Into the Fire Read Free Page A

took a carton of milk, opened it and drank.
    She wondered what he’d do if she fainted. She was tempted—she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, and after her long, cold walk she was toohot, dizzy, ready to collapse, and he hadn’t even offered her a chair. She should walk to the nearest one and sit, but for some reason she couldn’t move.
    She realized he was looking at her again. His eyes were just as cold, just as blue as she remembered. “You look like shit,” he said.
    â€œThank you.”
    He pushed away from the sink. “Come on. I don’t feel like carrying you upstairs if you pass out.”
    He was more observant than she realized. There were at least three closed doors leading off the small kitchen. He opened one to reveal a dark, narrow flight of stairs.
    He took them two at a time. She hauled herself up with the handrail, slowly, knowing he was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.
    He didn’t move out of her way when she reached the second floor. He moved to take her arm, and she jerked away from him in sudden panic.
    She could feel nothing beneath her—she was falling, and she was going to break her neck on these rickety stairs, and then what would her mother do, and what the hell did she care, and…
    He caught her arm and yanked her back onto solid ground. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he snapped.
    He was very strong. Stronger than she remembered. She’d have bruises on her arm.
    â€œYou can let go of me now,” she said.
    â€œAnd have you take a header down the stairs? I don’t think so.” He moved down the hallway, dragging her after him.
    The bare lightbulb overhead did little to illuminate their way. The place smelled of gasoline and cooking and all sorts of other smells she didn’t even want to think about. He pushed open a door and pulled the string from overhead. The light didn’t come on.
    â€œShit,” he muttered. “Stay here.”
    At least he let go of her. She stood in the hallway, waiting, while he disappeared behind another door. When he came back he was carrying a sleeping bag and a small lamp. He pushed past her into the room, and in a moment the light came on. He’d plugged it in and set it on the floor next to the mattress that lay there, the only thing in the small, bare, dismal room.
    He tossed the sleeping bag on the mattress. “You’ll have to make do with that. The bathroom’s down the hall. You want something to sleep in?”
    â€œI’ll keep my clothes on.”
    His smile was cool and fleeting. “I’m sure youwill. Go to sleep, Jamie. Tomorrow you’ll be safely on your way home.”
    And before she could respond he closed the door, shutting her into the tiny, empty room.
    Â 
    Someone was there, in the huge old building. He knew it without seeing, without hearing. Knew that someone had finally come, to break him free from the stasis that had held him .
    Was the newcomer afraid of ghosts? He didn’t want to scare whoever it was. Not yet, at least. First he had to see if they were of any use .
    And if they’d help him kill Dillon Gaynor. He’d been waiting too long. It was time for Dillon to pay .

2
    J amie found the bathroom, a mixed blessing given its condition. She never could figure out why men were such utter pigs—it must have something to do with that extra chromosome. The only towel in sight was a dismal shade of gray, so she simply used her hands to wash her face, then glanced up at her reflection.
    Waif, was it? At twenty-eight years old Jamie Kincaid looked much as she’d always looked. Pale skin, gray eyes, hair an indiscriminate shade between brown and blond.
    She pushed her hair away from her face, staring at her reflection thoughtfully. Good bones, good skin, even features. Nothing to write home about, but nothing to be ashamed of, either. She was never going to attract the kind of dangerous attention from