Kiss the Bride (65 page)

Where was that smell coming from?

Her nostrils twitched.

Had she left the gas burner on the stove turned on? No, she hadn’t cooked since she’d been home.

Concerned, she pushed back her chair and thought she heard a noise from the balcony outside her window. She cocked her head, listening.

The noise repeated.

What was that sound? She furrowed her brow, and strained to identify it.

She heard sloshing. That was it. Like a liquid being tossed from a container.

Slosh, slosh, slosh.

A liquid like gasoline.

Fear lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck. She felt a stab in her gut, like a knife plunging in and twisting as the full impact of the sound registered deep within her psyche.

Someone was outside on her balcony dousing her apartment with gasoline!

Call 9-1-1
.

The instinctive impulse hit at the same moment a match sparked outside her window.

Whoosh!

The gasoline burst into flames, lighting up the balcony behind the curtains on the French doors and she saw, barely visible beyond the fire, a hooded figure dressed in black.

Tish stood frozen, unable to believe what she was seeing. Someone was trying to burn her out!

Get out. Get out of the apartment. Get out now.

There was no time to call 9-1-1. She had to depend on her neighbors for that.

Briefly, she thought about trying to save things. Her clothes, her shoes, computer disks, but the room was already growing blistering hot as the heat blew the glass from the French doors.

Smoke billowed into her bedroom.

Hurry, hurry.

She wore only Lycra workout pants and an oversized T-shirt that served as her pajamas. Adrenaline pumping, heart thumping, she spun on her heels, ran from the room, racing for the only other exit out of the apartment.

The fire crackled behind her like an evil, cackling witch, destroying, eating up her life. Smoke, heavy and black, filled the hallway.

How was it burning so quickly?

Get out.

She paused at the door just long enough to slip her feet into her flip-flops and glanced around for the camera bag backpack she’d hooked over one of the kitchen chairs when she’d gotten home.

Where was the backpack? She had to have it. Her wallet was inside it, her identification, her laptop, the backup disk and the original she’d made of Shane and Elysee’s engagement party, and of course her camera.

Smoke curled into her lungs, thick and acrid, and obscured her vision. Frantically, she ran her hands along the back of first one kitchen chair and then the other, desperate to find the backpack.

Had she left it in the living room?

She swung her head around, but the fire was already in the living room, too.

Forget the backpack. Get out or die!

Tish coughed against the billowing plume of smoke, barely able to breathe. Her head spun. Admitting defeat in finding her backpack, she staggered for the door but stumbled over something on her way out.

Her foot hung up on it and tripped her.

She fell to her knees, coughing, choking.

She’d stumbled on the strap of her backpack. It was on the floor underneath the chair.

Lungs aching, she hooked the heavy backpack over one shoulder, reached up to fumble for the lock on the door, determined to get outside to the sweet salvation of fresh, night air.

Her head was foggy, her chest constricting.

Get to your feet. Get out the door. You’re almost there.

Her stupid feet wouldn’t obey.

The sound of the fire was deafening now, coming
closer, swallowing everything in its path with a vicious heat.

Okay, fine. If her legs wouldn’t work, then she would crawl out of here.

She grabbed for the doorknob, dragged herself to a sitting position, twisted the knob and tumbled out onto the front stoop. She sucked in a merciful breath of smoke-free air. In the distance, she heard sirens. Some sharp-eyed neighbor had called the fire department. Good thing.

Safe. She was safe.

But then a pair of strong masculine hands slipped around her neck.

Oh my God, it was the arsonist and he was going to finish off what he’d started.

Her eyes burned from the smoke and profuse tears streamed down her cheeks. She couldn’t see her assailant’s face, but she would fight him with every last breath in her body.

In a blind panic, she cocked her knee and kicked savagely at his crotch. She heard a sharp exhalation of air, knew she had made solid contact. And that she’d probably knocked the air out of his lungs and he couldn’t speak.

Yes!
her brain crowed in triumph.

Can’t stop now. Must get away.

She curled her fingers like claws and went for his face, scratching, searching for his eyes.

He grunted as she dragged her fingernails over his skin, committed to doing as much damage as possible.
Take that, you bastard.

He grappled with her. He was so heavy. How could she fight him?

The sirens were growing closer. If she could only hang on for a few more minutes, help was on the way.

She blinked hard, desperate to see. She was on her back on the front stoop, perilously near the edge of the eight-foot plunge off the stairway.

If she could just buck him off of her. But how? He was twice her size.

She arched her back, spit and scratched, kicked and clawed. She pulled her knee up, used it as a fulcrum, and levered his legs off of hers. She wriggled and kicked, shoving him closer to the edge.

“Tish!” he gasped, just as she was preparing to kick him over the side. “Stop it, stop fighting. It’s me. It’s Shane.”

S
o let me get this straight,” said police sergeant Dick Tracy. The paunchy man narrowed his eyes at Shane. “You were standing outside your ex-wife’s bedroom window in the middle of the night.”

Shane and Tish were sitting in front of the Houston PD sergeant’s desk, both bloodied and battle-weary. The fire department had shown up to put out the fire but her apartment had been utterly destroyed. Several patrol cars had arrived along with the fire trucks. One of the cruisers had brought them downtown to make their statements and fill out a full report.

Shane’s face was raw from where she’d scratched him. Tish had skinned her chin in the scuffle and didn’t even remember it. And every time she touched her face, soot came off on her hands.

