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What was the worst that could happen? The guy could stand up and shoot him? And how was that any different from just sitting here waiting?
Fuck it. Michael pressed the button. The progress bar at the top of his phone showed the text going through.
And then the restaurant exploded.
Hannah pushed food around her plate and tried to ignore the way Irish kept kissing her father’s ass. James had long ago abandoned the dinner table for his Legos, and Hannah was tempted to join him.
But no, when they had a guest, her father insisted that she remain at the table.
Like she was a teenager who needed a lesson in etiquette.
If her father were the only one at the table, Hannah would have walked out without question. But she wouldn’t disrespect her mother that way.
Irish’s alert pager went off with the chimes promising an urgent message. Out of habit, everyone went silent. No one in this house was a stranger to emergency alerts.
Commercial Box 13-3. Engines 131, 112, 104, 201 Truck 30, Truck 13, Medic Unit 11, Battalion Chief 2 respond for a commercial building fire, reported explosion, at 8503 Magothy Beach Road. Cross streets of Clover Hill Road and Riviera Drive. Respond hot on Echo—
There was more, but Hannah didn’t hear the rest.
Commercial building fire. Reported explosion.
Magothy Beach Road.
She knew almost every road in this part of the county, right down to where each fire hydrant was located. She knew Magothy Beach Road like the back of her hand, and there weren’t a lot of commercial buildings.
Except the Roadhouse.
Right where Michael was meeting someone about a job.
Her phone was pressed against her ear before she realized she had dialed.
Answer. Please. Answer.
It didn’t even ring. Straight to voice mail.
She looked at his last text.
Meeting someone at the Roadhouse at 7.
It was now seven-twenty.
She tried to call him again.
“Pick up,” she whispered. “Pick up.”
“Hannah,” said her mother, her voice concerned. “Hannah, you’re white. What is it?”
Right to voice mail again. Irish was getting his coat from the front closet, calling his thanks for dinner. Her father was already on the phone, saying he’d be there in fifteen minutes, making notes on a small pad with details he’d never repeat out loud.
Hannah looked at her mother. “Can you watch James until I get back?” She didn’t even wait for an answer, just pushed away from the table. “Irish! Wait!”
He stopped with the door halfway open. “Blondie?”
“But—Hannah—” Her mother was on her feet. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to help.”
CHAPTER 12
