Page 145 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

When he’d heard about the fire through the shared first responder radio channel, his first thought had been of Jules. Was she involved? Was she in danger?

Not his business, of course, since she was nothing more than a witness to him and her work had nothing to do with the case. Something he reminded himself repeatedly as he cruised the streets of Calgary with his partner, Coop. Besides, that was her job, fighting fires. Which meant she was often in danger, same as he was. A good reminder that he needed to focus on whathewas doing, not on what she was doing, or people could get hurt.

Then more details trickled in. One firefighter had been treated for smoke inhalation and another taken to the hospital. No names. No genders. Only chatter about possible arson and the firefighter who’d been hospitalized having a handcuff on one wrist after barely escaping the burning house.

A handcuff? How could that have happened? Had someone tried to prevent whoever it was from leaving the scene? Wasthere any chance this had to do with their missing murder suspect? That thought paralyzed him. If it did, there was a high probability that the injured firefighterwasJules.

When his shift finally ended, Dante headed straight to his superintendent’s office to fill her in on everything that was transpiring with the case. Somehow, he managed to convince her to make a few calls and confirm that the firefighter was Jules and which hospital she had been taken to. As desperate as he was to head over, Dante took two more minutes to persuade his boss to agree to him taking a week off of his regular duties to provide security for Jules, given that she was the star witness in a murder investigation and had clearly experienced a credible threat to her life today.

Now here he was. His worst fears confirmed. That psychopath had gotten to her. Could easily have killed her. Jules had been unconscious when she arrived at the hospital, and all the doctors would tell Dante, even after he flashed his badge, was that she was being treated for smoke inhalation.

He’d been in her room for two hours and even when he had spoken to her, touched her shoulder, she hadn’t opened her eyes. She hadn’t twitched a muscle, as far as he could tell. Was she in a coma? Was there any chance she wouldn’t wake up? The head of the bed was raised, likely to help her breathe better. Even so, every inhalation sounded as though it required effort.

That scene from a show he liked,This is Us, haunted him. The father had died after inhaling smoke from a house fire. After going to the hospital, being treated, and everyone thinking he was fine, he’d had a sudden heart attack and was gone, just like that.

Could the same thing happen to Jules?

Dante returned to the chair next to her bed, the one he hadn’t been able to sit on for more than a minute or two since he’darrived. Nervous energy had propelled him to his feet each time and he’d returned to pacing.

He reached for her hand. Her left wrist was bandaged. Was that from the cuff? If she’d been attempting to free herself for long, no doubt her skin was raw and chafed. He clenched his teeth.

When they did finally track this guy down, Dante would like nothing more than a few minutes alone with him. What he had in mind would likely end his career. In this moment, gazing at Jules’ closed, red-rimmed eyes, an oxygen tube inserted in her nose—an improvement, at least, over the intubation tube she’d had the first few hours she had been here—her hand small and limp in his, he couldn’t care less.

“Jules?” He’d said her name a hundred times with no response.

This time, though, her eyelids flickered slightly. Dante straightened. “Jules? Can you hear me?”

A low moan escaped her lips. The sound tore through him. Was she in pain? Helpless to do much to ease her discomfort, he held her hand in his right palm and rubbed slow circles over the back of it with his left. “Can you open your eyes?”

Her lids flickered again before she finally, finally lifted them. For a few seconds, she only gazed at him. Then she said, in a slightly raspy voice, “Frat Boy.” She glanced at their clasped hands but didn’t attempt to pull away.

Dante attempted a wry grin but couldn’t quite manage it. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible.” She pressed her free hand to her chest. “Hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. You breathed in a lot of smoke.”

Her lids flickered again, as though she was attempting to remember. If she couldn’t call the scene to her mind, what would she draw on—the smell of the smoke, the fear and frustration ofbeing trapped, the roaring of flames and wailing of sirens? The intense heat? All of those, maybe.

Emotions passed like shadows over her face before she closed her eyes. “He was there.”

“Yes.”

“He tried…” A fit of coughing gripped her, and Dante let go of her hand so she could keep the other pressed to her chest as she lifted her wrist to her lips.

It felt like forever, but at last the coughing eased. “Water.”

He grabbed the glass sitting on a wheeled cart next to the bed and held the straw to her lips. After several sips, she waved the glass away. “Tried to kill me.”

Dante nodded. “I know.” He hesitated, not wanting to push her before she was ready but deeply aware that every second counted. “You saw him, Jules?”

“Eyes.” She waved her fingers feebly in front of her bloodshot ones. “Respirator.”

“Did you note anything?”

Her lids drifted closed. “Strange amber color. Brown flecks. Set deep. Little lines extending from the corners. A few freckles across the top of his nose.” She slumped against the pillows as though the effort of speaking—or maybe of remembering—had taken everything from her. Without opening her eyes, she mumbled, “Thick, dark eyebrows.”

Dante had brought the sketch pad with him, stuck inside a bag propped against the chair leg. He snatched it up now, along with a sharp pencil, and filled the eyes in on the portrait slowly—painfully slowly—taking shape. After a moment, he turned it toward her. “Like this?”