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What if we didn’t find her or the fire blocked our way to her?
What if. . .?
I turn over and look at the clock. 4:43 a.m.
The next thing I know, it’s light outside and someone is yelling at me.
I know that voice.
“Owen Larrabee! What the heck?”
I don’t have to crack my eyes open to know it’s my sister. I roll over and mumble, “Go away, Mack,” even though I know she won’t listen.
Younger sisters and all that.
True to form, she sits on the end of my bed, thrusting a newspaper in front of my face. “I have a major bone to pick with you.” She shakes the paper. “You hardly ever respond when I call you. You didn’t even tell me you were back home, and you definitely didn’t tell me you saved my best friend’s life last night!”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was a little busy.” I roll over on my back and rub my temples. When I open my eyes, I find her studying the newspaper.
“They’re calling you a hero,” she says.
I scoff. Hero. Yeah, right.
“I was just doing my job,” I say, even though that’s not exactly true. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the house. I was assigned to help outside. I made Jace trade with me.
“They did a whole feature on you two,” Mack says. “Front page and middle spread. You know the entire town is going to be freaking out over this.”
Great.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, not looking at the newspaper.
“I’m guessing Emmy disagrees.”
I pause. She’s right. Emmy would disagree.
But I got to her. She’s okay.
Maybe showing up last night will make up for the way I left eight years ago.
I shake the thought away. “Have you talked to her?” Part of what kept me awake last night was wondering how she’s doing. I’m relieved she wasn’t hurt, but the mental and emotional toll of a house fire is not something to gloss over. And she was pretty shaken up.
“I came here first thing when I got back into town,” Mack says. “I tried calling her, but there was no answer. I’m going over to the bookstore to make sure she’s okay.”
I nod. “Will you let me know?”
“You could ask her yourself, you know.” Mack squints over at me.
“Right,” I mutter.
She makes a face at me. I’m used to her faces, because even though I haven’t seen them close-up in months, they’re still the same faces she used to make at me when I was here.
When I was home.
“I’m still on duty,” I say half-heartedly.
Emmy doesn’t need me poking around her life any more than I need her poking around mine. Eight summers isn’t long enough to forget everything that happened.
Thinking about it fans that long, deep-seated anger within me. Not at her, but at myself.
