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And I press the button on my watch, listen to the 911 operator answer, tears finally bursting free, and I choke out, “I was drugged and put in a trunk. I jumped out and I’m at a mausoleum. I need help.”
Chapter 2
CASH
It’s been a quiet night so far, and I’m down fifty-thousand dollars in poker.
I can’t complain about either of those things.
When you’re a volunteer firefighter, a slow night means no traumas or fires. As for the fifty K? It’s not real money, though technically, I could afford it.
When it’s a slow night at Station 4, we play cards—poker usually, though when it’s Ian’s choice, we play gin rummy instead. We place wagers using Monopoly money and the loser buys pizza for all the volunteers on duty.
When I first started volunteering here five years ago, we used real money. Then it got weird because one of the guys was going through a divorce and was hurting financially. And another volunteer lost his job, so he was picking up day labor gigs whenever he could, and it didn’t feel right taking his money.
I’ve never had to worry about money, thanks to the family business. As the primary shareholder and CEO of Chatham Publishing, I could pay fifty-thousand dollars or cover any of the other volunteers’ expenses easily. But they would never ask, and they’d never let me if I offered.
But Icanbe notoriously bad at poker and cover the cost of pizza most nights that I’m here.
And these guys at the station—my friends—know that if they ever need something, I’m here.
Some of my colleagues at my day job think I’m crazy for spending two nights a week volunteering here. Executives should spend their free time golfing and playing polo and going out for expensive meals and visiting exclusive clubs.
They think CEOs of multi-million dollar companies shouldn’t spend their free time racing around in fire trucks, risking their lives running into fires, and dealing with car accidents and overdoses. When I was at an awards banquet several months ago, the CFO of a marketing company was aghast. “Why would you do that?” he asked, disdain dripping from his words. “Risking your life for strangers? Dealing with addicts and gang violence and God knows what else?”
“What if your house was on fire?” I asked sharply. “And no one came to help because they didn’t want to risk their life for a stranger? And everyone deserves the best care. It doesn’t matterwhoyou are.”
Sometimes people really piss me off.
Which is another reason I enjoy working here. At the station, I get to hang out with my friends, playing poker and watching ball games, instead of spending nights with work associates I don’t like or hunched over my computer doing more work at home.
“Three pairs!” Ian slaps his cards on the table, crowing, “I won again.” He glances at me, his dark eyes flashing with humor. “I think that puts you at one-fifty down, Cash.”
Shaking my head, I grin at him. “I guess it’s pizza on me again, huh?”
Ian raises an eyebrow at me, his lips twitching. “I’m not sure I’ve met anyone else as bad as you are at poker. It’s almostunreal.”
I lift my hands in awho knows?gesture and reach for my phone. “What toppings do you want on the pizzas?”
“Extra cheese,” our newest recruit, Mitch, calls from the end of the table. “My wife is making a stink about being”—he makes quotes with his fingers—“healthy. It’s all low-fat cheese and lean proteins and vegetables.”
Ian chuckles. “That’s why I’m glad I’m single. I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want.” He lifts his chin at me. “Right, Cash?”
I’m stopped from answering when the dispatch alert goes off.
So much for a slow night, playing poker and eating pizza.
We jump into the fire truck and head to our destination—one of the mausoleums in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Sirens wailing, lights flashing, we rush to provide assistance to an injured and terrified woman.
The details the dispatcher gives are chilling. The woman woke up in the trunk of a car, still groggy from the drug her date slipped her during dinner. She used the emergency release to pop open the trunk, jumped from the moving vehicle, and ran through the woods to the cemetery.
“That’s fucking horrifying,” Ian grits out as we speed closer to the cemetery.
“I know.” I’m mentally running through this woman’s possible injuries. Depending on the speed the car was traveling, she could have broken bones, internal injuries, head trauma—not to mention the damage the road would have done to her skin.
By the time we get there, a police car is already there, its lights illuminating the stark walls of the mausoleum and the trees around it. Two uniformed officers are crouched around a small figure sitting on the steps, presumably the victim.
Details tick through my mind—she’s sitting up, appears to be talking—both promising signs, but adrenaline can mask a lot of serious conditions. But I’m hoping as we approach the woman that she somehow escaped this horrendous experience without any serious injuries.
