Author: Kristan Higgins

Angela nods. “Hm. Yeah. That’s the thing. He’s perfectly nice and funny and all that, but I get the feeling that he’s phoning it in.”

A shameful sense of satisfaction leaps in my chest, and I give my head a disgusted shake. If he’s phoning it in, it’s because Perfect Hayden is back in town. She who broke his heart. The girl he wanted to marry.

“Any more problems on the Web site?” Angela asks.

“No,” I answer, grateful for the new subject. “But Angela, you know those little Lord of the Rings figures I have on my desk?”

“Sure,” she says, taking a bite of her salad.

“Well, someone’s been messing with them. Last week, they were rearranged kind of strangely. Then this morning, when I came in, Aragorn’s head was missing. Snapped off.”

Angela frowns. “That’s creepy, Chastity.”

“I know it. I feel like I’m being stalked or something.”

“Should you tell the police?” she asks.

I sigh. “I don’t know. The thing is, only staff has keys to the building, right? So I get the feeling that it’s just kind of a mean prank.”

“Who would do that?” Angela says. “Lucia?”

I close my eyes. “She’s the only one who seems to really dislike me. That doesn’t mean she did anything, but still.” We’re both quiet for a minute, the wind rustling through the maple and cherry trees. A teenager blades by, apparently playing hooky. “Listen, Ange, on another subject,” I say awkwardly. “I have to ask you something, just between the two of us.”

“Sure,” she says.

“I have this, um, friend, okay? And I saw her…um…boyfriend with someone else. Should I say something?” I wince. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but if one of my friends knew something about my boyfriend…Crap. I don’t know. Probably not, huh?”

“Dear Abby would say you’d just be blamed,” Angela murmurs. “Shoot the messenger and all that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t say anything,” she says.

Upon returning to the office, Angela and I are greeted with a scowl from Lucia, who doesn’t like the fact that Angela and I are friends. “Staff meeting in ten,” she snaps, pecking away on her computer.

I zip over to my desk to check the Web site, just in case it’s been corrupted again. No. It’s clear. And the mood of the office is light. Carl, our fearless photographer, is grinning, and Penelope is laughing on the phone in her office.

“Have you heard?” Alan asks, leaning on my cubicle, smiling broadly. His tooth hardly bothers me these days.

“No. What’s up?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard?” he repeats.

“No.”

“I’ll let Penelope tell you, then,” he says, ambling away. He gives his pants a tug and stops to chat with Angela.

When we’re all settled in the conference room, Penelope sways in, grinning from ear to ear. “This morning, as some of you know,” she says grandly, “there was a fire at the Graystone Apartments.”

I lurch up in my seat. If any one of my family was hurt—why didn’t anyone call me? Is my dad okay? Mattie? Trevor?

“No one was hurt,” Pen says, correctly reading my face. I sag back, my heart rate slowing. Angela pats my hand.

“At any rate,” Pen continues, “our fearless photographer drove to the scene just in time to snap a few shots. Carl? Would you like to do the honors?”

Carl is practically bursting. “Thanks, Pen,” he says. “Ladies and gents, picture number one.” He holds up a dry-mounted color photo about three feet square. I suck in a breath. “That’s an O’Neill, isn’t it, Chastity?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, flushing with pride. “My brother Mark.”

In the photo, Mark’s wearing his gear and yellow helmet, the eye shield pushed up. His face is sooty and serious, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a tabby cat. Behind them, black smoke pours out of a brick apartment building. The cat’s mouth is hanging open, its eyes wide and somehow sightless. It looks dead.

“Oh, the poor kitty!” Lucia exclaims.

“Any humans in that building?” Pete asks. “Not that we don’t care about Puss ’n Boots there.”

“No humans,” Alan says. “Carl, show them the next shot.”

“The family was out of state, thank God,” Carl says. “Fire broke out about six this morning.” He picks up another photo, clearly enjoying the moment.

This one shows Mark lying the cat down on the pavement. Hose snakes around on the damp ground, and firefighters’ boots are in the background. The cat’s mouth is wide open; its eyes stare at the sky.

“But wait…there’s more!” Pen crows.

“These are fantastic, Carl,” Danielle says, coming in for a closer look. She’s right—the detail is crisp, the background well framed.

“Thanks,” he says, that shit-eating grin still firmly in place. “And on to picture number three.”

This one shows Mark holding a small oxygen cone over the cat’s mouth, its paws stiff in the air. Mark’s face is intent, his hand behind the cat’s neck.

“Oh, no!” Lucia says. There are tears in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Lu,” Carl says.

“I think I know what’s coming,” Angela says, smiling.

Carl holds up the fourth picture in triumph. There’s Mark, laughing, blue eyes glowing, face sooty, looking just so dang handsome as the cat rubs its head against its savior’s chin.

“Your brother resuscitated that cat, Chastity!” Penelope announces, in case we missed it. “And Carl got it on film!”

We all burst into cheers and applause. I’m glowing with pride and affection for my brother—he may have his flaws, but today he saved a life. A cat’s life, but a life nonetheless.

“Congratulations, Carl! Beautiful job!” I say, shaking his hand.

