Nothing to it, she thought semihysterically. She unlocked and lifted the sash window, peering down at lawn that in early April was still winter brown and probably rock hard. She could scream for help...but what if men who had set the fire came instead of neighbors?
Gasoline, that’s what she smelled. This fire hadn’t started with a spark in the wiring or a frayed electrical cord.
After shoving the window screen until it popped out and fell, she said, “Come here, sweetie.”
Chloe obeyed, thank goodness. Trina rushed to the bed for the two pillows and, leaning out the window, dropped them to the ground. They looked puny below. What were the odds they’d help break a fall? But she couldn’t think what else to do. Remembering her phone, she picked it up and dropped it, too. It bounced off one of the pillows onto the dark ground.
A sheet. She snatched it from the bed, horrified to see that the door glowed fiery orange and was dissolving before her eyes.
Twisting the sheet into an impromptu rope, she tied one end around Chloe’s waist. Then she cupped the child’s face with her hands. “I’m going to dangle you as far as I can with the sheet, but then I’ll have to drop you. Just let yourself roll, okay?”
“No!” Chloe flung her arms around one of Trina’s legs and held on frantically. “I don’t wanna! Please! Don’t make me!”
Throat tight, chest hurting, Trina said, “We don’t have any choice.” She wrenched a squirming, fighting Chloe away. Maneuvering her out the window was a nightmare, with the sobbing child flailing and trying to grab hold of her again. Finally, she was able to start lowering her.
The sheet ran out sooner than she’d hoped. Heat seared her back. She was out of time. I have to drop her.
But somebody ran across her yard and positioned himself below the window. “Let her go. I’ve got her.”
Trina recognized the voice of a brawny young guy who still lived with his parents on the block. With a whimper, she released the sheet and saw him catch Chloe.
The fire behind her had become so intense she didn’t hesitate. She climbed out, turned and grasped the edge of the window frame...and let go.
* * *
ACHING, STILL FILTHY, grateful for the pain meds that kept her from fully feeling the burns and bruises, Trina sat holding an armful of little girl. Her position was awkward, rocked to one side so that most of her weight was almost on her hip. Her back and butt had been slathered with ointment and covered with gauze before nurses helped her put on scrubs to replace her ruined T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.
“There’s some blistering,” the doctor had told her. “Minimal, but you had a close call.”
No kidding.
“It’s going to hurt,” he’d continued, “but if you have someone who can reapply the ointment, and if you take the pain medication as prescribed instead of trying to tough it out, I won’t insist you be admitted.”
He hadn’t asked if she had anywhere to go to, given that her house had just burned to the ground, but she’d called one of the two partners in her counseling practice. Josh Doughten and his wife, Vicky, had become good friends. Good enough to be a logical choice for her to call in the middle of the night. Plus, their two daughters were both away at college, so Trina knew they had empty bedrooms. Josh hadn’t even hesitated; he said he would get dressed and come immediately for her and Chloe.
But they wouldn’t be able to stay with the Doughtens long. She couldn’t endanger Josh and Vicky. What Trina wanted to do was jump—okay, climb slowly and carefully—into her car and drive away. Far away.
Two problems with that. Her car had been in the attached garage and was presumably part of the “total loss” the fire captain had described. Problem two? So was everything in the house, from her clothes to her purse, wallet and credit cards. The only thing she’d salvaged was her cell phone. Until she visited the Department of Motor Vehicles and the bank, she couldn’t even pay for a motel. Assuming anyone would rent a room to a crazy-looking woman with bare feet, wearing scrubs and carrying a kid who didn’t look any better than she did.
The police would probably offer her and Chloe protection, but it would come at a price. After all her effort to hold them off, they’d have the access to Chloe they’d been so desperate to get. In phone messages left in the last day and a half, initial begging had progressed to pestering and finally threatening. They didn’t understand the damage they could do to a fragile young child by trying to dig out answers too soon. And yes, Trina sympathized, but the murder victims were dead. Arresting the killers wouldn’t bring Chloe’s family back. But she was alive, and protecting and healing her had become Trina’s mission.
As if she’d conjured them, the two men entered the cubicle where she waited. Risvold was middle-aged and softening around the middle, his blond hair graying. His partner, in contrast, had to be over six feet and was strongly built. His skin was bronzed, whether from sun or genetics, and he had black hair and dark eyes.
His eyes as well as Risvold’s latched on to Chloe with an intensity that made Trina want to shrink back. Her arms tightened protectively.
“I already talked to the arson investigator,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll give you his report.”
Detective Risvold slid one of the plastic chairs to face hers, and sat down with a sigh. Deperro hung back. Good cop, bad cop?
“I’m sure he will, but his job has a different focus than ours,” Risvold said. “So I’d like you to tell us what you saw and heard.”
“Just a minute.” She stood up with Chloe in her arms and left the cubicle. Several people glanced up from where they sat at the nurses’ station. “Excuse me. The police are here to talk to me. Is there any chance someone could hold Chloe for a few minutes so she doesn’t have to be there?”
A motherly looking nurse leaped up and volunteered.
“You won’t take your eyes off her for a second?”
“Promise.”
Fortunately, the little girl was still asleep, a deadweight when Trina transferred her to the other woman’s arms.
Then she returned to the cubicle, where she repeated her story briefly.
“You hadn’t seen anyone hanging around?” Risvold asked. “No car parked on your block that didn’t look familiar? Think hard, Ms. Marr.”
She was really tempted to remind him that she was actually Dr. Marr. Not something she usually insisted on, but this man’s condescension raised her hackles. “The answer is no. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“The faster we’re able to hear what, er, Chloe saw, the sooner you’ll both be safe.”
Hurting, scared and mad, Trina said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t make her your focus right now. For one thing, it’s obvious your wandering crazy is off the table as a suspect.”
“What do you mean?” Gee, Detective Deperro spoke.
“I mean, would he have it together enough to understand that a small child might be able to identify him? And know where she was staying? Oh, and set the fire without a soul seeing him?”
Deperro’s jaw tightened.
She leaned toward them. “Try looking at your own department, why don’t you? It’s been nearly a month since the murders. Chloe and I have been fine. The day before yesterday, I told you she’d begun to speak, that I thought it wouldn’t be long before we could try asking her questions. Then tonight someone set my house on fire when the two of us were asleep inside. How many people knew what I told you? Who did they talk to?”
“Miss Marr... Katrina.” To his credit, Detective Deperro looked worried. “What about her day care? Is there anyone there who would have