Chapter 1 - THE GIRL WHO WALKED OUT OF THE FIRE
The ceiling split open three seconds before I reached the kitchen door.
Burning plaster crashed behind me, throwing sparks across the blackened floor. The starving mastiff in my arms made a weak sound, but she no longer had the strength to struggle.
“Stay with me.”
Smoke tore the words from my throat.
I held her tighter and struck the back door with my shoulder.
It did not open.
I hit it again.
Pain shot through my arm.
The flames behind us climbed the curtains and rolled across the ceiling. I could no longer see the hallway where I had entered. Every direction glowed orange.
The dog’s ribs pressed against my forearms.
She was so thin that carrying her should have been easy, yet my body was failing. My lungs refused to take another full breath.
Then something slammed against the outside of the door.
Once.
Twice.
A deep bark rose beyond the wood.
“Murphy.”
My black mastiff had followed me around the mansion despite my order to stay. He threw his body against the door again.
The damaged frame cracked.
I lowered one shoulder, protected the gray dog’s head, and charged.
Cold rain struck my face.
I stumbled down the stone steps and reached the wet lawn before my knees collapsed.
Murphy pressed against us immediately.
He sniffed the starving dog, whimpered, then positioned himself between us and the burning mansion.
The gray mastiff opened her eyes.
For one strange second, the two animals stared at each other as though they were remembering something neither human could understand.
Then my vision darkened.
Headlights swept across the lawn.
Black vehicles stopped along the circular drive. Men in dark suits emerged before the engines had fully quieted.
Murphy rose over me, teeth exposed.
Nobody approached.
A tall man stepped through the smoke.
He wore a fitted black suit without an overcoat. Rain darkened his hair, and firelight sharpened the severe lines of his face.
The men around him watched for instructions.
He watched only the dog in my arms.
I tried to move backward.
My body did not cooperate.
“Please,” I whispered. “Save her.”
The man lowered himself slowly, keeping his hands visible to Murphy.
His cold expression fractured when the gray mastiff’s blanket slipped from her chest.
A white crescent shaped patch appeared beneath the soot.
“Mave.”
He said the name like a prayer spoken after hope had already died.
The dog’s tail moved once.
The man stopped breathing.
Murphy growled when one of the guards stepped closer.
The stranger lifted one hand.
“Everyone stays back.”
His voice was quiet.
Every man obeyed.
He looked at me.
“Where did you find her?”
“Inside.”
“You entered the house?”
“She was trapped.”
His eyes moved over my burned sleeves and soot covered face.
“Why?”
I looked down at the animal trembling against me.
“Because she was alive.”
Sirens rose beyond the gates.
Firefighters entered the property as part of the roof collapsed. Sparks exploded into the rainy night.
A broad shouldered man in his forties approached the stranger.
“Sir, we need to move.”
The dark haired man did not stand.
“Boon, bring the medical team.”
“The dog will not let anyone near her.”
The black mastiff remained planted in front of us.
I reached weakly for his collar.
“Murphy.”
His ears turned toward me.
“They are helping.”
He looked at the stranger again.
The man lowered his open palm close to the ground.
“I will not separate them.”
Murphy’s growl faded.
Two emergency responders moved forward. They placed me on a stretcher while keeping Mave against my chest. Murphy followed beside us, never allowing more than a few inches between his body and mine.
The man walked with us.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Ronan Callahan.”
Even through the smoke in my head, I recognized the name.
Callahan shipping.
Callahan hotels.
Callahan political donations.
Callahan bodies found in rivers whenever newspapers became brave enough to print rumors.
The man beside me was not merely wealthy.
He was the person people in Boston lowered their voices to discuss.
I looked toward the burning mansion.
“Is this your house?”
“My brother’s.”
The gray mastiff shifted at the word.
Ronan noticed.
“Fion died last year,” he said. “Mave stopped eating after he never came home.”
I looked at the animal’s exposed ribs.
“She was left here alone?”
“Staff cared for her.”
“Not well.”
His jaw tightened.
Boon returned from the edge of the fire line.
His face held the expression of a man delivering news he wished were false.
“Sir, the interior security system was disabled before ignition.”
Ronan did not look away from Mave.
“Remote intrusion?”
“No.”
Boon lowered his voice.
“The cameras were wiped with a valid access code.”
The rain seemed suddenly colder.
“Whose code?” Ronan asked.
Boon glanced toward me before answering.
“Thomas Vale.”
My heart stopped.
Thomas Vale had been my father.
May you like
He had died three years earlier.
Continue to the next part: Ronan believes Marin’s dead father may have helped destroy the mansion, until Murphy’s hidden microchip connects him to Fion’s fatal car crash.