Clutching a grimy tissue in her hand, Tish longed for a shower. They had Styrofoam cups of rotgut cop coffee in front of them. She’d taken one sip when Dick Tracy had given it to her but hadn’t been desperate enough for a second swallow. Where was Starbucks when you needed them?

Tish kept looking from the balding, middle-aged cop to
the nameplate on his desk that confirmed he was indeed named Dick Tracy. “Honest to God, your name is really Dick Tracy?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Dick, not Richard?”

“That’s right.” Dick Tracy glowered.

Shane kicked her lightly on the ankle, and telegraphed her a silent message with his eyes.
Shut up before you get us into more trouble.

“Your mother must have had a fondness for comic book heroes,” Tish said.

The cop scowled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Naming you after a comic book detective. I suppose you didn’t have much choice except to become a cop. A name like that is destined to define your whole career path.” Tish was blathering and she knew it, but she didn’t want to talk about the fire. Focusing on Dick Tracy’s curious name was a nice distraction. “Must be hard to live up to such a moniker, though. I mean here you are in your what… late forties and you still haven’t made it to detective? That’s gotta eat at you. Ouch!”

Shane’s kick was more solid this time, his frown darker.
Are you nuts?

Dick Tracy slid a glance over at Shane. “I can see why you’re divorced. What I don’t understand is why you were spying on her.”

Yeah
, Tish thought.
Good question. I can’t wait to hear the answer to that one.
She folded her arms over her chest and waited expectantly.

“I wasn’t spying,” Shane denied.

“Were you stalking her?” Dick Tracy leaned forward, sizing Shane up with a critical eye.

“I am not a stalker.” Boldly, Shane also leaned forward
until his nose was almost touching the police sergeant’s. A shiver skated up Tish’s spine. It thrilled her when Shane got all tough and manly.

“Did you start the fire?”

“I did not.”

“So.” The cop’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Basically.”

“I gotta warn you, I don’t believe in coincidences. If you weren’t spying on her, stalking her, or looking to burn her house down, why were you there?”

Tish curled her hands into fists. She was anxious to know the answer to this one.

The question had been nagging at her from the start. She knew Shane hadn’t started the fire, even though Dick Tracy seemed inclined to believe otherwise. Personally, she didn’t have a single doubt on that score. When it came to her physical safety, there wasn’t a person on the planet she trusted more than Shane.

Shane made a noise, half-snort, half-sigh. He wasn’t looking at Dick Tracy. His gaze was hooked on Tish. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“I might. Why don’t you try me?” the cop said, expressing exactly what Tish had been thinking.

“I was there to watch over her,” Shane answered, then immediately snapped his jaw shut.

A sudden, inexplicable thrill caused goose bumps to raise up on Tish’s arms. Shane had been watching over her? Was this the first time? Or had there been others?

Her gaze searched his face, looking for answers in his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was focused intently on Dick Tracy, never breaking eye contact, trying to prove he had nothing to hide.

“You were watching over her.” A Skeptics-R-Us expression drew Dick Tracy’s eyebrows down. He shuffled through the notes on his desk. “Does your fiancée, Elysee Benedict, the first daughter of the United States of America, know that you slipped out of bed in the middle of the night to come into Houston and stand outside your ex-wife’s apartment to watch over her?”

Shane didn’t answer him.

Dick Tracy swung his gaze to Tish. “You have any idea that your ex-husband likes to swing by in the middle of the night to ‘watch over you’?”

She didn’t know how to answer that. She looked from Shane to the police sergeant and back again.

“Just tell him the truth, Tish.” Shane nodded.

Tish drew in a breath. “I had no idea.”

“I don’t swing by in the middle of the night. This is the only time I’ve ever done it.”

“The only time?” Dick Tracy pointedly cleared his throat.

Shane shifted in his seat. Tish could tell that talking about this was making him uncomfortable. “Maybe there were a couple of other times, when we were first divorced and she was living in our old house all alone. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

He’d come back to check on her after the divorce?

Tish’s heart and stomach contracted in tandem waves and a pea-sized knot of pain embedded itself in the dead center of her sternum. He’d come back to check on her after the divorce.

“I don’t get it,” Dick Tracy said. “If you cared enough about this woman to check on her after your breakup, then why did you divorce her?”

Tish perched on the edge of her seat, muscles tensed, waiting for Shane’s reply.

Shane took a sip of coffee, winced, and quickly set it back down on the desk. He was stalling, trying to decide what to say. Tish recognized the tactic. “It’s complicated,” he muttered at last.

“I’m all ears.” Dick Tracy cupped both hands behind his ears.

Breath bated, Tish leaned forward and almost fell off the chair. Would he reveal his true emotions to Dick Tracy? Would she at long last find out what had really propelled him out the door that last morning they were together?

Would he tell the cop about Johnny? Briefly, she closed her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip to stay the tears that threatened to tumble.

“My being there has nothing to do with the fact that someone burned her apartment to the ground tonight.”

“No?”

“No.”

Shane and Dick Tracy continued their macho stare-down. One minute passed. Then two. The police sergeant finally caved. He dropped his gaze, plucked a pencil from the cup holder on his desk, and started doodling on a Post-it note.

Tish slumped back against her chair. She wasn’t going to learn anything about Shane’s true motives. Not tonight. Hell, if the police couldn’t wring the truth out of him, she’d probably never know for sure.