different than it had earlier in the day, although seeing it at nighttime added an eerie dimension.
The interior of the building had sustained significant damage, but the metal walls of the warehouse were still standing. There were gaps in the metal roof from steel that had warped in the heat, wide enough that he could see stars flickering in the night sky.
This place had less damage compared to the two others he’d investigated over the past few months. Fire-damaged buildings were notoriously unstable, which made it doubly odd that his boss had requested to meet here tonight.
And where was Rick anyway? Mitch had been running late, but there was still no sign of his boss. Mitch stood for a moment, sweeping the area with his flashlight, debating heading back outside to wait.
A hint of blue caught his eye, making him frown. He aimed the flashlight toward the only bit of color amongst the blackened wreckage. He sucked in a harsh breath when he saw what looked like two denim-covered legs peeking out from beneath a pile of rubble way in the back corner of the building.
Was that a person buried under there?
His boss?
No, it couldn’t be. The legs looked too narrow, as if they belonged to a skinny person rather than Rick Nelson’s heavy-set frame. When he’d cleared the scene earlier that day, there hadn’t been anyone inside. Besides, the blue denim wasn’t blackened with smoke, so whoever this person was, he or she had come into the warehouse somewhere between five in the evening and now, nine thirty at night. Mitch moved quickly forward, just as he heard a noise behind him.
He started to turn around, but a second too late. Something hard crashed down, sending him sprawling forward. Pain exploded along the left side of his neck and shoulders, and he hit the concrete floor with a bone-jarring thud.
Then there was nothing but darkness.
* * *
Pain reverberating through his skull made him moan and shift, searching for a more comfortable position. Mitch abruptly realized he was lying on concrete rather than his bed. He blinked and found himself not far from a small flashlight lying on the floor.
His flashlight. It took a few seconds for him to remember that he had been at the scene of a warehouse fire for a meeting with his boss when he’d been hit from behind.
The side of his neck was wet and sticky with blood. With a groan, he forced himself to his knees, grabbed his fallen flashlight, then staggered to his feet. He had no idea if the person who’d assaulted him was still there, and his instincts were screaming at him to get out.
Now!
He took two steps before he remembered the blue jeans. No way could he leave without knowing if the person lying amidst the rubble was alive.
Sweeping his flashlight around the interior of the warehouse, he didn’t see any sign of anyone hanging around. The blackened two-by-four that had been used to hit him was still on the ground, one edge stained with something dark and sticky, and he assumed it was his blood.
Moving as quickly as he could manage with his head pounding and his neck feeling like it was on fire, he made his way back toward the denim-clad legs. As he came closer, he could see the body was that of a woman with long blond hair. She was only partially covered with debris, so he leaned forward to feel for a pulse.
Nothing. He moved a two-by-four and saw the nasty hole in her chest, likely caused by a bullet. Her skin was cold, as if she’d been dead for at least thirty minutes, maybe more. He moved the hair away from her face and froze.
Janice Valencia?
Horror stricken by the fact that he’d once dated the dead woman, he recoiled from the body. He put his hand in his pocket to get his phone to call the authorities, when he heard the wail of sirens.
And suddenly he knew that whoever had assaulted him must have called the police. Was the intent for Mitch to be found here with Janice’s body? For what purpose?
Nothing good. Mitch left the warehouse, stumbling toward his truck. He couldn’t afford to trust the police, not if there was the slightest chance his boss had set him up. Maybe that sounded paranoid, but that’s what happened when you found yourself alone with a dead body. Waiting for the cops and emergency responders to arrive on the scene wasn’t an option.
Not until he understood what in the world was going on.
* * *
Dana Petrie looped her purse over her shoulder and slammed the small metal door of her locker shut so that she could reconnect the padlock. Exhaustion pulled at her, not uncommon after a long eight-hour shift. The stream of patients hadn’t let up all evening, at least in team one, where she’d been assigned. Honestly, she had no idea what had transpired in the rest of the emergency department.
She left the locker room and crossed back through the department, halting midstride when she saw the familiar name on the ER census board next to room twelve.
Mitch Callahan.
Memories crashed through her mind, reminding her of everything she had lost just under three years ago. Her husband of barely a year, Kent, who’d died fighting a fire, and then her miscarriage on the day of Kent’s funeral. Bile surged in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down with an effort.
She would never be the same woman she’d been back then. Not that it mattered much; these days she focused her energy on saving lives rather than on her barren personal life.
She stared again at the name on the board. Mitch had been a firefighter, too, at the time. She’d heard the story, even read about it in the newspaper, about how he’d carried Kent’s body out of the burning building and had instantly begun CPR. He’d fought hard to save Kent, but her husband had died in spite of Mitch’s heroic efforts.
She’d never thanked him.
At the time, she’d been too traumatized by the miscarriage, especially on the heels of her husband’s death. Then, months later, it had been easier to simply block the memories of the past, doing her best to move forward with her life, despite the twin gaping holes in her heart.
As the months turned into years, she had decided to leave well enough alone. But now Mitch Callahan was in the ER where she worked and her shift was over. Maybe she’d just take a quick moment to pop in to see him, check if he was awake enough that she could offer her gratitude before leaving for the night.
There was no reason to rush home; there was no one waiting for her to return from work. Not even a pet. Just a big, lonely, empty house.
One she’d grown to hate more and more with each passing day. Each time she wanted to sell, Kent’s parents swooped in, demanding to know how she could leave the house she had once shared with their son.
She pushed the troubling thoughts aside.
Almost against her will, her feet took her toward room twelve, tucked in a small alcove at the end of the hall. Through a narrow opening in the privacy curtain hanging across the doorway, she could see a tall male wearing black jeans and a black short-sleeved T-shirt stretched out on a gurney. His feet, encased in black work boots, dangled off the end of the cart. The man had short blond hair and chiseled features. She easily recognized him as Mitch Callahan, which seemed a little odd since she’d met the man only twice
