Nothing Left to Burn (34 page)

“I can’t!”

“You have to! Can’t breathe, Reece. Have to go. Hurts. Hurts so bad. Love you so much. Promise me.”

“Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ, Mattie. I promise. I promise. I promise…”

When Amanda shifted, I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out an envelope with that stupid note sealed inside, and Amanda grinned.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Oh hell yeah.” I crumpled the envelope into a ball, cocked my arm, and let it fly. It made a bigger splash than Amanda’s key.

“Huh,” she said, frowning. “It’s like it was weighted down.”

It was. It was weighted down with a single .38 caliber bullet I’d carefully etched Matt’s initials into. Matt had found Dad’s gun under my bed—the one I’d taken from the shelf in his closet. I didn’t need that anymore either. I wasn’t sure I ever needed it. Maybe that’s why I was never entirely finished with that damn note.

I watched the ripples fade until the water was still. In the distance, we heard the alarm blare at the station house. For a second, Amanda and I stared at each other. Then we ran, holding hands, making it to the corner just in time to watch the crews on big red trucks speed down the street to battle another fire, wishing we were old enough to be on the trucks with them, striding into the belly of the beast and knocking it down.

It’s what we do.

It’s what we
are
.

Discussion Guide

Before you read the story:

1. Can you describe a time in your life when you felt guilty and responsible for something that was an accident? What skills did you use to cope? What would you tell a friend experiencing a similar struggle?

2. Have your parents ever been seriously disappointed in something you did? How did you make things right again?

3. Has there been a time in your life when you felt like nothing you did was ever good enough? How did you overcome this feeling?

4. Consider what being a hero means to you. Who are the heroes in your life?

After you read the story:

1. What do you think is the main theme of
Nothing Left to Burn
?

2. Reece believes his father hates him. Do you think that’s true? Why or why not?

3. Which person was most influential in Reece’s life—his dad or his brother?

4. In the beginning of the story, Reece tells his friend Alex he’s writing his father a note. Do you think this was a good way to share his feelings? What could Reece have done differently?

5. Midway through the book, Reece and his father paint a room together. Why was this a significant moment for them?

6. At the fire when Bear and Reece were allowed to stay and help, what would you do if you’d been the fire chief?

7. Do you think Amanda did the right thing by reporting Reece’s note to his father and the chief? Why or why not? If you discovered a friend wrote a note similar to Reece’s, what would you do?

8. How did
Nothing Left to Burn
change the ways you might approach your friendships?

9. How do you think Amanda and Reece’s story continues after the book ends?

10. Now that you’ve read the story, did your perception of what it means to be a hero change in any way? Why or why not?

Acknowledgments

It’s funny…I live on Long Island and hear the fire alarm ring nearly every day, but I’d learned to ignore it. To never wonder about the brave men and women who voluntarily rush into hell for nothing more than sheer love of the job. It wasn’t until I was sitting on a quiet beach during a weekend getaway that the sound of the fire alarm truly made me gasp out loud at the bravery of the people who battle those blazes.

And that’s when Reece Logan and Amanda Jamison were born.

But to make them real and believable, I had a
lot
of research to do. For that, I need to thank a number of people who volunteer their time and service fighting fires. They invited me in to see what they do and spent countless hours on the phone or via email with me, answering scary questions like “If you wanted to set a fire, how would you try to get away with it?”

To firefighter Terence Keenan, thank you for your patient answers to my plot questions, to my junior program questions, to everything I asked. My vision of Reece is as a mini-Terence. You’re awesome! Thanks also to your lovely wife for letting me “borrow” you *big grin*.

To Steve Krol, thank you for the hours on the phone, telling me your experiences investigating arson. I used so much of what you shared with me.

To Karen Blackburn, thank you for all of your emails and insight and patience at the early stages of this novel as I tried to flesh out my characters.

For Chiefs Ed J. and Ron S. on Long Island, thank you both for your advice and insight and for letting me visit the fire station. The mental map I made of that visit became the setting for the Lakeshore Volunteer Fire Department station house.

