Chapter 1

The smoke burned my eyes first.

Then the heat, a living thing, pressed down on me.

I coughed, a dry, racking sound in the chaos.

Flames licked the doorway of my room in the rehab wing.

My legs were useless, just dead weight.

Paralyzed.

The word was a cold stone in my gut.

I slapped the call button, again and again.

No answer.

The fire alarm shrieked, a maddening, constant wail.

My wheelchair. I had to reach it.

I dragged myself, arm over arm, the floor hot beneath my palms.

Sparks rained down from the ceiling tiles.

"Help!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "Somebody help me!"

My phone. It was on the bedside table, just out of reach.

Another pull, pain shooting through my shoulders.

I grabbed it, fumbling with the screen, smoke making my vision swim.

Mark. I had to call Mark.

He was Captain now, on duty. He' d be here. He had to be.

The line connected.

"Mark! Mark, thank God!"

His voice came through, distant, strained. "Sarah? What is it? There' s a major situation at the hospital."

"I know! Mark, I' m in it! The rehab wing, it' s on fire! I' m trapped!"

I could hear sirens in the background of his call, shouting.

"Calm down, Sarah. I' m on scene. We' re evacuating."

Relief, so sharp it was like a gasp of clean air.

"Hurry, Mark. The fire, it' s spreading fast. I can' t get out on my own."

A woman' s voice then, close to his phone, high-pitched, theatrical. "Oh, Captain Olsen, thank heavens you' re here! It' s terrible!"

Chloe.

My physical therapist.

What was she doing with him?

"Sarah," Mark' s voice was suddenly different, colder. "Chloe says you were just fine a little while ago. She says you' ve been making good progress."

"What? Mark, no! That' s not true! I' m paralyzed, you know that! The smoke, I can' t breathe!"

I coughed again, harder this time, tasting ash.

"Chloe' s very distressed, Sarah. She saw you near the electrical panel that sparked. She' s worried you might have panicked and made things worse."

My blood ran cold. "She' s lying, Mark! She' s lying! You have to get me out!"

"I need to get Chloe to safety first, Sarah. She' s in shock."

"Mark, no! Please! I' m your wife!"

The roar of the fire grew louder, closer.

"You' re a survivor, Sarah," he said, his voice flat. "You were a SWAT captain. You can handle yourself. Stop the drama."

Then, I heard Chloe again, a soft, cloying sound. "Mark, please, I' m scared."

"I' m coming, Chloe," he said, his voice meant to soothe her.

To me, he just said, "Get yourself out, Sarah. I' m busy."

The line went dead.

Busy.

He left me.

He chose her.

The flames were at the door now, eating the wood.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the soot.

My strong arms, the ones that had pulled him from a hail of bullets, pulled me one last inch.

My fingers brushed the cool metal of the wheelchair.

Too late.

The ceiling groaned.

A wave of heat washed over me, and I knew.

This was it.

My last thought wasn't of heroism, or medals.

It was of his voice. "Stop the drama."