In His Heart Tomorrow

Chapter 3: Smoke in the Archive

I heard the first alarm while I was still crossing the lobby.

It came in short bursts, then stopped. I told myself I had reached the building before the system registered the smoke. I called emergency services again and gave them the address. The dispatcher told me to get outside.

The archive door was warm under my palm.

I opened it.

Smoke rolled into the hall. The orange glow came from the far side of the room, where a storage bin had caught fire beneath the metal shelves. Flames climbed the wall toward the unfinished ceiling. I saw a figure on the floor and recognized Tessa's shoes.

I pulled my jacket over my mouth and went in.

The air burned my throat. I crouched and reached for Tessa's arm. She was conscious but coughing hard enough that she could barely speak.

"I'm here," I said. "We're leaving."

She grabbed my sleeve. "The box."

"Forget the box."

"Evelyn, the original—"

"We're leaving."

I put her arm across my shoulders and tried to lift her. She was heavier than she looked. The hallway swam before me, smoke thickening around our heads.

The alarm started again. I could hear the building's sprinkler system hissing, but the fire was past the first shelf and moving fast.

I dragged her toward the door. Something fell behind us with a crash. A hot sting cut across my left palm. I kept moving.

A firefighter met us in the corridor. He took Tessa, and another one forced me outside. Rain hit my face. I tried to turn back, but someone held me by both shoulders.

"Stay right here," he said.

"Her files," I managed.

"Your coworker is out."

"I need the archive."

"Not happening."

I sat on the wet pavement with my hand pressed against my chest. Tessa was on a stretcher under a silver blanket. She saw me and raised one shaking hand. I tried to smile.

The ambulance doors shut.

A medic wrapped my palm and asked questions I couldn't answer. The fire had started in the storage area. A small electrical heater had been left plugged in, he said, though the renovation crew claimed they had turned off the circuit.

I was trying to call Graham when the building's west windows blew out.

The blast knocked the phone from my hand. I hit the pavement, and pain flashed through my shoulder. People shouted. The firefighters pulled me farther from the entrance. I saw the archive room erupt in a wave of flame and smoke.

My phone was gone. The files were gone. Graham was not there.

I remember a firefighter asking my name. I remember saying it. Then the memory broke apart.

When I woke, the hospital ceiling had a c***k above the light. A nurse told me I had been sedated during treatment. My left hand was wrapped from wrist to fingertips, and my shoulder was bruised. I had been found in the smoke, but the worst damage was to my lungs. The doctor wanted to keep me overnight.

"Can I call my husband?" I asked.

The nurse handed me a hospital phone.

Graham picked up on the fourth ring.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"At St. Orla's."

"Are you hurt?"

"My hand. My lungs. Tessa made it out."

He paused. "You were in the archive?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Tessa called about the files. I saw the smoke."

"You went into a burning building?"

"She was inside."

"Evelyn, you could have died."

I looked at my bandaged hand. "I know."

"Did you tell the firefighters about the storage box?"

"They found one of the cabinets. The rest burned."

"I'm on my way."

He didn't come.

At 9:40 the next morning, a woman from the hospital administration told me that a representative of the Vale family had asked for my belongings. She said the representative had also asked about my medical condition, but she had not given him any details.

I called Graham again. His phone went to voicemail. I called Margaret, the board chair. She said she was at the foundation and couldn't talk.

I switched on the television mounted at the foot of my bed. A local reporter stood in front of the burned building.

"The fire destroyed a section of the Vale Foundation's archive," she said. "Foundation chair Graham Vale described the loss as devastating, but said all records were backed up."

I sat up too quickly and started coughing.

The reporter continued. "Vale confirmed that his wife, Evelyn, was injured during an attempt to assist a foundation employee. She is expected to recover."

It was a careful statement, but I heard the message beneath it. I had been the one who entered the building. I had been the one with access. The archive had burned while I was there.

A nurse shut off the television when she saw my face.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Someone is telling a story."

"Do you want me to call your husband?"

"No."

I asked for my clothes. My palm throbbed when I tried to pull on my sweater. I managed it with the nurse's help.

The hospital's patient liaison warned me not to leave against medical advice. I listened, signed the form, and called a car service. Then I called Tessa's number.

A woman answered. "This is her sister."

"Is she awake?"

"She's stable. They're keeping her for observation."

"Please tell her I'm fine."

"I will."

I wanted to go home. I wanted to shower, sit in the kitchen, and see whether Graham would come through the door. Instead, I went to the old volunteer closet at St. Anne's, where we kept furniture between grant cycles. The caretaker let me in with a key I had kept after the shelter's first year.

The archive copies weren't there. I had expected that. Tessa had moved them, and I didn't know where.

I took a cot in the small room behind the closet and waited for my phone to charge.

At 3:20, I saw the missed calls. Three from Graham. One from the foundation's public relations office. Two from my mother.

When I called her, she was crying.

"They said you were in the hospital," she said.

"I'm okay."

"Graham said you'd gone home."

"I haven't."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know yet."

She asked if I wanted her to come. I said no. I needed to be alone until I understood what had happened.

At 6:05, Graham finally called.

"Where are you?"

"Why?"

"You left the hospital."

"I'm not your patient."

"You shouldn't be alone after what happened."

"Then you should have come."

"I was dealing with the foundation."

"The fire happened to the foundation. I was in it."

His silence lasted long enough to answer me.

"I'm coming to get you," he said.

"No."

"Evelyn."

"I want the original transfer agreement and a copy of the archive inventory."

"I don't have those."

"They were in the records system."

"The system was damaged."

"Then the backups."

"I'll have IT check."

"I want the records independently preserved."

"You're injured. Stop pushing this."

"I'm not the one who set the fire."

He went quiet.

I heard the sentence after I had already said it. It wasn't an accusation. It was a possibility. I had no proof. I should have been more careful.

But Graham didn't ask what I meant. He said, "Don't do this to yourself."

I ended the call.