish,” said Hannah. “Irish, this is Michael.”
Michael knew he should be following social niceties, but his brain wasn’t providing the automatic responses. Maybe it was the dark, maybe it was the residual haze of smoke in the living room, maybe it was the fact that his life had literally turned into a pile of crap around him. But he could only stand there, silent, staring at Irish like he had two brain cells left.
“Could you shine that light over here?” said the fire marshal.
His words broke through the awkward tension. Irish pointed the flashlight toward the other beam.
“Look.” Marshal Faulkner gestured with his flashlight along the floor. “Can you see the pattern of the burn?”
Michael just saw a whole lot of burned carpeting. “It’s all burned.”
“Look. Follow the light. See how it’s darker along this line?”
The light traced a path through the thin smoke, following a stretch of charred carpeting.
Then Michael saw it, a clear line of darkness through the rest of the blackened material. “It’s darker. Why?”
“Burned hotter,” said Irish, as if it were obvious.
Hannah glanced up. “Accelerant does that.”
