Chapter 11

Spenser had never felt sohelpless, and he wasn't even related to Bucky.

But he sort of felt like Bucky. Because he'd been Bucky, the kid on set who was bored, or curious, or sometimes in the way. Until season three when he'd become the lead.

Then he'd just let Quillen become him.

"Are you absolutely sure Bucky didn't wander off?"

He stood in the craft services tent—shut down now for the day—with the Ember Sheriff, a man named Hutchinson, while Emily pulled her Incident Commander aside and briefed him on the fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her becoming passionate with hand gestures and pointing. As soon as they found Bucky, he'd fill the Sheriff's ear about the two gunmen in the woods.

"Yes. Gemma went to get him from the trailer, and there was a note on the table. It said— "I've taken Bucky."

"Was it signed?"

"Yeah, by Gil." Cosmos lifted his hand, wringing the back of his neck.

Gil. Who was— "The set PA? Maybe he took him to run lines?—"

"Gil's the one who's been sabotaging us." This from Swen who had come out of the darkness from the SFX trailer. "We have him on camera in the house, probably dousing the curtains with spray accelerant. And the costume assistant said that he came in to get Kathryn's dress to bring it to the costume trailer."

"Gil? Skinny Gil?"

"Gil Francisco. He worked for me as an SFX assistant a couple years ago on a movie. He set up a fire scene wrong and nearly killed three people. I fired him on the spot. I didn't even see him on set until yesterday, after the barn fire. And that's when I approached Cosmos with my suspicions."

"What does he want with Bucky?" Spenser asked.

"I don't know," Swen said.

"Did you find out he took Bucky before or after you suspected him of sabotaging the set?" Spenser asked.

"After," Swen said. "Why?"

"Maybe he's onto?—"

"He's back!" Gemma's voice raised across the parking lot, and she took off running as Bucky climbed down from a truck. She scooped him up in her arms.

Gil got out of the driver's side. Shut the door. "What's going on? Did someone get hurt?" He walked toward Cosmos and Swen even as Sheriff Hutchinson strode up to him.

"Where were you?"

Gil frowned, glanced at Cosmos, back to the Sheriff. "I went to town with Bucky. We had ice cream. He was wandering around the set, looking for his mom, and when I couldn't find her either, I thought maybe he'd like some ice cream. I checked with craft services, but Julia didn't have any, so we went to town."

"I was crazy with worry!" Gemma said, holding Bucky's hand, charging up to him. "What about the note?"

"What about the note?" Gil said. "I left it in the trailer so you knew that he was with me."

"It said, ‘I took Bucky' — what kind of person writes that?" Cosmos said.

"A responsible one? Sheesh. What—wait. Did you think I took him? As in kidnapped him?" Gil looked at Bucky, back to Cosmos. "Why would I do that?"

"I fired you five years ago for nearly killing people on set. And now?—"

"Hey." Gil held up his hand. "Yeah, you're right. I was in way over my head. But I've been working as a PA for five years. I didn't even know you were the SFX guy until I got here. And believe me, I've been trying to stay out of your way."

"Hiding is more like it. What were you doing in the house?"

Gil frowned at him. "What house?"

"The cabin that burned down a week ago," Spenser said quietly. He'd lost track of Emily in all the chaos.

"I wasn't in the house," Gil said.

"We have you on camera."

Gil just looked at him. "I have no memory of that. I might have gone into the house when Trace was blocking his scene—I remember getting him from his trailer. But that's all."

"And you had access to Kathryn's dress. It was sprayed with accelerant."

Gil's mouth opened. "I brought it to the costume tent. Left it hanging there for her."

"Was Kathryn there?"

"No, she was…um. Wait. She was behind the tent, having a fight. I remember voices."

"With whom?"

"I don't know. I didn't stick around. A man."

A beat, and Cosmos took a breath, looked at the sheriff.

"You're fired," Swen said.

"Hey!" Gil said. "That's not fair."

Cosmos clamped him on the shoulder, his voice calm. "Sorry, Gil. Until we figure this out, we need you off the set."

"I didn't do anything!"

Cosmos nodded. "Stick around town—I promise, as soon as we clear this up, you can come back."

Gil's mouth tightened around the edges. "I quit. This movie is cursed. It's a regular Macbeth."

