“Hannah,” said her mother, her voice concerned. “Hannah, you’re white. What is it?”

Right to voice mail again. Irish was getting his coat from the front closet, calling his thanks for dinner. Her father was already on the phone, saying he’d be there in fifteen minutes, making notes on a small pad with details he’d never repeat out loud.

Hannah looked at her mother. “Can you watch James until I get back?” She didn’t even wait for an answer, just pushed away from the table. “Irish! Wait!”

He stopped with the door halfway open. “Blondie?”

“But—Hannah—” Her mother was on her feet. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to help.”

CHAPTER 12

Even with lights and sirens, it seemed to take forever to get to Magothy Beach Road. Hannah was torn between keeping her eyes fixed on the controls inside the fire truck and looking out the window to see how bad it was.

Then Irish said, “Jesus,” under his breath, and she didn’t have a choice. She looked.

Half the building was gone. She didn’t see much actively burning, but smoke plumed from the remaining structure. Several cars bore heavy damage, and almost none in the lot had escaped the flying debris. Fire trucks lined the road and the edge of the property, along with ambulances and half a dozen cop cars. She saw a lot of people in uniform or firefighting gear.

She didn’t see anyone who looked like they’d survived an explosion.

She checked her phone again. She’d called six more times during the ride to the firehouse with Irish. No response from Michael.

“He’ll be all right,” Irish said quietly. “You don’t know if he was still here.”

“I don’t even know if his brothers are with him.”

“Can you call them?”

She shook her head. She didn’t have any of their numbers.

The radio on her shoulder kept going off, but she hadn’t been able to focus on any of it. Now she listened and realized why there were so many people milling around.

They’d been ordered to wait for the bomb squad and the collapse unit.

She turned to Irish. “We’re waiting? We can’t rescue—”

“Yeah, we’re waiting.” The truck rolled to a stop, and strobe lights from the other units reflected off his cheeks and clothing. “Have you ever worked a building collapse before?”

She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the smoldering structure. She didn’t see any bodies.

Which meant they’d either been incinerated or they were buried under the rubble.

Michael. Her breath hitched.

Don’t hang up. Talk to me.

God, Hannah, I wish I could.

Two major catastrophes in as many days.

“Maybe you should stay here,” said Irish. “You weren’t assigned to work tonight.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

“You’re whiter than you were at your house. If you’re looking for him, you won’t be looking for anything else.”

She unclipped her seat belt and stood. “There could be survivors in there! How can you just sit here and wait?”

“There could be another bomb in there, Hannah!” He got in her face and pointed out the window. “There are propane tanks sitting right there! You bet your ass I’m going to wait!”

She looked. There were two large propane tanks at the back of the restaurant, probably still intact because of nothing more than a huge stroke of luck.

But her eyes focused on what was parked right behind those propane tanks. A large red diesel pickup truck. Stray bits of lumber had landed across the cab, denting the roof and fracturing the windshield. The passenger door was clearly visible.

Along with the MERRICK LANDSCAPING logo.

“It’s his truck,” she said. Her voice almost broke as she swept her eyes across the rubble again. No movement aside from the wisps of smoke rising from the wreckage. “Irish, it’s his truck.”

Irish knocked on the glass separating them from the front part of the cab, where her battalion chief sat. When the glass slid open, Irish said, “Chief, she can’t work this scene.”

“I can!” she cried.

“Look at me.” Irish put his hands on her cheeks. “Look at me, Blondie.”

“His brothers—we have to find him. They’re under eighteen—we need to find him—”

“Hannah. Look at me.”

His voice was firm, and his chocolate-brown eyes were locked on hers. His hands were warm and strong against her face. She looked at him.

“We’ll find him,” he said. “I promise.” He paused. “Don’t make me rescue you too.”

Something in his voice steadied her. She opened her mouth to respond.

Then the chief called for them to join the crew from the other trucks to form a plan of action. She pulled away from Irish, feeling warmth on her cheeks. He shifted past her to climb down from the truck.

When she moved to follow him, the chief said, “Not you, Blondie. Sit tight.”

“But—”

“That’s an order!”

His voice left no room for argument. She fell back into the seat.

Through the window, she could watch the flurry of activity. Groups of firefighters were getting orders. Some of it came across her radio. Police officers had blocked the roads, so no traffic could come through. A large truck from the county collapse unit rolled up—but still no one approached the structure. They were all waiting for the bomb squad.