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“I don’t know—how are you?” His voice was coy.
Deep breath. Had to get it out. “Not good. There was an accident at the restaurant last night—”
“I know,” he said. “It was in the paper this morning.”
“What?” I was relieved and chagrined. I didn’t have to explain, but—he was going to yell at me for not calling him last night, wasn’t he?
But he didn’t. “Is everyone okay?”
“One person’s in the hospital,” I said.
“Shit,” he said. “What are we going to do?”
“Make repairs. Reopen as soon as we can.” We had to continue, onward and upward. What choice did we have?
“Does the fire have anything to do with that thing that went after us the other night?” His voice was numb, like he didn’t want to believe it had really happened, either, and didn’t want to give voice to the truth.
“Probably,” I said, wincing. “It had the same smell.”
“When’s it going to stop? How are we going to stop it?”
Saying I don’t know would have been the truth. But it would also be a sign of weakness. It would be admitting that I was floundering. And I couldn’t show that kind of weakness and still keep the pack together. I had to be the strong one. If the others lost confidence in me . . . well, I didn’t want to go there. It didn’t matter if I had any confidence in myself. I just had to convince them I did.
“I’m working on it, Shaun. I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer than that.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“I will. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He hung up without saying goodbye. I’d make it up to him, I promised myself. I’d make this right.
Next I called Tina for an update on Gary. Jules answered her phone.
“We’re still at the hospital,” he said. “Tina finally conked out, so I’m letting her sleep.”
“How’s Gary?”
“Awake, but groggy. He doesn’t really remember what happened. But he’s going to be okay.”
I repeated my promise to myself: No one was going to die. We’d figure this thing out.
“Any other news on your end?” I said.
“Not yet. I’m waiting to get replies to some of my e-mails and calls. We still need to talk about what we’re doing next. We could meet this afternoon, if you like.”
“Sounds good.” We agreed on a time and place—the hospital cafeteria—and said our farewells.
I made another call. Grant picked up on the first ring.
“You’re probably getting sick of hearing from me,” I said.
The barest hint of a smile touched his voice. “If I were, I wouldn’t answer the phone.”
Ah, the magic of caller ID. What did we ever do without it? Strangely enough, I was comforted.
“What’s happened?” he said.
“There was a fire.”