Everyone stilled.

"You did not just say that," Spenser said.

Gil held up his hands, backed away. Looked at the sheriff. "I'll give you my cell phone if you need to get a hold of me."

The Sheriff walked with him to his truck.

Spenser turned back to Cosmos and Swen. "You believe him?"

"I'm just glad to have Bucky back." Cosmos looked at Spenser, gave him a once over. "What happened to you?"

Where did he start? The river? The mine? The attempt on his life?

"It's a long story." He looked around. "Have you seen Emily?"

"The firefighter? No. Maybe she's with the Ember Incident Commander."

Right. But he didn't see him, either.

"Listen, we're striking the set and moving the trailers. Just the honey wagon and the production trailer up at the house tomorrow. We have a short turn-around, and the call time is five a.m., so get some shut-eye."

Sure. Right after he found Emily. And got his leg wound looked at. It had stopped bleeding, so maybe the cut wasn't as deep as he thought. But first, he headed toward the Sheriff. "I need to talk to you," he said. "I need to report an attempted murder."

Sheriff Hutchinson turned away from Gil. "Oh?"

"A couple guys chased me and my…uh, friend into a mine today. Shot at us."

"What guys?"

"They were up by the old mine, in a cabin."

"The same cabin that exploded earlier today?"

He blinked at him. "You know about that?"

"An aerial spotter called it in. They're always doing flyovers this time of year, looking for fires. Commander Dafoe sent in his fire team earlier today to suppress it, so it's being worked on."

Maybe Emily went down to the fire station.

"I'd like to take a statement from you and your friend?—"

"Emily Micah. She's a hotshot."

"Then she's probably deployed with her team."

"No, she was here just a bit ago with her Incident Commander."

"That was Commander Dafoe. He was headed up to the fire and just stopped by to make sure the crew was leaving the area. He left about ten minutes ago." A call came in over the radio, and he stepped away to respond to it.

Spenser stared out into the darkness, north, where he could just barely make out the flicker of orange.

His stomach knotted, and all he could think was, be with her, Jesus.

"I'll meet you at the station." The sheriff turned back to Gil.

Spenser headed to the props trailer and found some tape, then went to his trailer, took a shower, doctored the wound. Nope, not as deep as he thought, but he'd have a decent scar. Then he changed clothes, and packed up a few things—his script, a water bottle?—into his satchel. Finally he went out and got on his bike. His shoulder still ached, but he could manage the bike if he took it easy.

The craft services tent was already down, the grips were loading the cameras onto trucks, the gaffers breaking down the lights.

For a second, he stood there— the sense of loss, or grief, maybe, sweeping through him. He'd had the same feeling when they'd struck the set of Trek of the Osprey.

As if he'd lost a piece of himself.

His words to Emily in the cave pinged back to him. Like ten years of playing a character you desperately want to be like, only to have it end. And then you discover that you're not him. And never will be.

But maybe he hadn't lost Quillen. Maybe Quillen was inside him.

Maybe he was Quillen.

I would rather sit here with the real Quillen Cleveland and finish off this pizza.

Maybe the best part of Quillen actually came from him, and he should stop trying so hard to separate them.

Oh, he was just tired. And missing Emily.

He drove into town and headed to the Ember police station.

Sheriff Hutchinson was already there and assigned a deputy to take his statement. He sat for a good hour reliving the terror of the day, offering a description of Skinny and Ponytail man to the police, along with his recollection of the explosion. They'd shown him a few pictures of local guys, former troublemakers, but he hadn't recognized any of them as the gunmen.

His stomach was furious and empty by the time he left the station. Nine p.m. The Hotline was probably still serving barbeque.

He found himself, instead, parked in front of Emily's house. The light burned inside, and he spotted movement. He sat for a second, not sure what he wanted to say to her. Wait for him? Come with him?

Maybe just…I love you? He blew out a breath. Okay, that did sound a little crazy, but…fear or faith, right?

He got off the bike and went to the door. Knocked.

No answer. He tried the knob, and the door turned. He stuck his head inside. "Emily?"

The shower was running.

He hesitated, but then stepped inside and went to the bathroom door. "Hey, Emily, I'm just here in your living room. I was thinking we could grab a bite at the Hotline."

No answer.

