Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page A

smashed in, probably by the fire department. Splintered wood hung in jagged fragments behind yellow caution tape. I glanced left and right, and then ducked under the tape and into the kitchen.
    The kitchen was a disaster. I felt sick as I looked at the remains of the cabinets. The little that was left of them was black and unsalvageable. The counters and floors were covered in ash and chunks of ceiling. The stench nearly made me gag. I didn’t know whether its source was rotting food in the fridge or whether I was just smelling the fire; either way, the reek was nauseating. I suddenly wanted to move quickly. For the first time, it occurred to me that this place might have been condemned not simply as a matter of routine but for real safety reasons. I had no interest in having a support beam come crashing down on my head. Also, I’d miscalculated my time of arrival. It was darker inside than I would have liked; I should have arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Still, I could see that the kitchen opened onto a hallway, one that presumably would lead me to the bedroom, by the front door, that Digger had used as an office.
    I gingerly stepped across and around the debris on the floor while holding out my arms to keep my balance. I kept my eyes focused exclusively on the area directly ahead of me;
    I wanted to see no more than was required to let me move safely. As much as possible, I avoided taking in the details of the scene, because every bit of damage made me acutely aware that the same fire that had caused the destruction surrounding me was the fire that had killed Digger. With each passing second, I longed more and more to escape the ruined apartment and the thoughts that it triggered. When I i reached the hallway, my stomach dropped. Ahead of me was blackness. I took my key chain from my pocket and turned on the penlight. Its inadequate beam was only slightly better than no light at all, but the penlight did let me see a piece of supporting timber that hung from the ceiling and stretched down to reach the floor. Coming here at all felt like a colossally stupid idea.
    Whimpering, I pressed myself against the filthy wall and slid past the fallen timber. Although I hated being here, I remained as determined as I’d been before to get the recipes and to memorialize Digger in a way he would like, and I realized that if I panicked and ran away, I’d end up having to return. Flashing the light in front of me, I saw that the windows over the front door were boarded up. To the right, a wide arch apparently opened to the living room. I passed one small doorway to what must have been Digger’s bedroom, the place I was most reluctant to enter. I fervently-hoped that his messenger bag would be in the front bedroom, his office, where Ellie had told me it was. Reaching the end of the hallway, I looked through an open door to the left, and tentatively shone my light around. From what I could see, there was significantly less fire damage here at the front of the apartment than there was toward the back. Still, there was plenty of plaster dust and soot.
    Perhaps because the room was at the front of the building, by the street, all the windows had been boarded up, so I had only my penlight to guide me. I cautiously stepped in and made out a couple of bookshelves to my left. Across the room was a small desk that seemed like a likely place for Digger to have left his messenger bag. After checking for a clear path, I made my way to the desk, reached out to put my hand on the back of a chair, and looked quickly around for the bag. The top of the desk was covered in soot, but I could make out a very clear rectangular spot that was remarkably clean and, as I immediately realized, just about the size of a notebook computer. To the right of the desk, a printer sat on top of a stack of cinder blocks. I backed up and moved slowly to my left, but tripped over something large and lumpy on the floor and went crashing down.
    I released a muffled shriek.