Cautiously, she pressed her palm against the door. When she felt no heat, Sarah let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She opened the door and looked around. No flames. Then she sniffed, and there it was again—a faint aroma of smoke wafting up the stairway—not enough to choke her, not an amount capable of blocking her vision, but sufficient nonetheless to send her hurrying toward what she hoped was a safe exit.
Guided by the faint glow from the flashlight, she descended to the first floor. As she got lower, she coughed a little, her eyes watered a bit, but she could breathe, could see through the tears. The smoke still wasn’t bad. Maybe that was a good sign.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to listen. Was that a noise? She strained her ears but heard nothing more. Maybe there was no intruder. Maybe that was all in her imagination. Maybe.
But the smoke wasn’t something she’d imagined. It was real, and where there was smoke, there was fire. But where was it? She heard no crackle of flames. She felt no pulse of heat on her face. She blinked away a few tears and sniffed again. The smoke was still there, and now it seemed to be increasing.
The light from the flashlight had become so dim as to be almost useless. I need to see. Why haven’t I tried to turn on lights? Wasn’t there something about electricity failing if the fire got too near the supply line? Sarah flipped the switch at the foot of the stairs, and the overhead fixtures blazed into light. The power was still on. Good. She turned off the flashlight but held onto it. It might be a useful weapon.
Sarah started to exit the house the way she habitually did, through the kitchen and into the garage. She turned to her right to go that way but stopped when she saw tendrils of dark smoke drifting under the door from the garage and into the kitchen. The garage. That’s where the fire was. She couldn’t get out this way.
She turned back and scanned the area straight ahead of her, the living room. No smoke. No heat. No noise of flames. Best of all, there was no movement or sound that signaled someone there . . . at least, no one she could see. She could hurry through to the front door and make her escape.
Should she stop and call the fire department now? Was there any reason to further delay that call? Wasn’t it important to call them immediately? Get out of the house first. Call for help when you’re safe.
Sarah hurried to the front door, threw it open, and felt the fresh night breeze on her face. Her instinct was to run, to get out of the house as quickly as possible, but she stopped as yet another rule heard long ago surfaced in her mind. Keep doors and windows closed. Air can feed the flames and make the fire grow. She shut the door behind her.
Sarah hurried to the end of the sidewalk, her slippers making a soft shushing on the concrete. When she got there, she paused and turned back toward her house. At first she saw no one there. Wait! Had there been a flicker of movement in the shadows at the corner of the house? Or was it her imagination, fueled by the adrenaline of the situation, turning wisps of smoke into the shape of a prowler?
She watched for perhaps half a minute more, trying not to blink, looking with unfocused eyes into the middle distance. Let your peripheral vision pick up faint images. She saw no figures, no movement.
Enough. Get help. She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her robe and stabbed out 911 before hitting send.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“This is Dr. Sarah Gordon. My house is on fire. The address is 5613 Maple Shade Drive.”
There was the briefest of pauses, during which Sarah heard keys tapping. “I’ve dispatched first responders. Is anyone injured? Are you in the house?”
“No injuries. And I’m outside, on the lawn.”
“Is anyone else there? Or are you alone?”
Sarah hesitated before she answered.
“I’m alone.” At least, I hope so.
* * *
The call awakened Detective Bill Larson. He brought his wrist close to his face and squinted at his watch. Two fifteen a.m. The phone had interrupted a dream—not a pleasant one, but that wasn’t unusual. Troubled sleep and disturbing dreams were part of the pattern his life had taken on during his struggle for lasting sobriety.
“We’ve got a fire at a private dwelling,” the dispatcher said. “The fire chief on the scene thinks it might be arson, so I wanted to notify you. If you like, I’ll send a patrol car by there now to do a preliminary. Then you can hook up with the fire marshal tomorrow. Would you like me to do that?”
Larson yawned. “Probably. Where’s the fire?”
“The location is 5613 Maple Shade, the residence of Dr. Sarah Gordon.”
The name brought him awake. Larson had met Sarah Gordon and her husband shortly after the detective moved to town. He’d been introduced to them at church. Realizing that being part of a church family would be important as he tried to get his life back together, he’d joined the First Community Church shortly after moving to Jameson. It was one of the larger churches in town, and Larson figured he could lose himself in a congregation that size. He needed to be just a taker for a while. Maybe after he had a few more months of sobriety under his belt he could find a place to serve. Maybe.
Larson called up his mental picture of Harry Gordon: a nice-looking man in his 30s, his blond hair always a bit tousled, a perpetual grin on his face. But the person his memory could more easily recall was Sarah. She had dark hair cut short, flawless olive skin, and always seemed to be laughing. Each time he saw the two of them together with their two-year-old daughter, Larson realized again what he’d lost when his own family was torn asunder.
After his initial meeting, he’d seen Sarah a few times at church, always at a distance and generally with her husband. Then she’d suffered the tragic loss of both husband and daughter, a loss that seemed to devastate Sarah. After that happened, Larson figured he should express his sympathy to her, but the time never seemed right. Then it wasn’t long before she stopped coming to church altogether. He hadn’t seen her since.
“Larson, are you there?”
“Sorry. Just thinking,” Larson replied.
“So what do you want me to do?” the dispatcher asked.
“Tell you what,” Larson said. “I know her from church. I think I’ll head over there now.” He ended the call and began to dress.
* * *
Sarah sat huddled under a Mylar blanket in the fire chief’s SUV, her teeth occasionally chattering despite the warmth of the summer evening. One hand held an empty china mug, courtesy of her neighbor who’d brought coffee and offered to let Sarah spend the night—what remained of it—at her house. Sarah had declined with thanks. She wanted to be in her own home.
Her home. The phrase resonated in her mind. It was the house she and Harry bought when they were married. It was the home into which they brought Jenny over two years ago. It was full of memories. And now, although both Harry and Jenny were gone, she wasn’t going to turn loose of those memories—or the house.
Sarah wasn’t about to be driven from her home by fire or anything else. But was the house habitable? Just how bad was the damage inside? She’d soon know, because here came the chief. She decided that, no matter
