“I’m glad, Gray.” She squeezes his arm then, looking up at him in concern. “But are you all right? Does this bring back…you know, the memories? The lab fire?”
Doc’s face creases, and he bows his head, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He leans in and mutters something I can’t hear.
I feel weird.
Like maybe I shouldn’t be watching something this intimate.
It’s too private. I’m just an outsider here, not privy to all their pains and histories. I’m just standing here awkwardly holding an upset, nervous dog, shut out on the fringes.
I look away, glancing over the rows of pet carriers lining the back of Doc’s truck, full of angry cats, dogs, birds, even one very upset-looking pot-bellied pig.
It’s the pig’s carrier that catches my attention.
Because I think there’s a black envelope tucked into the handle of it.
Frowning, I drift closer and take the opportunity to ease my aching arms by setting the lab down in a free space in the back of the truck, right on top of a tarp so the frigid metal won’t hurt his paws. While the dog spins around in agitated circles and I try to calm him with scratches behind the ears, I brace my other hand against the edge of the truck bed and peer in for a closer look.
It’s an envelope, all right.
“Blake?” I call, looking over my shoulder.
He takes a second to break from his trance, staring up at the building with his mouth set in a grim, forbidding line. Then he looks at me, dark-blue eyes questioning, and I toss my head a little, beckoning him.
He trudges over. “What’s up, Peace? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
“Just a little dog spit frostbite,” I say with a tired smile, nodding my chin toward the pig’s carrier. “That envelope there…that’s not normal, is it?”
His face goes dark, almost wary. He leans in to tug it free from under the carrier’s handle. It’s stuck on surprisingly hard, and he has to yank a few times before it rips loose.
He flicks the flap with his thumb and spills a folded sheet of paper into his palm.
Blue.
Just like the last note he showed me.
Oh, no.
His face goes black with fury as he scans the handwriting I can just make out in dark slashes of ink, though I can’t tell what it says.
“Doc!” he barks. “Get your ass over here.”
Doc pulls away from Ember with a kiss on her forehead, glancing at us curiously, icing over with his usual stone-cold calm as he steps closer.
His expression barely twitches as he reads the note. But I swear, there’s something dark, something deadly in the gleam of his eyes.
“So now it’s my turn,” he says flatly. “I see.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, stepping closer. “What’s happening?”
I’m expecting them to ignore me. This isn’t my business.
But Blake turns the note so I can see. When I do, my blood runs colder than the winter wind battering us.
If only you’d kept your germs to yourself, Doctor. Heart’s Edge wouldn’t catch fever.
Fever.
Fire.
And I know this story, it’s the one that made headlines nationwide.
The corrupt company, Galentron, that used Heart’s Edge as this secret base to develop lethal weapons, and tried—twice—to cover up their tests with extreme force.
Doc was one of the scientists, I think, before he realized what it was really about and tried to shut it down.
Meanwhile, Leo—Nine—did shut it down. But at the cost of so many lives lost in the Paradise Hotel fire drama. His own huge, tattooed body was scarred wild, and he became a wanted man for years.
I feel dizzy.
Until a warm, wet, raspy tongue slides across my cheek.
I groan, pushing at the Labrador’s head.
“Stop that,” I mutter, which actually gets a smile out of Blake, however tired.
I wonder how much more he can take. All this pressure and stress before he snaps.
When the breaking point comes, it’s usually explosive, and it can hurt our bodies in ways we never recover from.
Part of me wants to drag Blake home right now. Get him on my table and do everything I can to relieve some of that stress.
But I know I can’t divert him from this.
“Stay here, try to keep them warm. Lots more blankets in the fire truck,” he tells me.
I can only listen, watching him walk away to disappear inside the ice cream shop.
At least that gives me and Ember something to do.
We grab the extra blankets and start using them to insulate the pet carriers. We know the sickest beasts crowding my car are warm with the heat going, but these poor things shouldn’t have to be shivering out here in the wind with just thin plastic walls to protect them. The blankets should help.
And my chocolate-furred friend gets a blanket of his own, wrapped snug around him, bundling him up. He finally calms down a bit, curling up in his spot in the back of the truck, resting his head on his paws. I settle on the tailgate, swinging my legs, scratching behind his ears and watching the few glimpses I can get of Blake through the shop’s boarded-up windows.