Her bedroom door was open—or at least he guessed it might be hers, given the yellow helmet on the dresser, her name across the brim. His gaze landed on her made bed.

No, on his face on a massive blanket on her made bed.

What—?

He couldn't stop himself from stepping inside the room. Staring at the blanket. What on earth?

"Oh, I don't think you were meant to see that."

He stilled, turned.

Her roommate JoJo stood in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her hair up in a towel.

"What is this?"

"A blanket?"

He gave her a look. "Where did she?—"

"It was an exclusive gift for?—"

"Members of the Stormies." He let out a breath. "Only the top fans got these. The ones who subscribed to the Stormie box, the ones who attended the private fan get-togethers, and who came to Comic Con. There were only 100 of these blankets made. And she has one."

JoJo nodded. "She's a…mega fan."

His gaze fell to the bookshelf and again, he simply froze.

"She has every season of Trek of the Osprey on Blue ray," he said softly. "She brought it with her?"

His gaze now landed on a bobble head of Quillen on her desk and then—he stepped closer.

A picture in a frame of a much younger Emily, and a much younger Quillen, taken at a comic con, maybe ten years ago. And he'd signed it. To Emily. The adventure awaits!

"You okay?" JoJo said.

No. Not even a little. How had he not seen this? So many clues.

She could quote lines. Could name content from specific episodes. Did she know about his life? The stalker?

He picked up a wooden plaque on the desk. Stared at it. Nizaagi"ian

"What is that?" JoJo asked. "I never understood the writing."

"It's Iwoni. The word for love in a made-up language." He set the plaque down, his stomach roiling.

I would rather sit here with the real Quillen Cleveland and finish off this pizza.

"I might be sick."

And then, even as he turned and pushed past JoJo, out the door, it occurred to him.

What if Emily was the saboteur? What if she'd created the fires to make sure she could be on set?

"Spenser? Do you want to wait for her? She's at the fire house—I saw her there when our team came in."

"No." He hit the door. "Don't tell her I was here."

In fact, maybe he never was.

* * *

Probably, she should be with her team, helping fight the fire, but Emily saw the signs.

Gemma was one bad moment away from a panic attack.

Which was why, as soon as Sheriff Hutchinson tracked down Gil to get the lowdown, Emily had gone over to Gemma and asked to take her home. Where she could feel safe. Tuck Bucky into bed. Stand at his door and remind herself that her world wasn't imploding.

So, she hadn't said goodbye to Spenser, who was locked in a conversation with Cosmos and Swen, and instead directed Gemma to her car where Emily took the keys and drove her home.

Gemma sat in the back seat with Bucky, holding him.

"Mom—you're hurting me!"

And it would only get worse if Gemma didn't unwind from her trauma, her worry.

Gemma directed her to a small bungalow just a few blocks from Emily's rental. Perfect. She could walk home. And tomorrow, maybe get a ride back up to the set on Spenser's bike to retrieve her truck.

"I'm just going to walk you guys inside," Emily said as Gemma got out.

Gemma just nodded, her face white.

Something wasn't right here, she knew it in her bones.

Weeds and scrub grass grew like a jungle in the yard, bugs darting in and out of the light of a bare bulb by the door.

The unlocked door.

But then again, this was Ember.

She walked into an entryway filled with clutter—boxes piled up by the door, and in the living room, toys and games and clothing, and more boxes. Laundry buried a sofa. "Are you moving?" Emily asked.

"I wish," Gemma said softly.

She entered the kitchen and turned on the lights. The sink was empty, the counter clean, but the trash had been stacked above the garbage can—cereal and macaroni and hamburger helper and chip bags—the debris of someone too tired to cook.

"Are you hungry, Bucky?" Emily asked.

Bucky shook his head.

"Gemma, it's late. Why don't you get him into bed?" While she tidied up a bit.

Gemma disappeared down the hallway with Bucky, and Emily found an empty grocery bag and filled it with garbage, then tied the plastic garbage bag and pulled it from the can.

She found the door to the garage and paused a moment at the debris that cluttered the space. A truck sat in the middle of the garage surrounded by bags and bags of garbage and broken furniture—a chair, a table, a lamp. In the bed of the truck was a porch swing, in pieces.

Oh boy.

