The first hit against my door rattled the frame so hard my spatula slipped out of my hand and smacked the floor. The second made Nick jump in his chair. “Dad?” he called from the table, pencil frozen over his math worksheet. I wiped my palms on a dish towel and headed for the door, every muscle remembering a different kind of emergency from two nights earlier—the sirens, the smoke, the feeling of someone’s life in my arms. When I cracked the door open, a man in his fifties was already leaning toward it like he meant to push his way in. Red face, expensive watch, hair slicked back with something that smelled like drugstore cologne and stale coffee….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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