These brave folks are masters at what they do, so any firefighting mistakes you find in the novel are mine, not theirs.

Huge thanks go to all the book bloggers, because without them, I’d have a voice that no one would hear. Thank you for all that you do, Alyssa-Susannah, Amy Del Rosso, and Lorelei! Big hugs and thanks to Voule Walker, who read an early draft of this manuscript in record time and provided priceless feedback. I am so glad I met you!

Enormous thanks to the sisters of my heart—Jeannie Moon, Jennifer Gracen, Jolyse Barnett, and all of the members of Long Island Romance Writers RWA Chapter 160 who have advised, guided, and supported me during this book’s long journey from blank page to publication.

Thank you to my family, Fred, Rob, and Chris, who pitched in and cooked dinners, cleaned the house, and did the shopping whenever I had a deadline. Thank you also to Bonnie and Augie Caruso, who not only gave me time to write after Thanksgiving dinner but let me borrow their border collie, Tucker, who really is a giant puppy at heart.

A huge hug and massive thanks go to Amanda Pitcher for leaving such thoughtful and extremely complimentary Post-it notes on my desk at work whenever she visited her dad—that’s how you feed and care for an author! I hope whenever you read this story, you’re proud to know you inspired Amanda Jamison.

PS I’ve kept every one of those notes.

DON’T MISS PATTY BLOUNT’S

Chapter 1

Grace

No Monday in history has ever sucked more than this one.

I’m kind of an expert on sucky days. It’s been thirty-two of them since the party in the woods that started the battle I fight every day. I step onto the bus to school, wearing my armor and pretending nothing’s wrong, nothing happened, nothing changed when it’s pretty obvious nothing will ever be the same again. Alyssa Martin, a girl I’ve known since first grade, smirks and stretches her leg across the empty seat next to hers.

I approach slowly, hoping nobody can see my knees knocking. A couple of weeks ago during a school newspaper staff meeting, Alyssa vowed her support, and today I’m pond scum.

“Find a seat!” Mrs. Gannon, the bus driver, shouts.

I meet Alyssa’s eyes, silently beg her for sympathy—even a little pity. She raises a middle finger. It’s a show of loyalty to someone who doesn’t deserve it, a challenge to see how far I’ll go. My dad keeps telling me to stand up to all of Zac’s defenders, but it’s the entire bus—the entire
school
—versus me.

I gulp hard, and the bus lurches forward. I try to grab a seat back but lose my balance and topple into the seat Alyssa’s blocking with her leg. She lets out a screech of pain.

“Bitch,” she sneers. “You nearly broke my leg.”

I’m about to apologize when I notice the people sitting around us stare with wide eyes and hands over their open mouths. When my eyes meet theirs, they turn away, but nobody
does
anything.

This is weird.

Alyssa folds herself against the window and shoves earbuds into her ears and ignores me for the duration of the ride.

The rest of the trip passes without incident—except for two girls whispering over a video playing on a phone they both clutch in their hands. One of them murmurs, “Six hundred and eighteen hits,” and shoots me a dirty look.

I know exactly what she means and don’t want to think about it. I look away. As soon as the bus stops, I’m off. On my way to my locker, most people just ignore me, although a few still think they’ve come up with a clever new insult. An elbow or the occasional extended foot still needs dodging, but it’s really not that bad. I can deal. I can do this. I can make it through school unless I see—

“Woof! Woof!”

My feet root themselves to the floor, and the breath clogs in my lungs. And I know without turning who barked at me. I force myself to keep walking instead of running for home, running for the next town. I want to turn to look at him, look him dead in the eye, and twist my face into something that shows contempt instead of the terror that too often wins whenever I hear his name so he sees—so he
knows—
he didn’t beat me. But that doesn’t happen. A foot appears from nowhere, and I can’t dodge it in time. I fall to my hands and knees, and two more familiar faces step out of the crowd to laugh down at me.

