“There wasn’t supposed to be anyone inside,” I hear someone say, and I don’t recognise his voice, but the police officer in me takes note of the man’s disbelief. “I . . . I thought it was empty.”
I drag my gaze from Freddie and turn it to the stranger beside me. Not quite a stranger, I’ve seen him before. He’s Freddie’s boss, and he’s shaking his head, mouth agog, not looking at the building but at Freddie by our feet.
Freddie’s the priority here, and I should be glad this guy sees it, but there’s something off about him. There’s some instinct that’s stirring inside me.
The man walks away from us, keeps going until he’s at the edge of the car park, then sits on the curb with his head in his hands.
“Liam,” Ryker says, and he reaches out to grip my ankle, but I take a step back. My brother’s eyes widen. “He needs you too.”
“You’ve got it covered.” I turn from him, from them.
“Hey, wait!” Ryker tries to get to his feet, but groans, and curls over while reaching for his back.
“Get yourself checked out.”
“But—”
“No buts,” I say and I walk away.
Ryker’s the hero, a wounded one at that, and whatever happened here put him and Freddie in danger. I’m going to find out how this fire started and who is responsible. I glance at Freddie’s boss, rocking as he sits in what looks like an attempt at self-soothing. It’s a gut feeling that this situation is to do with him, the boss, the owner of the building currently on fire.
The other fire department arrives on scene, and the chiefs converse and point at the building. I wait until they finish before strolling over and announcing myself to Ryker’s chief with an outstretched hand.
“I’m police sergeant Liam Bridges; I need to ask you a few questions . . .”
21
Ryker
Freddie lies in the hospital bed with a mask over his nose and mouth. His lips are pinched shut, and air wheezes in and out of his flaring nostrils. He’s conscious now, although his eyes are shut—scrunched shut—and deep wrinkles mar his brow as he grimaces.
The doctor listens to his chest, before nodding more to himself than Freddie. He’s content with the crackle and pop Freddie’s lungs make as he breathes. He’s wheezing less than when he first got brought in, and he did manage a few words to the doctors, but he hasn’t opened his eyes. The doctor lifted his lids forcefully to take a look, and again, nodded at his findings, but Freddie recoiled from him with a curse. I darted a panicked look at the doctor, but he replied that smoke inhalation often affects the nose, mouth, and eyes.
I knew that, of course I did, but still, Freddie in too much discomfort to open his eyes is getting to me. I’ve dimmed the lights in his cubicle in case he wants to try again at some point,and I’ve told him there’s no rush, but I’m desperate to look into his blue eyes.
The hollow of Freddie’s throat sucks in, and his nostrils are wide beneath the plastic mask. It looks like he’s trying to fend off a sneeze, but he’s actually fighting the urge to cough again. The doctor gives him a knowing look that slides towards frustration. Freddie doesn’t see it, but I do, and I glare. I’m not Liam, though. I can’t make strangers drop to the floor and show their bellies.
“If your body is telling you to cough, you need to cough.”
Freddie’s fingers tighten into the sheet when he does. It hurts him. He’s hoping small, from the back of the throat coughs will help, but he struggles to keep hold of the control then gives in to the harsh expel of air. They come out in a volley that bends him at the waist, lifting the back of his head from his pillow. His dry throat tears at the breath, snagging and ripping, and the accompanying whimper cuts into my heart.
“It’s okay, babe.” I put my hand over his and he releases the sheet, then stretches out his fingers for mine to slot through. I squeeze him, then the doctor leaves, and we sit like that for hours with the nurses and doctors occasionally checking in.
Liam doesn’t.
I need to wrangle my wayward brother, but I don’t want to leave Freddie on his own. He’s sleeping now, or at least I think he is. That or the painkillers being fed via drip into his arm are finally taking effect. His brow has relaxed, but I can still see the creases where he’d been frowning in pain, as if he was concentrating on it. His eyelids are red; his lashes poke out from swollen skin. I want to put a damp towel over them, soothe them, and I’m about to hit Freddie’s buzzer for the nurse, to ask for one, but then he speaks.
“Where’s Liam?”
It’s my turn to scrunch my eyes and grimace. “He’s on his way . . .”
Freddie moves his free hand from his stomach to the top of his chest. I eye it suspiciously but don’t say anything. Thirty seconds later Freddie’s wandering hand rests against his throat, then finally his mask. I hold it to his face before he pulls it off.
“The doc says you need to keep that on.”
Freddie’s hand falls back to the bed with a dramatic thud.
“Liam called me,” Freddie says. “He . . . he told me to get to the window, to shout your name.”