At least, that’s how it had seemed to her. And she felt certain that, after a long candlelight dinner at Sub Rosa, she’d know for sure whether…

Was that a bump she’d just heard? Standing once again, she turned off the CD. It seemed to have come from downstairs. But then, with the music on, she couldn’t be sure — it might have come from the street.

She stood in the dressing room, listening. She glanced at her watch again: still not quite nine. There had been a rash of burglaries over the past few months, but they’d always taken place in the early hours of the morning.

As she hesitated in the soft golden light, there came another noise: the squeak of an old floorboard somewhere in one of the rooms below.

Pamela took a quick, appraising glance at herself in the mirror: Jeremy didn’t seem the type to just let himself in, but she wanted to look good just in case. She glanced around for her cell phone, found it, held it at the ready — also just in case.

She returned to the landing, descended halfway down the stairs. “Jeremy?” she called out. “You know it’s bad form to enter a woman’s boudoir without getting an invitation first.”

No answer.

Now she descended the rest of the stairs and walked past the parlor, past the dining room, turning on lights along the crooked passages until she reached the kitchen. Here she stopped and frowned. The back door was open. That was odd. Newport was a friendly place, but she knew enough to always keep her doors locked after dark.

She closed and locked the door. Then she glanced at her cell phone, made sure the 911 speed dial was ready, and moved silently into the kitchen, switching on the light as she did.

Everything seemed to be in order: the new refrigerator; the old stove that her mother had made so many wonderful meals on; the kitchen table, the day’s mail at one end and the single place setting at the other. It was just as she’d left it after cleaning up from lunch.

It was then that she smelled smoke.

It was faint, but acrid, and she’d learned to take that smell seriously. The wiring in the house was very old, but she’d put off updating it because of the cost. One of the fuses was probably overheating. Because of the power-hungry equipment in her office, she’d put in a couple of 20 amp fuses into the 15 amp circuits. Since the fuses were the old T type, this was possible. She knew it was potentially dangerous, but she’d only had problems once, and ever since she’d been careful not to run the office equipment while the air conditioner was on. There didn’t seem too much load running in the house that evening. But just to be sure, she’d check the fuse box and replace any 20 amp fuses with those of correct size. She didn’t need to be warned three times: next week, she’d bite the bullet and get an electrician in for an estimate.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, she had opened the door to the basement, preparing to open the fuse box that was set into the wall at the top of the stairs. Then she stopped, rooted in place by shock.

A fire was raging in the basement: black smoke roiling furiously up the stairs, yellow tongues of flame curling and darting toward her in a way that, despite the violence, was almost caressing. As she watched, a second gout of smoke and flame suddenly appeared by the wiring junction on the far basement wall.

She whirled around, fumbling with the phone, preparing to call the fire department. As she did so, a dark figure darted out from behind the pantry door and wrapped a tweed-clad arm around her head, immediately cutting off her screams. Pamela’s arms shot up reflexively and her cell phone went shooting across the room.

The figure began dragging her out of the kitchen, away from the windows and deeper into the house. For the briefest of instants, Pamela was too surprised to struggle. But then she began to fight in earnest, yelling through the fabric that pressed over her mouth, biting, beating at the figure with her fists.

For a moment, the fury of her attack seemed to surprise the intruder. The grip loosened and Pamela twisted around, preparing to counterattack. But just then, a damp cloth was jammed hard against her mouth and nostrils. A sour chemical stench assailed her. Blackness began crowding in from the corners of her vision. She twisted again, kicking desperately, trying her utmost to cry for help, but with every intake of breath her limbs grew heavier and more stupid.

One lurch at a time, she was dragged farther away from the back door, and freedom. The last thing she saw before darkness overtook her was an orange tracery of flame, now eating its way across the kitchen wall, consuming the old wooden house with incredible speed.

37

Jeremy Logan maneuvered his vintage Lotus along Ocean Avenue, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. It was a fine evening; the sun had set, and the still-gathering clouds high in the darkening sky were suffused with a pink afterglow. He felt better than he had in days. No doubt he had Pam Flood, and their impending date, to thank for that.

“You’d like her, Karen,” he said, speaking to his dead wife, whom he imagined was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

This was a habit he’d fallen into — talking to her now and then, when he was alone — and after the shock of unexpectedly seeing her on the expansive Lux greensward the day before, the imaginary interaction was something he was eager to have returned to a pleasant, controlled basis.

He turned onto Coggeshall Avenue and headed north, toward downtown. “She doesn’t have your subtle wit,” he went on, “but she’s got your spunk and a self-possession I think you’d approve of.”

Sirens were sounding in the distance. Logan glanced at his watch: quarter after nine. He’d be there in just a couple of minutes now.

He drove on, the tall, manicured hedges that lined both sides of the road forming leafy walls in the gathering darkness. Ahead, in the sky, the afterglow was brighter now; more orange than pink. “I find myself letting down my guard with her,” he said. “And there’s something else — she’s made me realize, quite unconsciously, that life can be pretty lonely. Even when you’re juggling two careers.”

Abruptly, he fell silent. What, exactly, was he trying to say to Karen — and, by extension, to himself?

Coggeshall turned into Spring, and the road narrowed a little. The charming old houses grew denser. Ahead on his right, he could just make out the vast, genteel lines of the Elms.

The sirens were louder now, urgent blatts overlapping in a hysteric fugue. He could make out a column of smoke ahead, roiling upward. As he stared, he realized that the bright orange glow illuminating the undersides of the clouds wasn’t afterglow anymore: it was the reflection of flame.

He drove on, past Bacheller Street, past Lee Avenue. The shrieks of sirens grew louder still. And then, quite abruptly, he could go no farther. The way ahead was blocked by police cars and emergency vehicles.

Pulling the Lotus up onto the curb, he got out and began walking. Now he could hear voices: cries, shouts, barked commands.

Some instinct told him to run.

The entrance to Perry Street was cordoned off, and a crowd was gathering: gasping, pointing, stretching to see past the police cars. Heart racing now, Logan ducked behind an ambulance, skirted the cordon, and began running once again down the street. A moment later, he stopped abruptly.

The charming old Victorian house was consumed by flame. Huge tongues of fire were licking out of every front window — first floor, second, round attic oriel — blackening the wood even as he stared. He took a step forward, staggered, took another. He could hear the crackling of flames, the groan of timbers. It was almost as if the house were moaning in pain. He could feel the heat even at this distance. Three fire trucks were parked outside, jets of white water pouring uselessly onto the conflagration. He’d never seen a fire so furious, so angry. Smoke stung his eyes, dried the back of his throat to chalk.