A tall man in mirrored shades stood on her front steps, a duty badge on his hip, his dark hair ruffled by the wind.
She shouldered her camera bag and, still holding the music box, stepped outside. “I’m getting stuff together as fast as I can.”
“I’m Chief Deputy US Marshal Zach McBride. We need to move quickly. There’s not much time. What can I carry?”
She pointed to the bags inside the door. “That’s most of it. I’m Libby, by the way.”
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Libby.” He grabbed four bags at once— of course, he did—and followed her toward her Jeep.
Okay, yes, she’d noticed his biceps. Any straight chick or gay guy would. But she also noticed the wedding band. It didn’t matter anyway. She had Brandon.
Do you? Or did you chase him away?
She was walking down the flagstone path to her Jeep when she heard a bunch of somethings hit the concrete. She turned to find her sex toys scattered on her front steps.
“I apologize, Libby. The bag tore open.”
For one agonizing moment, she stood there in mortified silence, heat rushing into her face, her cheeks burning hotter than any fire. “Uh … God, I’m sorry. I’ll pick it up.”
Holy freaking shit! Could anything go right today?
She ran into the house, dragged her suitcase out of her closet, threw more clothes in it for good measure, then hurried outside and picked up her sex toys—her purple veiny dick vibrator, her rabbit vibrator, her silicone G-spot vibrator, a couple of vibrating cock rings, the pink vibrator, her fuzzy handcuffs, the silk cords she’d used to tie Brandon to her bed this morning, and two bottles of flavored lube.
Face still burning, she packed them all into her suitcase and closed it—just as two other men walked up.
“The other side of the road is cleared,” said one, a big man with short, dark hair.
“Need help there, McBride?” asked the other, also tall but with a dark ponytail.
“We’ve got it.” McBride took the suitcase from her. “I put your TV and laptop in the back seat. I think that’s the last of it. Do you want to take one last walk-through?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He glanced at his watch. “No more than two minutes.”
She walked back inside, grabbed her phone and computer chargers, and glanced around at everything she couldn’t take. Would it still be here tonight?
Tears running down her cheeks, she stepped onto her deck. A gray wall of smoke filled most of the horizon, rising high in the sky, an orange glow emanating from beneath it.
Flames. Fire.
Chills skittered down her spine.
The deputy US marshal’s voice came from the doorway. “Time to go!”
Be careful, Brandon!
She turned and walked away from her home, from most of the things she owned, not bothering to lock the front door.
Joaquin wrangledwith the county’s PIO—public information officer—until she finally agreed to let him follow the firefighting crews to wherever they were going.
Leah looked like she was about to panic at the thought of being left on her own. “What am I supposed to do? Shouldn’t I go with you?”
A woman with a notepad—obviously another journalist—walked up to them and offered Joaquin her hand. “I’m Wendy Hall with the Scarlet Springs Gazette.”
“I’m—”
“You’re Joaquin Ramirez—I know. I’ve admired your work for years. The photo series that won you the Pulitzer was incredible.”