Mcqueen's Heat. Harper Allen
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he’d run through a burning building but all at once he’d been back in the past, knowing that there had to be clues if only he could see them, knowing that in seconds those clues could disappear forever.
The woman had been lying on a smoldering cot by the wall. Even before he’d fallen to his knees beside her and placed his thumb firmly on what should have been the pulse-point of her neck he’d known instinctively that Joey had been right. She was gone. An even earlier habit had come back to him, and without conscious volition he’d swiftly crossed himself.
“Rest easy, sister.” For some reason it had been important to put it into words, just in case any shadow of her had lingered and could hear him. “I’ll take care of her for you. I’ll get her out of here.”
As he’d started to rise the information he’d automatically noted even while he’d been concentrating on the woman clicked into place and his heart sank. Between the fingers of the outflung hand was the burned-down butt of a cigarette, the sheet the hand had been resting on now only charred fragments. The cot itself had caught and smoldered, he’d realized, and whatever outdated material it had been filled with had thrown off the toxic fumes that had proven so fatal for its occupant. But at some point the smoldering should have become a full-fledged blaze. Why hadn’t it? And how had the fire skipped to the rest of the building, leaving this room untouched?
He’d gotten swiftly to his feet. Finding the child and getting her to safety was his main concern. Giving the woman on the cot one final glance, he’d seen a remnant of the sheet leading from the cigarette to the emptiness of the hole knocked into the wall, and had realized he was looking at the answer to the questions he’d just dismissed.
But as he’d lifted Petra into his arms only moments later, he’d known that the most deadly question hadn’t been answered at all.
“You’re going to find out who killed my mom, aren’t you, Stone?” In the shadows her eyes had been wide with anguish and fixed stubbornly on his. “You’ll put him in jail, right?”
He hadn’t answered her right away. He hadn’t known what to say, since the truth was too brutal. Gee, Tiger, your mom started it herself. She was smoking in bed, see, and the cigarette just rolled from her fingers when she fell asleep. Maybe one day the kid would find out, but he wasn’t going to be the one to—
Except the cigarette hadn’t rolled from her fingers. It had burned right down to her hand. The pain would have woken her immediately.
But by then she was already dead, McQueen. In fact, I’d lay odds she was dead before that damned cigarette was lit. The voice in his head had been coldly professional. His voice when he’d answered the child staring so trustingly up at him had been hoarse with sudden anger, but she’d seemed to know his anger wasn’t directed at her.
“Yeah, Tiger, we’re gonna find the person who killed your mom.” Striding toward the open door, he’d tightened his hold on her. “We’re gonna find him and put him away. That’s a promise.”
Only then had he felt the stiff little body in his arms suddenly go limp, as if upon his words she’d finally been able to hand over a burden too heavy for her to bear…
He’d gotten her out safely, as he’d vowed he would, Stone thought now. He’d told Boyleston what he’d seen before the fire had roared through the room, obliterating the telltale signals that made it arson, not an accident. With that information, the investigative team’s initial hasty evaluation would have to be reversed. He’d passed on the burden to the people who were paid to shoulder it.
So he could just walk away. He’d gotten good at walking away from things these past few years.
But this time he wasn’t going to be able to. Petra had asked for him. He’d made her a promise. And whether Tamara knew it or not, she was a part of it.
“She told you her name was Petra?” Tamara’s voice was barely audible. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said steadily, taking in the rigidity of her posture, the bleakness in those blue eyes now holding his gaze. “Does it make a difference?”
“Claudia’s father died when she was a baby so she never knew him, but she used to say she would name her own child after him when she became a mother,” she rasped. “Peter if she had a son. Petra if her child was a daughter.”
“Then that clinches—” he began, but she cut him off, her voice still low.
“Let me tell you a story, McQueen. It’s about two little girls who’d both lost family and who were both lonely. Except then they met each other, and it was like getting a part of their families back again.”
She smiled crookedly at him. “When they were ten years old, one of them snuck an embroidery needle out of her mom’s sewing box and they gathered up enough nerve to prick their palms with it. It was something they’d read about.” She shrugged. “They clasped their hands together and took a blood oath, promising to be sisters until death. Dumb, huh?”
She was a world away from the tough, helmeted figure who’d bulldozed him out of that room today, Stone thought, watching her. Who was the real Tamara King—the firefighter who put her life on the line everyday without thinking twice about it, or the woman standing only inches away from him, her eyes haunted, her whole body so tense that it seemed as if she was in danger of breaking apart right in front of his eyes?
Maybe she was both. She went on, her tone devoid of emotion.
“Even after we grew up, I knew that no matter what else happened in our lives we would always be able to count on each other. I was wrong. She betrayed me with the man I loved, and I never saw or heard from either of them again.”
Her voice was a fraying thread. “So tell me, McQueen—if she was dying, if she was out of her mind with worry for the child she was going to be leaving behind—why would she come back to me?”
She shook her head decisively. “She wouldn’t. Don’t you see? It wasn’t Claudia. Claudia didn’t come to Boston looking for my help. She didn’t die in that rooming house today, worried and frightened and hoping for my forgiveness.”
Her eyes, blue and glittering, were fixed on his. Stone took a step toward her, feeling all at once too big and too clumsy. “I wish I could tell you different, but I can’t.”
Awkwardly he reached out for her, but even as his hands clasped her shoulders she stiffened and struck them away.
“You have to tell me different!” The harsh whisper seemed torn from her throat. “No matter what happened between us, I don’t think I could bear it if I thought that was how it ended for her!”
“She died in her sleep, overcome by the smoke. She would have died hoping the bond between the two of you still held. She would have been right,” he added huskily.
This time when his hands went to her shoulders she did nothing. The brilliance overlaying her gaze wavered and became a shimmer, but he knew with sudden certainty that she wasn’t going to allow herself to cry.
“I think I knew it was her as soon as I saw the child, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.” Her voice cracked. “Do you want to hear why, McQueen?”
I think I already know, honey, he thought, sudden self-loathing sweeping over him. What was it he’d so recklessly accused her of only half an hour ago—that she wanted to look into the destruction? That she thought she might see her own face staring back?
Tamara King had already stared into the heart of darkness. She’d already recognized it in herself. The knowledge was tearing her apart.
“Why couldn’t you let yourself believe it?” he asked tonelessly.
“Because I hadn’t forgiven her,” she whispered, her eyes wide with pain. “And if there hadn’t been a fire and she’d phoned today asking to see me, I would have turned her down. What kind of a monster does that make me?”
“It doesn’t make you a