She stared at him for a long, long moment. “I see. You’re not ready. I should have known, you’ve never even told me about you. You’ve never really opened up.”

The same old refrain. Kenny would be happy to hear it. “I’m sorry, Cindy. I’m…” He spread his hands helplessly. “Just not ready.”

“Okay.” She folded her hands and paused, looking incredibly hurt. “Will you ever be?”

Don’t. God, don’t. “Cindy—”

His pager went off and he had no idea if it was relief that washed through him, or shame that he needed the out. He glanced down at the display, saw the emergency code, and grimaced as he set down his fork. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.”

Yes. Yes he was. He was just one sorry son of a bitch.

“Don’t listen to it,” she begged him. “Don’t leave now.”

“You know I have to.” He stood and opened his wallet, taking out the money to cover their meals while she just stared at him, boring holes into his body with her resentment. With a sigh, he bent over her and brushed his mouth over her temple. “I really am sorry,” he murmured.

“Please just answer me.” Her voice trembled and he felt like the lowest bottom-feeder as she grabbed his wrist. “Will you ever be ready for this? For me?”

They were in a restaurant, surrounded by a crowd. He didn’t want to do this to her, not now, not here. But she wouldn’t let go of him.

“Do you even want that white picket fence, Joe? Just tell me that.”

He swiped the pad of his thumb over the tear that had slipped down her cheek. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

At that, she pulled away from his touch. “Good-bye, Joe.”

And then she walked away before he could.

The emergency page was a fire. It always was. By the time Joe arrived at the single-story residential structure, the damage had been done. Flames leapt fifty feet into the black, opaque sky. More sirens sounded in the distance. A backup engine arriving to help protect the houses on either side. There were two ambulances there already, but Joe could tell from the screams as he got out of his truck, someone wasn’t going to make it to the hospital.

His stomach sank.

The on-site fire captain, Jake Rawlins, was an old, close friend. He came over to Joe while still yelling commands to his squad through his radio. “Carter and Martinez, pull back from the east side! Too hot! Too hot!” He watched as the truck engineer obeyed his orders, pulling the ladder away from the house, protecting the two firefighters on the end of it. Long streams of water from the hoses on the ground hit the hot flames.

“What do you have?” Joe asked.

“Hottest on the east side. Kitchen.”

“Who was inside?”