𝗣 𝗬 𝗥 𝗢 𝗠 𝗔 𝗡 𝗜 𝗔 | BOOK THREE

T W E N T Y - F O U R

[jolene hale]

I wake tied to a pole in the basement. Not just any basement, the basement of my studio. The corners of my mouth are raw from the white rag between my teeth. Footsteps trail down every step of the stairs into the basement and my heart rate speeds up.

"Jolene, my dear, I have some news for you." James says, a smile on his face as he raises a notepad before his face. "Atticus Eaton is in the hospital. He's in a medically induced coma after sustaining serious injuries at the site of the latest fire."

I'm nauseated, suddenly, and desire the rag to be removed from my mouth so I can vomit beside my lap. Atticus is in a coma? What the Hell happened?

"Do you want to know the details of his injury?" He asks.

I nod. He walks over to me and crouches down before me.

"He fell three stories in that apartment building. Fell from third all the way to the basement. On the way down, he hit his ribs on something and ripped them open. He has a full thickness burn to his chest cavity and his lung is exposed. They're trying to sew him back together again, but it's hard without all the pieces." He says.

My heart plummets in my chest as I imagine the wound on Atticus. The blood, the bubbling, spilling blood as it seeps onto the concrete or the hospital bed sheet. Atticus is young, 20, a year younger than me, and sustaining injuries that may change his life forever. They could try transplants. Or get him a skin and muscle flap, although that might be too long of a wait for someone with as severe an injury as him. I've heard of firefighters sustaining injuries—that comes with the job description—but I only ever heard of injuries this bad once in a blue moon. They're usually older firemen who can't keep their footing and slip and fall. But, a 20 year old recruit, fresh out of the academy is new. Sure, the recruits get injured because they're new and don't know the protocols, but Atticus knew them better than most of the firemen in that squadron. He was a walking book. James crouches before me and removes the rag from my mouth, exhaling softly.

"I suppose I should probably let you speak, say what's on your mind. Just know that if you say anything I don't like, I'll shut you back up again." He says.

I raise an eyebrow and look up at him, the ache at the corners of my mouth now more obvious without the constant pressure of that rag tied tightly around my face.

"What did you do to them?" I ask. "What did you do to Atticus?"

He shakes his head and leans back.

"I didn't do anything to Atticus. The Fire is what hurt Atticus, not me." He says.

I roll my eyed and laugh sarcastically.

"Sure, but you started that fire, James! You come and go with matches, and blowtorches, and lighter fluid and pipe-bombs and it's all just a game to you! A boy died in that fire at the high school. Another was in critical condition fro a week. Then, at the fire in the warehouse, you burnt a fire fighter as well as pulled up trauma for his father and uncle. And now, at the fire in the apartment, you managed to nearly kill an eleven month old baby, but also managed to put a fire fighter in a coma and the other one in mental distress. You are hurting this family in more ways than one, James." I say.

He crouches in front of me again, smiling. He grabs the cloth from around my neck and I panic.

"So, so naïve, Jolene." He says. "I guess I forgot to tell you, my name isn't James. It's Wyatt."

He pulls the cloth back into my mouth, tying it even tighter. He returns to his table and grabs a lighter and a bottle of lighter fluid. I scream, pulling at the ropes around my wrists and ankles, trying to get away from him as soon as humanly possible.

[graham eaton]

I pace back and forth in the hallway, looking down at my watch. My father approaches me, exhaling.

"Son, it's been twenty-four hours and you haven't left the hospital, even to shower. I think it's best if you go home, have something to eat, take a shower, maybe even take a nap. Then you can come back." He says.

"I think Atticus is doing enough sleeping for the both of us." I say.

He looks serious, sad and heartbroken for his son. He places a hand on my shoulder and exhales.

"Please, Graham, you need your rest." He says. "Atticus wouldn't want you sitting here, wallowing in your own filth over him."

I exhale and retrieve the letter from Ghost and hand it to him again.

"Jolene is still missing. And I'm scared that if we don't find her soon, that she'll wind up dead." I say.

He exhales and looks at me seriously.

"Go home, get some good in your system, maybe a shower and some coffee or a nap and we'll talk about this later." He says.

I nod. I grab my keys and jacket and exit the hospital. I approach my bike and drive away, mindlessly. I'm numb from head to toe, wondering if Atticus really will survive, and if he doesn't, praying that he at least holds on long enough for me to return and say my goodbyes, properly. I mindlessly drive through intersections, unsure if there really was a green light present or if I had the right-of-way. I park in my parking space, climb off of my bike, and approach the front door. I climb the stairs to my floor and walk through the halls to my apartment. I unlock the front door and gasp when the sailboat painting from Jolene is the center of a circle of red, spray-painted arrows on the wall of my living room. I approach Jolene's room and spot a spill of paint all over her desk, her brushes tumbles to the ground, the glass mason jar she stores them in now shattered, the glass spread across the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Painted on the wall above her desk in bright bold red letters is two words... 'FIND ME'. I return to the living room and stare at the painting. Her studio.