She shut the door, then found more trash bags under the sink and refilled the can. Then she dumped sour milk, sitting in a gallon jug on the table, put the sticky bowl in the sink, and discovered a stash of Gatorade bottles sitting on the floor by the sliding glass door.

"That belonged to Doug, my husband. Bucky's father."

Emily stood up. "They're unopened."

"I know. It was the last thing he bought before he went to work."

"I'm so sorry." She knew he'd died—had seen the pictures at the Hotline. "How long has he been gone?"

Gemma wiped her hands on her pants, then walked over to a kitchen chair and sat down. Looked out the window. She was a pretty woman—mid-thirties, maybe, with dark hair, a few lines around her eyes. "Eight years ago. Bucky was a month old."

Emily tried not to react. To just…breathe.

Eight. Years.

"I've had a little trouble moving on." She sighed. "I started gathering his clothes a few years ago, put them in boxes, but…I don't know. I just can't get rid of them. And then there are the donations—people gave us toys and clothes for Bucky—they still do. But it feels so…I don't know. I just can't seem to figure out a way to…" She sighed. "I don't know what I would have done if Bucky was actually kidnapped. Or hurt… He's my whole life."

Emily pulled out a chair. "I know you're traumatized, Gemma, but Bucky isn't. Not right now. He doesn't know what you suspected. So, don't live there. Don't let your brain spiral out into the what ifs. What do you know is true right now?"

Gemma looked at her. Sighed. "Bucky is safe. In bed, reading. And…"

"C'mon. More. And?"

"And I'm safe too?"

"Yes, you are." She touched her arm. "A terrible thing happened to you and Bucky, and your husband. And I'm so sorry. I can imagine how difficult it's been for you to move on."

"But I want to move on. I mean—I don't want to forget him. But I feel like I'm trapped. I can't seem to let him go, but I also don't want to drown, either. And…"

"And that's what happens when all you see is the things that you lost."

She nodded.

"Okay, listen. I'm not a therapist, so I'm going to say right now that I have the name of one, and you need to get grief counseling. And therapy. But as a person who lived through trauma, I want you to know there is an exit. There is light waiting. You will get through this, and you will be free from the terrible weight of grief, at least most of the time. You will learn to live again. Even, find peace."

Even as she said it, the words settled inside.

Maybe that's what it means to be well—to know you're safe, even when you feel like you're falling.

In fact, she hadn't suffered a panic attack in…well, given she'd nearly been buried alive in a mine, and drowned in a waterfall, maybe the fact she hadn't crumbled, hadn't had the world close in seemed a lot like peace.

Maybe it's not about where you are, or what's happening around you, but who you're with.

She looked at Gemma. "Listen. You're not alone, Gemma. The firefighting community needs to know you need help. Because that's why we're here. As soon as we get this fire out, we'll be by to help you with the boxes, and the yard, and the garage—" She raised an eyebrow.

"The truck doesn't run. And the garbage cans are stuck behind the truck."

For eight years. "We can fix that too."

Tears streaked down Gemma's face. "Thank you, Emily. You should be a trauma therapist."

Emily stilled. "What?"

"Oh, I didn't mean you're not a great firefighter. Just…you seem to understand and…I guess that's a sort of gift. Thank you."

A sort of gift. "You're welcome. Let's finish cleaning this kitchen, and then I need to get back to the fire house and see if my team needs me."

"I still have Doug's radio. I know—crazy, but they never asked for it back, and sometimes I just think of his voice coming through on the other side so…anyway, they deployed the smokejumpers with the hotshots, but they got the fire routed toward the river, so they're coming back for the night."

Good. Because next on her agenda was to find Spenser.

And tell him…what? She loved him? And what good would that do—he was leaving.

But maybe she should stop looking ahead, letting the what-ifs turn her to panic. Fear or Faith?

She helped Gemma clean the kitchen, swept the floor and made her some scrambled eggs, then she walked the three blocks to her house.

The light was on, and she went inside. Music played from JoJo's room. Ben Rector. "JoJo? When did you get back?"

"Oh, Emily." JoJo came from the room, her dark hair still wet. She wore a tank top and jeans. "Spenser was here."

"He was—do you know where?—"

"He saw the blanket."

She blinked at her. "What?"

"He walked into the house—I was in the shower. He thought I was you—so I got out as fast as I could and tried to intercept him, but I found him in your room."

