Torch (Wildwood 3)

“I remember the fire.” Her voice was hollow. Sort of how she felt inside.

Empty.

“You fainted, and I caught

you. You were pretty much out of it the entire drive here, and I half walked, half carried you inside.” He grabbed hold of her hand and she flinched, shocked at the spark of heat that flamed between them. “You really don’t remember?”

She wracked her brain, trying to piece it all together. The fire was burned into her memory—no pun intended—and the fear combined with relief she remembered seeing in her brother’s face when he found her. The realization that she’d lost all of her belongings, her house, everything. How overwhelmed she’d felt. How lost.

“Sort of,” she finally said, shrugging one shoulder. “Am I wearing your shirt?”

“Well, yeah.” When their gazes snagged, he offered her a tiny smile. “I helped you change into it.”

Oh, great. That meant he saw her pretty much naked because she wore no bra—she didn’t even own a freaking bra now—and the tiny panties she remembered slipping on last night were truly a waste of fabric.

“I saw nothing,” he reassured her, like he could read her mind. “I pulled the T-shirt over your head and it fell to about midthigh. Then I just tugged your dress off from beneath the shirt and pushed you into bed.”

“Really?” She sounded skeptical, but come on. This was Tate she was talking to. He was always making sexual innuendos at her expense.

“Scout’s honor.” He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I didn’t see a thing.”

Any other morning she would’ve laughed. She would’ve secretly wished he’d seen everything. She might’ve even whipped his T-shirt off and given him a glimpse of what he missed—if she was feeling particularly brave.

But she was experiencing none of those things now. Not a one of them. Instead, all she could feel was this foreboding sense of despair. Emptiness. She had nothing to her name other than her car, her purse, and her phone.

Tears threatened, and her eyes stung. She closed them tight, not wanting to cry. Willing the tears to go away, she sucked in a shaky breath and told herself to get it together.

Hold it together.

“I know you probably don’t want to deal with this right now, but Josh is here. He wants to talk to you,” Tate said, his voice gentle. He could probably see that she was on the verge of completely falling apart.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her closely. “Who’s Josh?”

“An arson investigator from headquarters. He wants to talk to you about last night. See if you can remember anything.”

“I don’t know . . . ” Her voice drifted, and she glanced down, realizing that her fingers were still entwined with Tate’s. She gave them an experimental squeeze, and he squeezed them back, his touch gentle, his rough fingertips rubbing against hers and making her stomach warm and fizzy.

“It’s best if he talks to you now, when your memory is still fresh,” Tate said.

Ha. Her memory felt like it was packed full of cotton. White and gauzy and hard to see through. “I’m probably no help. I wasn’t there when it started.”

“He just wants to ask you a few questions.”

Sighing, she lifted her head, her gaze meeting Tate’s once more. “You’ll go out there with me?”

He nodded.

“I don’t have anything to wear.” She pressed her lips together. Don’t cry.

“Slip your dress on under the T-shirt.”

“I’ll look stupid.”

“Josh doesn’t care what you look like, Dove. He just wants to talk to you. That’s it.”

Tate was right. She was being silly. Nodding reluctantly, she let go of Tate’s hand and he sprang from the chair as she eased herself off the bed. He brought her dress to her, handing it over. “I’ll tell him you’ll be out in a sec.”

“Okay.” She swallowed and made a face. God, her mouth tasted terrible. “Do you have a spare toothbrush maybe?”