“Hear you like it on your knees,” Kyle Moran shouts, and everybody laughs. At least Matt Roberts helps me up, but when Kyle smacks his head, he takes off before I can thank him. They’re two of
his
best buds. Nausea boils inside me, and I scramble back to my feet. I grab my backpack, pray that the school’s expensive digital camera tucked inside it isn’t damaged, and duck into the girls’ bathroom, locking myself into a stall.

When my hands are steady, eyes are dry, stomach’s no longer threatening to send back breakfast, I open the stall.

Miranda and Lindsay, my two best friends, stand in front of the mirrors.

Make that
former
best friends.

We stare at one another through the mirrors. Lindsay leans against a sink but doesn’t say anything. Miranda runs a hand down her smooth blond hair, pretends I’m not there, and talks to Lindsay. “So I’ve decided to have a party and invite Zac and the rest of the lacrosse team. It’s going to be epic.”

No. Not him.
The blood freezes in my veins. “Miranda. Don’t. Please.”

Miranda’s hand freezes on her hair. “Don’t, please?” She shakes her head in disgust. “You know, he could get kicked off the lacrosse team because of you.”

“Good!” I scream, suddenly furious.

Miranda whips back around to face me, hair blurring like a fan blade. At the sink, Lindsay’s jaw drops. “God! I can’t believe you! Did you do all of this, say all this just to get back at me?”

My jaw drops. “What? Of course not. I—”

“You
know
I like him. If you didn’t want me to go out with him, all you had to do was say so—”

“Miranda, this isn’t about you. Trust me, Zac is—”

“Oh my God, listen to yourself. He breaks up with you, and you fall apart and then—”

“That is
not
what happened. I broke up with him! I was upset that night because of Kristie, and you know it.”

She spins around, arms flung high. “Kristie! Seriously? You played him. You wanted everybody to feel sorry for you, so you turned on the tears and got Zac to—”

“Me? Are you insane? He—”

“Oh, don’t even.” Miranda holds up a hand. “I know exactly what happened. I was there. I know what you said. I figured you were lying, and now there’s no doubt.”

Lindsay nods and tosses her bag over her shoulder, and they stalk to the door. At the door, Miranda fires off one more shot. “You’re a lying slut, and I’ll make sure the whole school knows it.”

The door slams behind them, echoing off the lavatory stalls. I’m standing in the center of the room, wondering what’s holding me up because I can’t feel my feet…or my hands. I raise them to make sure I still have hands, and before my eyes, they shake. But I don’t feel that either. All I feel is pressure in my chest like someone just plunged my head underwater and I tried to breathe. My mouth goes dry, but I can’t swallow. The pressure builds and grows and knocks down walls and won’t let up. I press my hands to my chest and rub, but it doesn’t help. Oh, God, it doesn’t help. My heart lurches into overdrive like it’s trying to stage a prison break. I fall to the cold bathroom floor, gasping, choking for breath, but I can’t get any. I can’t find any. There’s no air left to breathe. I’m the lit match in front of a pair of lips puckered up, ready to blow.

Minutes pass, but they feel like centuries. I fumble for my phone—my mom’s phone since she made me switch with her—and call her.

“Grace, what’s wrong?”

“Can’t breathe, Mom. Hurts,” I push out the words on gasps of air.

“Okay, honey, I want you to take a breath and hold it. One, two, three, and let it out.”

I follow her instructions, surprised I have any breath in my lungs to hold for three seconds. The next breath is easier.

“Keep going. Deep breath, hold it, let it out.”

It takes me a few tries, but finally I can breathe without the barrier. “Oh, God.”

“Better?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t hurt now.”

“Want me to take you home?”

Oh,
home
. Where there are no laughing classmates pointing at me, whispering behind their hands. Where there are no ex-friends calling me a bitch or a liar. Where I could curl up, throw a blanket over my head, and pretend nothing happened.
Yes, take me home. Take me home right now as fast as you can.

I want to say that. But when I glance in the mirror over the row of sinks, something makes me say, “No. I have to stay.”

“Grace—”

“Mom, I have to stay.”

There’s a loud sigh. “Oh, honey. You don’t have to be brave.”