"The blanket was on the bed."

"His gorgeous face, right there. And he knew it was from a fan box. Apparently, one of 100?"

Oh no. "He saw the comic con picture?"

"Probably. And you have some plaque written in?—

"Nizaagi"ian. It means I love you in Iwoni."

"Yep. That."

Oh. Okay, calm down. So, she was a fan of Quillen.

He wasn't Quillen—sure, maybe Quillen had a few of his qualities, but Spenser Storm was so much more. Flawed, honest, uncertain, brave?—

Quillen was a shadow of the real man.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He mentioned going to the Hotline."

She should change clothes—she was still in her grimy, mine-caked, water-rumpled fire attire. No time for a shower, though.

As she changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, her gaze fell on her complete collection of Trek seasons on blue ray. Ah, shoot.

"I'm going with you," JoJo said, meeting her in the living room. "I'll drive."

They headed out the door and got into JoJo's compact. Three blocks later, they pulled up into the lot and she spotted Spenser's bike.

Calm. Down. Don't panic.

JoJo came around the car. "I'll be at the smokejumper table if you need me."

"It'll be fine." Shoot, it came out all choked and garbled. JoJo raised an eyebrow, then turned to her.

"Ho-kay. Listen. Just remember. You're not a stalker. And he's just a guy. Not a super galactic hero. So, breathe."

"Breathing."

JoJo grabbed the door, walked inside, and Emily followed.

The place was loud, country music playing, a few of her fellow hotshots at a table, the Trouble Boys, with Sanchez at another. Smokejumpers in the back.

Everything normal.

Except at the bar sat Spenser, along with others from the set—Winchester Marshall, and of course Kathryn Canary. Who had her shoulder against Spenser's, her face animated as she told him a story.

And then he laughed at something she said, put his arm around her.

What?

Calm down. They were friends.

She took a breath and approached the bar. "Hey, Spenser."

He seemed to freeze, then slowly he turned. His pale blue gaze settled on her, something cool in it, his mouth a pinched line.

What…?

"What do you want?"

She blinked at him.

Kathryn leaned over him, smiled at her. "Sweetheart, we're off the set now. If you need Spenser, he has an early call—he'll see you at the shoot tomorrow."

"I don't…"

"Isn't one autograph enough?" Kathryn raised an eyebrow.

Emily looked at her, then at Spenser.

Hurt flashed in his eyes a moment before, "Actually, I don't think we need you at the set tomorrow. You've done enough. Thanks, Emily."

Then he turned his back to her.

"Wait—Spenser? What's—I don't understand."

She didn't expect him to whirl back around. To face her, cut his voice low. To tear her world into shreds. "I don't know what game you've been playing, Emily. I don't want to believe that you've been sabotaging us to get close to me, and I thank God no one was seriously injured, but I think it's best for everyone if you just…stayed away. My career is on the line here, and the last thing I need is another fiasco on set. So please, for me—if you actually care about me, and not just Quillen Cleveland—walk away."

Her eyes burned, her breath swept away.

Beside him, Kathryn slid her hand over his arm. Holding it, as if to give support. And delivered an Oscar-worthy look of pity at Emily.

Run.

She didn't even hear a different option.

She turned and pushed through the crowd, out into the night. Gulped a breath. Stars blinked down at her as she stalked through the parking lot, then out into the street.

How—how?—

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

A deep voice, and for a second she thought—but no, it wasn't Spenser running after her to tell her it was all just a terribly scripted act.

Trace Wilder stuck his elbow out of his truck, slowed it, put it in park.

She stopped. "Yes, I'm fine."

He got out. "You don't look fine. You're Emily, right? From the set?"

"Yeah." She gritted her teeth, nodded. "What are you doing back in town? I thought your scenes were over."

"Oh, I was on hold, in case they needed me for any retakes." He smiled. "I'm not done until the shooting is over." He touched her arm. "Do you need a ride?"

And weirdly, it felt so terribly like that moment, as a six-year-old, running from the monster in the woods, that she simply froze.

"No," she shook her head, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. "Hey!"

But his hand clamped over her mouth, and then he spun her around and pulled her against himself, his arm against her neck. "We have one more epic shot before this movie comes to an end," he said into her ear.

And just like that, the air left her body, and her world turned black.