Still, nothing. No signs of life.
Maybe nobody’s home.
But maybe they were. There was no way he was leaving until he knew for sure.
Glancing around the back patio, he spotted a relatively large garden planter, picked it up and heaved it through the slider.
The tempered glass shattered—like a windshield, the shards weren’t sharp—and Brett rushed inside. It wasn’t hot in here, but it was smoky. “Fire!” he yelled, putting his arm over his mouth in an attempt to keep out the smoke. “Anybody home?”
“Help!”
It was a woman’s voice, but now he thought he could hear a kid crying, too. He hurried toward the sound. “Where are you?”
“Upstairs!”
The cottage had a dormer roof, so there couldn’t be more than one or two small rooms up there. He charged up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.
He found the woman in the middle of a child’s room, looking frantic, a toddler on her hip, and a sense of déjà vu hit him hard between the ribs.
Did he know her?
Even in pajama shorts and a ratty T-shirt, with her black hair haphazardly pulled back from her face, she was stunning.
Where had he seen her before?
If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get her and the boy out of there, he might have stopped to think about it more. “There’s a fire. We have to go!”
“My brother! I can’t find him!”
Brett gestured to the boy in her arms. “He’s not...?”
“There’s another one! They’re twins!”
“Take him and get out,” he ordered. “Call 911.”
“I can’t leave without—”
“Go!” he yelled. “I’ll find him. Get out!”
In the span of two seconds flat, the expression on her face went from startled to mad. She was probably a foot shorter than him and half his weight, but she looked about ready to challenge him to a fistfight.
“Get him to safety,” Brett said, nodding at the boy clutching her neck. “Please.”
As quickly as the fight had entered her, it fled. Her shoulders sagged. Her lower lip quivered. “His name’s Dylan. Find him, Brett. I’m begging you.”
She knew his name, which meant he really did know her. But how? He coughed—the room was getting smokier. He’d have to figure it out later.
“I will,” he said. “I promise.”
Maybe it wasn’t a promise he could keep, but he’d die before he’d let a little kid burn in a fire.
The woman turned and ran toward the stairs, the toddler in her arms crying in fright. Brett got down on his hands and knees to peer under one of two cribs. “Dylan? Buddy? Where are you? There’s a fire. We have to go.”
The boy wasn’t there.
Brett crawled to the other crib, checked underneath it. No one.
“My name’s Brett. I’m here to help you. Your sister took your twin outside. We need to go, too.”
He scooted over and opened the closet. The kid wasn’t there, either.
“Where’d you go, Dylan? Your sister’s worried about you.”
He looked in the corners of the room and behind the door. No Dylan.
The smoke was getting bad now, and Brett’s eyes were stinging. He charged into the hallway. From the top of the stairs, he could see that the fire had moved into the house, flames licking the wall the living room shared with the garage. Adrenaline shot through him all over again. This was serious. He and the kid really could die up here. “Come on, come on. Where are you?”
He banged into the restroom and checked the bathtub and the shower stall. Nothing.
“Dylan!”
No answer.
The first flare of panic went off in Brett’s chest. What if he couldn’t find him?
Stay calm, stay calm. You’ll find him. You have to.
There was one more small room up here, barely big enough for a bed and a dresser. “Are you in here, Dylan?” Brett called out, getting back onto his hands and knees to look under the bed. “Your sister’s worried about you, buddy. The house is on fire, and we have to get you out.”
