Since You Happened by Holly Hall

Love in Smoke Excerpt

Prologue

At first it just looks like the orange glow of someone’s outdoor light on the horizon, through my windshield. My preoccupied mind dismisses the sight instantly.

Then I make the final turn onto the farm road, and a ball of unease crashes in the pit of my stomach. I recognize the distinct hue that’s only intensifying the closer I get. If it were daytime, I’d see a column of smoke rising into the sky. That color, the one that seems to undulate and come alive, is like something out of my worst nightmares.

But I don’t have to rely on nightmares to experience the raw fear seeing that bloom of orange against the night sky makes me feel. I’ve lived it already—nearly a year ago, when my world went up in smoke.

It’s reality. It’s chaos, danger, and destruction. And once again, I’m rushing toward it.

I jam my foot down on the gas, trees whipping past my windows at speeds that are beyond illegal for this narrow road, but that’s the least of my concerns. All that’s registering in my mind is how sick I feel that this might be happening again.

But maybe he isn’t home. Maybe he had farther to drive than I thought and he hasn’t yet arrived. In that case, everything else can be replaced.

The partially-concealed driveway comes up way too fast, and I stomp on the brake pedal while turning, tires squealing on asphalt, then spitting gravel when they hit the driveway.

Please be a brush fire. Please be a brush fire. Please be a brush fire.

I burst into the clearing, and my heart leaps into my throat, choking me. It’s the house. Angry flames can be seen through the upper-story windows, and thick smoke unfurls into the sky. The déjà vu is dizzying, only this time, the song of sirens is noticeably absent. I’ve beaten the fire trucks here, if they’re coming at all. At least there’s a good chance nobody’s inside. I grab my cellphone out of my purse as I drive around the edge of the house, but the sight of the truck in the driveway stills my hand.

In less than a second, my fear is magnified and worry grips tighter, clutching my gut and making it hard to breathe.

It’s his truck. He’s here.

I skid to a stop and throw my car in park, leaping out without switching off the ignition. The cab of the truck is empty.

My vision narrows, and I scan the expanse of front lawn as well as what side-yard I can see from where I stand. But he isn’t here. He isn’t waiting out front in an ambulance, safe and sound.

I can hardly focus on calling emergency responders as something instinctual takes over. Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I run toward the house. Toward the flames. I don’t even think twice about it. I just hop up the uneven front steps and cross the porch to the front door, yanking it open. Without hearing or seeing him, I know he’s inside. And I have to get to him.