The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(18)

I swung my legs over the side of my bed and moved towards the mountain of clothes still piled in the middle of the room. “Where are you?”

“At the hospital.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. They want to make sure I don’t have any smoke inhalation issues, but I’m fine.”

I picked a T-shirt off the floor. “Which hospital?”

“The VGH.”

“I’m on my way.” I hung up, got dressed and got back into my car.





*



I found her sitting alone on an emergency bed, holding an oxygen mask to her face. Her ash-white skin was covered in soot, and she was barefoot, wearing a pair of yoga pants and a white tank top.

“Are you okay?”

She seemed physically okay, but she sounded stressed. Her eyes looked huge as she apologized. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She sounded shocked, like she couldn’t believe what had happened. “I had just gotten home from my shift at the bar. I was washing my face when the place filled with smoke. When I opened my door, there was so much smoke I couldn’t see, but I crawled down the stairs and got out. Everyone in my apartment got out in time.”

Anger washed over me at the thought of her fighting her way out of a burning building. “Why do they think it’s arson?”

Her bottom lip trembled as she tried to keep a lid on her emotions. “The police said there were trails of burn marks on the grass. They said it was from an accelerant.”

“What about your car?”

“It’s fine, but I left the keys to my car in my apartment.” Her voice went up a notch. “I don’t have anything. I don’t even have a wallet or my bank card.”

I looked around. “Can you leave?”

“I have to be cleared by a doctor.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stood watching the activity in the room. Charlie remained huddled beside me, breathing into her mask. We didn’t speak as we waited, so I used that time to think about what she’d said.

Had the fire resulted from her connection to Yazimoto? Would they really try to take out someone who was paying them off every month? It made little sense.

Finally, the doctor came over to listen to her lungs.

“Your throat and eyes will be sore. If you notice you are short of breath or your heart races, come back to Emergency, but I think you got lucky.”

“I can go?”

“You can go.”

We both watched him walk away.

Her voice sounded small. “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t even know why I called you.”

“You’re coming home with me,” I instructed, my voice gruff.

Without argument, she slid off the bed and followed me into the cool night air.





*



We walked through my front door.

“Wait here,” I instructed her. I went back to my pile of clothes and grabbed a clean T-shirt, hoodie, and a pair of sweats for her to wear.

She hovered near the door, uncertainty written all over her face.

“Follow me.” I led her down the opposite hallway, past the pantry, laundry room, and through the guest room, before I flipped on the bathroom light. I checked to make sure there were towels hanging before I turned to her.

“You probably want a shower. Here are some clean clothes.”

Gratitude made her bow her head. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

It was the middle of the night, but I waited for her to come out of the shower, taking that time to think about everything. Why would someone burn her apartment down? It seemed much more than a prank gone bad. Whoever had started that fire had picked a time when the tenants were home, including Charlie.

The other day, when I told her I hated bullies, I hadn’t been lying. People who used an imbalance of power to threaten, abuse or intimidate another person were complete scum in my eyes. It was something I had stood up against my entire life. I considered myself easygoing except when I witnessed someone being abused. I always went to the mat to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Defending people was part of my DNA. In hockey, I defended my goalie. In life, I defended anyone I thought needed my help. And right now, Charlie was the object of my protection, for no other reason than because she didn’t deserve what was happening to her.

She appeared at the edge of the kitchen, half drowning in my hoodie and sweats. Her long, wet hair clung in strands down her back. Her face was washed bare, and those freckles stood out against the white pallor of her skin. Her clothes were in a ball, tucked under her arm. She appeared so vulnerable that I had an urge to hug her.

I tried to assess how she was holding up.

Her voice hesitated. “Could I borrow your washing machine?”

I led her back into the laundry room. I watched her stuff her clothes into the machine and then I reached above her to dump in some detergent. She shut the lid and looked up at me.

I squinted at the buttons, not sure what to press. “Do you know how to use this?”

Her eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t say a word. She simply reached across and pressed one button. The machine started to hum.

I looked at her. “You okay?”