Free Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum Page B

only watch her nightgown catch first and burn.
    I wake up to the sound of a ringing phone. I’ve slept the whole night away in the chaise, the tea cup long empty and cold on the side table. I rub at my sticky eyes again as the phone trills urgently. I fumble for it with groggy hands and cradle it against my ear.
    “Hello?”
    “Is this Alice Gallagher?” a man asks.
    “This is she.”
    “This is Davis, a meter inspector with the state department. Are you still the contact person for 1321 Greenbrook Drive?”
    I cough and clear my throat, trying to sound more professional than unconscious. “Yes, I’m Ms. Sullivan’s assistant. How can I help you?”
    “We received reports of an electrical disturbance in the neighborhood, so they sent me out to check. It appears a power line is down outside the residence. Were you aware of this?”
    “No.”
    “And the damage to the outside box suggests a power surge. I just checked the meter and it has stopped completely. There’s no reading whatsoever coming from the residence but you have not reported a power outage.”
    “The house has no electricity?” I ask. What happened? “Is Jesse home now?”
    “I knocked on the door but there was no answer. Also, there’s a pane of broken glass by the front door.”
    “I’m on my way,” I say. I am already pushing myself out of the deep arm chair and falling into my shoes and coat. “Can you wait there for me?”
    “Sure,” he says.
    I try to call Jesse’s house phone but no one answers. Nor does she pick up her cell or answer the office phone. I remind myself Jesse is really bad about answering her phone, or remembering to bring it at all. That it doesn’t mean she’s been kidnapped and decapitated.
    But I don’t feel any better by the time I pull into the driveway behind the Concept Energy truck. A tall man with a yellow hat and thick gloves gets out of his truck as I do.
    “Ms. Gallagher?” he asks coming toward me, a utility belt jolting against his hips as he walks.
    “Yes,” I say. “I’ll let you in.” I don’t know what else to say so I just focus on the problem at hand. My heart beats harder when I see the broken glass beside the door. It’s been covered with a small piece of cardboard from the inside. I try not to stare at it too obviously as I let him into the house. I tell him the fuse box is downstairs and he disappears through the door leading to the unfinished basement.
    When another attempt to reach Jesse fails, I call Gloria.
    “Jesse’s window is busted out and she has no power,” I say.
    “She’s fine,” Gloria says.
    I suck air, unaware I’d been holding my breath at all. My relief turns to anger. “What happened?”
    “Someone threw a brick through the window. It just scared her.”
    “Why didn’t she call me?” I ask.
    Gloria says nothing as if waiting for me to say more. But the technician reappears.
    “I have to go,” I say.
    Gloria hangs up without saying goodbye. But then again, she’s not known for her phone etiquette.
    “A power surge destroyed the wiring. We can repair the conduit to the home and the busted wire outside, but the house itself may have to be rewired by a good electrician. Many of the components have been damaged.”
    “What would it cost to replace it?” I ask. When he looks hesitant I ask. “What is your best estimate?”
    “15-20 grand. But depending on the cause, your house insurance may cover it.”
    I try not to look crestfallen. “Thank you.”
    The technician taps his hat and leaves. He pauses just before getting into his truck, gives the house one more look. I sigh and feel the last of the adrenaline leave me.
    And because it’s like uncurling a fist that’s been clenched for a long time—painful and slow—I keep repeating it. You can’t be everywhere at once. You can’t do everything.
    “But watch me try,” I say.
    Someone pounds on the front door and I can see through the glass it isn’t the electricity guy having forgotten