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Susan is awake and sitting on the lawn in a state of shock when I drop my father beside her.
“Where’s Sara?” I scream.
“I don’t think she’s here,” Susan replies. She’s equally confused and scared.
“What happened to you? Was someone in the house with you?” I ask them. That psycho has made good on his threats, and time is of the essence. I need to find Sara before he does anything to her.
“Just the delivery man. He said Sara ordered food,” my father says, rubbing his forehead.
“Did you eat the food?”
“Yeah, she wasn’t back yet, and it was getting cold so we ate without her,” he replies. “Then we both felt tired so we went up to bed.”
“He drugged you,” I say, more to myself than them.
“What? Who?” my father asks, but I don’t have time to answer.
“Call 911, dad. I have to find Sara,” I tell him as the neighbors begin to gather outside.
My gut tells me to drive out to the shelter. This nut job has been inside there before and may have taken Sara there. I do my best to focus on the road, but my rage has me seeing red and I step harder on the gas, weaving through traffic and swerving from lane to lane. I make the drive in record time and pull up to the front door of the dark shelter. It appears empty, but I get out and slam my body against the locked door until it gives way. “Sara? Are you here?” I shout as I run through the building, but it’s deserted.
As I lean on the wall and stop to take a breath, I remember what Sara’s voicemail said and grab my phone to look up the number for the shelter in Camden. I dial the number and sigh in relief when Karla answers on the second ring.
“Karla, it’s Sam, Sara’s boyfriend. I need to know the address you sent her today.”
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Karla, I don’t have time to explain right now. This is an emergency. Please, just give me the address.” I’m breathing hard, and only my years of training and experience as a firefighter are keeping me from having a full-on panic.
“I just sent it to you. I hope everything’s okay. Please have Sara call me when she can.” I disconnect the call and open her text. “4227,” I whisper and I’m back on the road in seconds, heading for the address of my arsonist and hoping that he has Sara there.
I pull up to the little, nondescript house and park on the opposite side of the street. All the lights are out inside and out, and I watch for a moment to see if I can make out any shadows through the windows. I scan the street and assess the situation, knowing that some arsonists like to hang around the scene and watch, but the place is silent—eerily so.
The front door is locked, and I bang on it. “Sara!”
Nothing.
My shouts are met with more silence. I walk to the garage and yank open the rickety rolling door. It smells of gasoline, but there’s no car inside and no signs of life, so I decide to enter the backyard and check the backdoor to the house. I pound on the door and shout for Sara again. When I get no answer, I turn to walk away but stop mid-step when I hear it. It’s Lucky whimpering and scratching at the door.
“Back up, boy,” I say and slam my body into the door. It gives on the first try and flies open, crashing into the wall behind it. Lucky rushes me and jumps on my leg. I pat his head and shush him as I try to adjust my vision to the pitch-black room. I don’t know if he has this place rigged, so I don’t dare flip a light switch. Using the light on my phone to illuminate my path, I inspect the house room by room. Except for Lucky, the place is deserted. I shine my light on the wall and see a framed photo of a man in a firefighter’s uniform. It’s the same guy that I saw at the shelter that day. There’s a little brass nameplate at the bottom of the frame. We all get a photo like this when we graduate from training. I read the name, “Barrett Ramsey,” and take Lucky with me out the front door. I waste no time in dialing the detective’s number.
“Detective Milton, this is Sam Sutton. I have the name of the arsonist. It’s Barrett Ramsey of 4227 Sellers Trace. He’s not home, and I believe he may have my girlfriend. I need you to track this guy down. It’s an emergency.”
“How do you know this, Sam?” Milton asks.
“Look, this guy drugged my parents and wired their house. The fire department should be there to confirm that for you. He took my dog. I just found it at his empty house, and my girlfriend’s missing. The last anyone knows she was coming to meet this guy and now she’s missing. He called me and told me that he had everyone I care about. He’s an ex-firefighter. If you call the Chief, he might know something about him. I have to go. If he’s lucky, you’ll find him before I do.”
This guy has made one terrible mistake, and I’ll make sure he pays for it. The very thought of him laying his sick hands on Sara sends me to a dark and desperate place in my mind that I’ve never been to before. I try to pull myself back to a more sane place so that I can prioritize the task at hand. I need to find Sara first, then once she’s safe, it’s time to deal with him.
Lucky is unharmed and safe beside me. I pat his head then start the truck and set out for the last place that I can think to look for Sara—her empty house.
15
The Confrontation
Sam
Sara’s old house is lit up like a neon beacon when I arrive, and I kill the engine and pull over about four blocks away. I leave Lucky in the truck and walk briskly toward the house, ducking the street lights by walking in the grass. If Ramsey’s here, I don’t want him to see me coming until it’s too late for him to react. He may do something to Sara if he thinks the game is up for him.
