Flash Burned (Burned 2)

“Ammonium nitrate … explosion…”

“Needed volunteer firefighters from Oak Creek and Flagstaff…”

“Search and rescue team onsite…”

“Others released from the ER … Just Ari under observation…”

“Police have questions … FBI has been called in … Criminal investigation…”

My eyes remained closed and I drifted back into darkness.

I came to from time to time, surmising I was in a hospital room. But the pain was so excruciating, I didn’t move or bother to open my eyes. Why didn’t they give me something more potent?

My best guess was that if I had a concussion they’d prefer I be awake as much as possible the first twenty-four hours.

Impossible.

It wasn’t so much that I slept … I was pretty sure I blacked out from the throbbing, the haze, and the sheer torment of it all.

It took a while for coherent thoughts to gel in my mind. I had no idea how long, but eventually I was a bit clearer in the head. I licked my lips, only to discover they were coated with a vanilla-flavored balm that my dad or one of the nurses must have brought from the gift shop. My mouth, however, was bone-dry.

I noted that my breathing wasn’t quite normal, coming in heavy pulls. And I was nauseous.

Finally mustering some strength, I forced my lids open. Stared across the room at where Kyle sat in a chair, flipping agitatedly through a magazine, not even stopping to read the articles or view the pictures.

I jerked awake at the sight of him. Worse for wear, what with some bandages and burns, but sitting right there beside me.

“Oh, thank God you’re alive!” The enthusiasm echoed in my head, not my voice. It was a mere wisp of air.

Kyle tossed aside the magazine. My dad, who’d paced alongside him, came to an immediate halt. They’d changed clothes, but they both had fresh scrapes and bruises that told me I hadn’t been out too long. Maybe no more than a day or so.

They both closed in on me. I tried to remain focused. Funny, with all the napping, I should feel refreshed and alert. Instead, I was thoroughly exhausted. Like I could sleep away the rest of the month.

Dane would never let me get away with that.

Dane.

I sat bolt upright at the thought of him. Then promptly let out an ear-piercing wail at the pain that shot through me. I dropped back to the bed.

“Ari,” my dad said, his voice thick with worry.

I couldn’t concentrate on him, what with the blinding agony and the sudden reminder of what Chef D’Angelo had said.

“Dad

.” I reached out for him, groping the air. He helped out, clasping my wrist. I realized my hands were wrapped in bandages.

During my drifting in and out, in another conversation I’d heard someone mentioning I had nearly twenty stitches along my hairline. Yet another scar, compliments of the corrupt members of the secret society. And I’d needed a dozen more stitches on my palms from the cuts I’d collected when trying to help the others who’d escaped the hotel.

But that was really of little concern at the moment.

“Where’s Dane?” I demanded. “Why isn’t he here?”

Because what Chef D’Angelo had told me could not be true.

The door flew open and a nurse rushed in—clearly, she’d heard my scream.

My dad told her, “She’s in a lot of pain. Can’t you give her something stronger?”