Trial by Fire by Jo Davis Page A

turned and headed down the sidewalk, he didn’t think she planned to answer.
    “You’re a good man, Lieutenant.”
    Howard froze. Looked over his shoulder. Slowly, his lips curved upward. “Not that good, sweetheart.”
    “I wouldn’t have you any other way.” She punctuated her retort by giving him a once-over that sent his blood pressure into the stratosphere.
    He was still chuckling to himself as she went inside and closed the door. After securing her helmet behind his seat, he climbed on the bike and revved it up. Took the roll of Pez out of his shirt pocket and popped a candy into his mouth. He pulled out of the parking lot onto the street, already thinking about his grocery list for dinner tomorrow.
    Wondering if he should rent them a movie on a school night.
    And almost missed what had to be the oldest Buick Regal on the planet.
    The same car he’d seen hulking a few spaces from his Harley when he and Kat left the riverside park. The ancient vehicle with peeling puke green paint had to be the same one, didn’t it? Christ knows there couldn’t be two identical cars in the county so butt-ugly.
    As he drove past where the car was parked next to the curb across the street, a dark-haired man inside ducked his head, cupping his hand to light a cigarette.
    Howard went cold. All freaking over. Just like he had last night at the residence fire that ended in a gruesome death. As though some unknown entity not only walked across his grave, but stopped and spit on it, as well.
    In his side mirror, he saw the Buick leave the curb and head in the opposite direction.
    Shaking his head, he quelled the willies with an effort. People’s worlds collided, often more than once. Nothing weird or threatening about coincidence.
    Nothing whatsoever.
    Howard was on his third series of reps at half past midnight when he remembered. The envelope, stuck in his front door. He’d forgotten all about it.
    Carefully, he set the silver weight bar in the holder— yeah, Sean would be ticked to see his best friend lifting without a spotter again—and wiggled from underneath before sitting up on the padded bench.
    Grabbing a nearby towel, he wiped the sweat off his face and bare chest. Tossing it at the chair in the corner, and missing, he stood and strode from the workout room and down the short hall into the living room, rolling his shoulders as he went.
    He was getting too old for this crap, staying up half the night, working his ass off to make himself tired enough to sleep four or five hours. As a trained paramedic, he was all for drugs if they helped, but he’d been living with insomnia for so long, he didn’t see the point. Maybe he was far too stubborn to let his demons win.
    Or maybe, if he were honest, the horror of being trapped in his nightmares, unable to awaken, was sufficient threat to keep him from reaching for even the mildest sleep aid.
    The white, letter-sized envelope fluttered to the porch when he opened the front door. As he bent to retrieve it, his name printed on the front in a plain computer font sent a chill racing through him that had nothing to do with the bite of the fall night air swirling in to steal his warmth. Not just his name, but his rank.
    Lieutenant Howard Paxton.
    Creepy. For a split second, he had the fleeting thought that he shouldn’t have touched the thing, though he wasn’t sure why. Shutting out the cold, he locked up and walked into the living room, studying both sides of the envelope. Ordinary. Blank. Except for the name, printed like that.
    Lowering himself to the sofa, he tore open the seal. Peered inside.
    And lifted out a single photograph.
    For a moment he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. Had trouble getting air into his lungs. Making sense out of the impossible. His brain misfired like a bad starter on a car before catching hold. Staring at the picture, he gasped.
    “Jesus Christ Almighty.”
    A naked woman. Propped up and handcuffed to a bed, each wrist fastened to the headboard