“There’s more, people!” Penelope calls over our noise. “Attention, please! Not only are you looking at tomorrow’s front page—you’re looking at Yahoo’s pictures of the day!”

Our cheers turn to shrieks of amazement and joy. We hug and laugh, Lucia is crying, Penelope is practically floating, and Carl is aglow. “Champagne, everyone!” Pen calls out.

“I want to get these on the Web site right this minute,” I say as she pours.

“Good idea, Chas,” she returns, handing me a glass of champers. “And please tell your brother that we’re very proud of him.”

“I will. Thanks. Hey, Carl, can I have copies of those pictures for my nephew? Mark’s son?”

“Of course,” he says grandly. “I’ll e-mail you the files.”

I give him another hug. “Great job, Carl. Again. Well done.”

“I know it.” He beams. “This may be the best day of my life.”

I’m so happy for the Gazette. It’s huge, being on Yahoo! Tomorrow’s paper will sell out, even though we’ll print extra copies. Carl’s career has just enjoyed a huge rush; and the thrill of these pictures being seen worldwide must be indescribable.

I get to my computer, extract the files and open the Web site. No porn, thank goodness. I make the pictures as big as possible, placing them two over two. “Alan, do you have a headline?” I call.

He sticks his head out of the conference room. “‘No Life Too Small For Eaton Falls Firefighters,’” he says. “Subhead should read ‘EFFD battles apartment fire. Family pet saved.’” Alan smiles. “You must be so proud, Chas.”

“I am, Alan. Thanks.” I type in his headers and update the Web site, then dial Mark’s cell. His voice mail picks up. “Hey, Mark, you big strong hero, you! Congratulations! I’ll see you later, okay? Love you.” Then I click on my e-mail to send him a message, just on the off chance that he’s home.

I have a new message. From me, apparently. Sure, I send myself messages from time to time—Don’t forget to pick up Elaina—or something like that, but to the best of my recollection, I haven’t sent myself anything today. With a cold sense of trepidation, I click on the message, which is entitled ‘chastity.’

You’re an egotistical bitch, you know that? Take a look in the mirror, Hulk. You look like a man.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TWO HOURS LATER, ANGELA AND I are on our way to the firehouse in her car.

I didn’t say anything about the e-mail, not wanting to take the moment away from Carl. But I’m a little scared. Kind of a lot, actually. I’ll probably call the police later on and ask if there’s anything they can do. Someone is trying to creep me out, and that someone is doing a great job.

I shove my dark thoughts away and try to focus on Mark and the fire, Carl and his pictures. I can think about my cyberstalker later on.

Penelope instructed us to interview a few firefighters. Angela, being the food editor, is obviously going to focus on food—firehouse favorites, cooking for the crowd, heroes’ recipes, etcetera. I get to do another in the Hometown Heroes series. Alan has already interviewed the chief, the fire marshal and several of the guys at the call. Suki has called the family, who was on vacation in Florida and is now headed home. Tomorrow’s edition of the Eaton Falls Gazette will be almost entirely focused on firefighters.

I don’t have time to call Elaina, but I can’t wait to talk to her. Maybe this will be a turning point for Mark, this excellent publicity. Maybe he’ll come out of his angry phase and start feeling good about himself for a change. God, I hope so.

Angela pulls into the parking lot of the firehouse. It’s hard to find a space. As is true after most fires, there are several platoons present, hanging around, dissecting the fire, talking to the guys who saw flame, picking apart the performances of their peers. We get out, grab the pictures (on loan, since Carl wants to gaze upon them some more) and go inside. Mark is in the truck bay, at the center of a knot of firefighters—Dad, Matt, Jake, Santo, George and Helen, Eaton Falls’s only female firefighter.

“Nice save, Mark,” I say as we approach.

“Hey, Sis,” Mark says with a grin. I see now that he’s holding a toy cat, a gift from one of the guys, no doubt. He waves its paw at me. “It was only a cat.” The stuffed animal meows and we all laugh.

“Well, we all know how much you love pussies,” Jake announces.

Mark’s smile drops like lead, and silence falls over the group.

“Jake, keep your mouth shut, asshole,” Santo says.

“Go clean hose,” my father orders tersely. Jake skulks off. Dad scowls after him, then comes over to me. “Hi, Porkchop. Your brother saved a kitty-cat.”

“So I saw,” I answer. “Check it out, Mark.” Angela and I show him the pictures. His cheeks redden in pleasure.

“You’re blushing, you sexy beast,” Santo coos, and all the guys crack up.

“These pictures are on Yahoo already,” Angela says. Silence falls.

“Wow,” Helen says. “Fame for little old Eaton Falls.”

“Your mother will love these,” Dad murmurs. “I’m gonna call her right now. Yahoo, you say, Porkchop?”

“Dad, this is Angela,” I say. “Angela, my father, Captain Mike O’Neill, and my heroic brother Mark, and my other heroic brother, Matt, and Santo and Helen and the rest of the gang.”

“Hi,” Matt says, smiling.

“Hello,” she says, blushing. How cute.

“Dad,” I say, “we’re doing a feature on local heroes—” Dad rolls his eyes “—and the chief already cleared it, so don’t bother complaining. Angela is our food editor, and she’d like to talk to some of you about firehouse food.”