“Ma’am? Repeating the address, that’s twenty-seven Margolin, Boston, correct? We’ve got some power lines down and-Hold on please. Don’t hang up.” Jane heard the dispatcher’s voice connecting with someone, probably alerting the fire department. Jane strained to hear as she banged on the door again.
“Ella! Ella!” She touched the doorknob. Cold, even through her glove she could feel it was cold. She turned it. It opened.
“Ma’am? I have equipment on the way. Again, confirming it’s Boston, twenty-seven Margolin Street.”
“Yes, yes,” Jane said. How many times did she have to-“A white house, red brick trim, driveway, white front door. I don’t know if anyone is still inside. They might be. Should I go look?”
“No, ma’am,” the dispatcher’s voice was louder now. Insistent. “No. Please walk away from the building. As quickly as you can. Now.”
Jane stood on the porch, looking through the open door. She saw the living room. All looked fine.
“Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice cracked through. “Do you understand?”
“Reports of smoke showing at two-seven Margolin,” the deep voice of the BPD dispatcher bristled over the two-way in Jake’s cruiser. “Any available units are requested to…”
Jake stared at the blinking lights of his dashboard radio for an instant. Had he misunderstood? That’s where he’d been heading.
“Repeating, any available units to two-seven Margolin Street. Reports of smoke showing at a structure. All units fire and police, all units near and clear, please report. We have a caller on hold, awaiting…”
Shit. Jake flipped up his wig-wags, switched on the siren, hit the gas.
“Brogan responding to the available-units call,” he said into the radio. “ETA is in one minute.”
“Copy that, Detective. One minute.”
He felt his tires fishtail on the slick pavement, eased them straight again, powered through a red light, and banged the final turn toward Lillian Finch’s house. Shit. Maybe Perl had gotten there first.
Or maybe someone had gotten to Perl. If it was Perl.
Ella lifted the rack of files from the trunk, set the wire file holder on the braided rug, let the trunk lid thud close. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she stared at what was in the first manila folder she’d opened. The one marked BEERMAN.
A footprint. A photocopy, embossed with a notary seal. She ran her fingers over the raised letters. Woodmere Beach Hospital. The birthdate was-Ella quickly calculated-twenty-eight years ago. And it was marked BABY GIRL BEERMAN.
A tiny infant footprint, the incontrovertible evidence of identity. This was either Tucker Cameron’s footprint, or it wasn’t. Every folder she’d taken from Lillian’s desk Sunday night had been missing that one critical piece of paper. Ella had put those folders safely away, hiding them in her apartment.
Had Lillian taken the footprints out on purpose? Or had someone else removed the footprints-and Lillian found out? Found them?
Was Lillian saving the footprints that proved birth parents had been sent the wrong children? Why?
The rack also held files labeled HOFFNER. LAMONICA. DACOSTO. The very families she’d contacted.
And a dozen more. Were they all the wrong children?
What was that noise? Ella lifted her head. Scanned the room. Sniffed again.
Now she could see it. She wasn’t imagining it. That’s what she’d smelled. Not death. But smoke. Smoke. And now it was seeping into the windowless room. Wisps of gray curled through each metal vent lining one side of the room. And on the other side. Every one. No question. It stung her eyes. Filled her nose. Smoke.
Fire.
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher’s voice buzzed into Jane’s ear. “Are you away from the house? We need you to move away. Right now. Let us take care of this, ma’am. There are units en route. Please confirm you are away from the building.”
Jane stood in the doorway. She was brave, sometimes, but going into a burning building was-well, she’d done enough news stories to know what could happen. Sure there were sometimes those “hero” sound bites after. But not always.
The front door stood open now, no smoke in the entryway. Curvy wooden table under a framed mirror, circular rug. No smoke. Jane saw lights on in the living room and the back of the house. No smoke inside. Not that she could see. Maybe the fire was a little one, just in the basement. Maybe she should-
“Ella!”
“Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice. “I’m ordering you to-”
“Ella!” She screamed now. Ella’s car was still empty, that woman was somewhere, and if not inside this house, where? This had been Ella’s destination, she’d made that clear, and Jane had told her to wait. But Ella had obviously ignored her.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
She took a step inside.
67
“Jane!” Jake raced up the front walk, jacket flapping, his cruiser’s wig-wags bluing the snowflakes and siren wailing. Jane’s car sat across the street, behind a blue Accord. He’d instantly seen both were unoccupied.
What the hell was Jane doing here?
He saw the open doorway. Her unmistakable silhouette in the dim light from the home’s interior. Smoke puffed from an obviously broken basement window. The street seemed deserted, except for a light-colored van up the block. Half his brain noticed the van pull away.
“Jane! Stop!”
He reached the door, ran inside, grabbed her by the shoulder, yanked her toward him.
Was she crying? Her hair was coated with a melting layer of sleet, drops of water lining her face. She wore only one glove.
“Jane, what the hell are you doing?” He pulled her out the front door, feeling her stumble and shake him off, then stop resisting. “There’s a god damn fire.”
“I think there’s someone in there!” She pointed toward the house as he pulled her down the path to the sidewalk. “Ella Gavin. From the Brannigan. She told me she needed to get something of Lillian Finch’s. That Lillian had given her keys. I told her not to, but-”
Jane gulped, hands on knees, catching her breath. “So I had to-”
“You were going in?” Jake grabbed his radio, raising his voice over the siren. “Dispatch, this is Brogan at twenty-seven Margolin. Reporting an emergency. Confirm smoke is showing from basement window. Reports of a person or persons who may be trapped inside. Please advise of your ETA.”
He pulled Jane behind his cruiser, clutching her hand, snow swirling around them. “You’re completely crazy. Listen. Get across the street. Behind your car. Stay there. Stay down. Hear me?”
He turned her to face him, needing to let her know this was serious. Dangerous. She was crazy, his Janey, thinking she could go into a burning house.
He was going to kill her.
But first he had to go in. Try to save whoever was in there. “Do not go near that place. Engines are on the way, the fire isn’t even-”
There was a sound. A whoosh. A flash.
Jane ducked into Jake’s shoulder, shielding her eyes. Ella was inside. Jane knew she was, had to be, and it seemed she’d been inside way too long, and the fire department hadn’t even arrived, and someone needed to-
“Down!” Jake pulled her close, held her hard, his breath warm against her ear. Smoke plumed from the house. “Get down!” She’d never heard his voice like this. He clicked his radio.
“Dispatch? You copy?”
Jake yanked her, so hard her knees buckled and she grabbed his car door handle to stay standing. He was trying to protect her, she understood, but Ella was in there. Inside. Someone had to save her. Someone had to help.