Fireproof

why he does half the things he does.”
    “You just go along?”
    “Basically, yes.”
    “You have no journalistic integrity?”
    Patrick could see Ramirez’s back go straight and her nostrils flare. “You know what I have?” she said, fear quickly firing over into anger. “I have a six-year-old son and I want him to grow upwithout having to clean toilets or wait on some asshole like Jeffery Cole. I have a Mexican mother who watches Jeopardy! as faithfully as she prays to the Virgin Mary so she can learn English well enough to pass her citizenship test. I have a shitload of bills and a mortgage twice the amount my tiny little two-bedroom home will ever be worth. So excuse me if I can’t afford your precious integrity just yet.”
    The two women stared each other down. Rain began to pelt the windows again, only now it sounded more like sleet. The coffeemaker sputtered to an end, filling the kitchen with its fresh-brewed aroma.
    Just when Patrick wondered if Maggie would throw Ramirez out into the storm, Maggie said, “Do you use cream or sugar?”

CHAPTER 34

    Maggie tried not to give in to the hammering inside her head. She had thought once she was back inside, out of the rain and the cold, that the thrum-thump would subside. She was wrong.
    She had not shot at Ramirez, but how close had she come?
    She unleashed her anger on the woman, but, quite honestly, she was angrier with herself and a bit unnerved that the pain at her temple could blur her vision and challenge her judgment.
    The rain had turned to sleet. When Maggie offered Ramirez the sofa for what little of the night was left, the woman stared at her as if looking for a trap. Finally she relented, calling her mother to explain while Patrick, almost too enthusiastically, went to fetch blankets and a pillow.
    Ramirez was on the phone in the living room and Patrick in the upstairs linen closet when Maggie heard a thump and a scrape against the back door. She grabbed for the gun tucked against the small of her back. Still, she jumped when she saw the face at the back-door window.
    Benjamin Platt’s hair was soaked, his smile anxious. Immediately Maggie realized she had forgotten to call him back. But howcrazy to come all this way just to check on her. It wasn’t until she opened the door that she saw he had Jake with him.
    “Oh, my God! Where did you find him?”
    She pulled them both in and saw that Ben had his own dog, Digger, tucked under his arm. Harvey came running into the kitchen, whining and nosing and butt-welcoming the huge black shepherd and the small white Westie.
    Maggie threw a towel around Jake along with her arms, hugging and wiping at the sleet that stuck to his fur, for as long as Jake would allow. Ben wiped down Digger before he started on his own head.
    “How in the world did you find him?”
    “You forget that Digger earned his name. I figured he’d know where to look.”
    The dogs started tussling with one another, and Maggie stood back and watched Ben.
    “The first time Digger got out and didn’t come back, Ali was crushed. She took it so personally.”
    “It’s hard not to.”
    “I know. I could hear it in your voice.”
    Rain dripped from his chin and he wiped it with the sleeve of his jacket, which was equally drenched. Ice crystals stuck to his hair and eyelashes. Maggie pulled a fresh towel from the pile that Patrick had brought earlier. Instead of handing it to Ben she came to him, held his eyes, and gently began wiping his hair, his face, his neck.
    She felt him shiver under her touch when she unzipped his jacket. Her hands hesitated on his chest before she pushed the jacket off his broad shoulders, easing it down his arms and enjoying the feel of his muscles going tense beneath her fingertips.
    His button-down shirt was soaking, too. She started unbuttoning it with no resistance from Ben. The look in his eyes made her fingers eager. Of course, she had forgotten about Ramirez until the woman cleared her throat behind them.
    “Sorry.” Ramirez looked genuinely apologetic. Then with a forced smile she added, “I hope you’re not going to wish you’d shot me.”
    Maggie stepped back and introduced the two by first names only, not wanting to share any more information than necessary for the photojournalist to take back to Jeffery Cole.
    Ramirez pointed to the wet dogs. “So you must be the guy in the ball cap I saw out back. I thought you might be looking for a dog.”
    “Out back?” Maggie asked.
    “I saw