The boy wasn’t there.
Had he gone downstairs by himself? Maybe he’d already made it outside.
Brett started for the stairs, but before he could take the first step down, he heard something. A squeak. A sob.
He froze. “Dylan? Call out if you can hear me. It’s Brett. I’m here to help you.”
Downstairs, the fire had whooshed from one wall to three, the sound loud and hungry, like animals scrapping for food. The smoke was getting thicker, the heat traveling up. Brett was sweating profusely, perspiration dripping into his eyes. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he’d have to jump out a window to avoid the flames.
Lord, if the kid is up here, show me where he is.
The panic receded, just a little. If he had to jump out a window, he’d do it, but he wasn’t leaving without the little boy.
He heard another sound. A bang. A yelp.
He pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose and turned his back on the stairs, determined to find the kid this time. In the boys’ room, he once again checked the cribs and the closet. He even pulled out the bureau drawers.
Nothing. Still, nothing.
And now it hurt to breathe.
Where were the firefighters? Why weren’t they here?
“Dylan!” he yelled, then listened hard. It was difficult to hear anything over the roar of the flames downstairs, but something—maybe a sound, maybe just a feeling—told him to go back in the bathroom.
He went in, and he saw that the door to the cupboard under the sink was slightly ajar.
“Dylan?” he called, getting down on his knees as he opened the cupboard.
The boy was squished in beside the pipes, chubby hands curled around his knees, eyes squinched shut, tears rolling down his face.
“Hey, buddy. I’m Brett. I’m going to pick you up so we can get out of here.”
He lifted the boy, whose body was small but solid. The kid squirmed and kicked him, so Brett tightened his hold.
“It’s okay, dude. Your sister asked me to get you. There’s a fire so we have to leave.”
Brett jogged to the top of the staircase, but the flames had already reached the bottom steps. If he wanted to go that way, he’d have to run through the fire, and although he’d have been willing to risk it if it were just him, he wasn’t about to subject the boy to the flames.
“Scawy,” the boy said, not fighting anymore, but clinging tightly to Brett’s neck.
“Yeah, it is scary, isn’t it?” Brett took the boy into the bedroom with the cribs, where there were lots of windows. The woman’s bedroom only had one.
“Stinky.”
“Yup, stinky, too.”
He tried to open one of the windows, but it was stuck shut. Went to the second one. It, too, wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” he muttered before yanking on the third and final window, which was also sealed closed. He set the boy down at his feet and rubbed his temples. His eyes were watering, and he was starting to wheeze. He had to get them out of here, and fast.
He crouched down so he could look Dylan in the eye. “Hey, buddy, can you go crawl under that crib right there for a second? I’ve gotta punch out the window, and I don’t want you getting hit by the glass.”
After Valerie Williams woke her neighbors, screamed at them to call 911 and unceremoniously dumped Derrick on their living room couch, she ran back outside.
What she saw terrified her.
The house was burning. Her father’s whole house was in flames.
Dylan’s in there. Dylan’s still in there.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick.
She shouldn’t have left without him. Why had she left without him?
Because Brett Richardson, loudmouth Brett Richardson, told you to.
Shame curdled in her belly. Why had she listened to him? Why had she trusted him? She’d only known the guy for a few years in junior high and high school, but if there was one thing she remembered about him, it was that he was an annoying jerk.
An annoying jerk who was still in there, searching for her little brother. An annoying jerk who might have passed out from smoke inhalation, who might be dead.
She took a couple of steps toward the house, but some of her neighbors had collected on the lawn around her, and one of them caught her by the elbow. “You can’t go in there.”
She tried to shake him off. “My brother’s in there. He’s just a baby.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t let you do it.”
“Let go of me, Martin!” She wrenched her arm, almost pulling it out of the socket when her neighbor tightened his grip.
