“Told him what happened. He said to give him a call around eleven, and he’d see what he could do. Probably won’t be able to send a truck until after lunch.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

A police cruiser passed through the gate and headed toward the firemen chatting with Gregorio.

“Shit,” Rusty said as he folded a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. “It’s like Grand Central Station around here.”

Quinn stared across the yard. “I saw you talking to the guy from Channel Six.

“Yeah.” Rusty tugged on his work gloves. “He sure was looking to dig up some trouble. I don’t think he found enough to suit him.”

“Thanks. Again.”

Quinn sent him to join Phil and then strolled toward the cruiser. “Morning, Reed.”

“Morning.” Reed Oberman tilted his chin toward the walkie-talkie on his shoulder and mumbled a cop’s code of numbers and acronyms into it. “Heard you had some trouble down here.”

“All taken care of.”

“So it seems.”

“Hey, Reed.” Gregorio edged his way into the conversation and extended a hand. “Good to see you.”

“Is that off the record?”

Gregorio flashed a bland smile at the officer and then faced Quinn. “Morning, Quinn. Shame to hear you’re having trouble on your job sites again. Looks like another innocent member of your crew’s hurt, and no one knows why.”

“No comment,” Quinn said.

“No comment on a friendly expression of sympathy?” Gregorio’s smile widened. “That seems a bit extreme. Damn near defensive, considering the circumstances.”

“No comment.”

“How about you, Reed? Are you here in an official capacity?”

“You know city policy on emergency dispatch.” Behind them, Reed’s car radio crackled and squawked. “And my business here is private. Unless Quinn doesn’t mind?”

Quinn flicked a glance in Gregorio’s direction. “No comment.”

“In that case,” Reed said with a tight smile of his own for Gregorio, “I’m going to have to ask you to stand back.”

“No problem,” Gregorio said. “Catch you later, Quinn.”

“No comment,” Quinn said.

Gregorio hefted his camera to his shoulder and moved off toward the scaffold.

“You want me to remove him from the site?” Reed asked.

“No. Thanks.” Quinn gestured toward his trailer. “Coffee? I don’t have anything but black, but it’s hot.”

“No, thanks. I’m cutting back.” Reed pulled a notepad from his pocket. “What happened here this morning, Quinn?”

In terse, precise phrases, Quinn went over everything he’d seen and everything he’d learned. “I don’t know why that board snapped the way it did,” he finished. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Sounds like an accident to me.”

“Looks like it. But it’s not.” Quinn watched Gregorio duck into his little green car. “I checked every one of those boards and put them in place myself.”

Reed glanced up from his notetaking, his expression cool, professional and shuttered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BECAUSE they were beginning to shake, Quinn buried his hands in his pockets and swallowed the acrid taste of panic. He knew what Reed was thinking-what everyone in town would be thinking, once Gregorio reminded them of what had happened on one of Quinn’s job sites six years ago. A member of his crew had fallen and broken his back.

“Sounds like Ned was lucky.” Reed folded the flap on his notebook and slipped it into his pocket.

“Or unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Quinn turned and started toward the blocks scattered around the mixer. “Let’s have a look.”

Reed followed him beneath the scaffold. Quinn tugged one of the broken boards from its awkward angle on the cross-bracing and studied the twisted, ragged edge. Then he flipped it over and found a fresh, neat slice below the jagged slivers. His fingers tightened on the wood, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed, remembering the gut-icing snap and Ned’s scream.

Reed leaned in closer for a better look. “That looks too clean to be an accidental break.”

“That’s because this was no accident.” Quinn shifted his grip and traced the smooth cut. “This board’s been sawed more than three-quarters through. From the top side, no one would have noticed anything was wrong until-”

“Until he stepped on that spot and broke it the rest of the way.” Reed pulled out his pad and scribbled more notes. “Mind if I take that into evidence? Just in case you get a chance to press charges.”

“Be my guest.” Quinn yanked the other half of the board from under the pile of blocks and layered it over the first. The two sections weren’t going to fit into Reed’s patrol car. “Want me to put these in my truck and follow you to the station?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Reed’s radio squawked to life, and he spoke into his shoulder set. “I’ll send for some assistance,” he said when he was finished. “I’d like to talk to the rest of your crew before I go.”

Quinn waved him off and headed for his trailer. He wanted some time to simmer down, to cool off before he called Sylvie. In fact, he wanted to shut down for the day, to swing by the hospital to check on Ned, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t run. He had to stick it out, to stay focused. To battle back the urge to detour to the nearest liquor store and wrap his fingers around the comforting, promising weight of a thick, cool bottle. To raise it to his lips, to let the liquid heat slide down his throat and smooth out the shakes, to lose himself in the-

He jogged up the steps, slammed the door and tossed his hat onto the short counter with a curse, and then he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. No. There was Rosie, and Ned, and the crew, and this job. The building, rising from the ground.

He lowered his arms and stared through the filmy, flyspecked window at the stark beauty of the I-beams rising from the foundation and the clean sweep of the yard. The power, the potential in this new start. He had to stick around, stay on track, keep moving. Moving forward.

He paced a tight circle, sucking in one shallow, wavering breath after another and blowing it out. Another set of slower, deeper breaths, and yet another, until each silent sigh carved away a part of the gnawing, crippling need, and Quinn knew he’d be fine…for another five minutes or so.

Five minutes would buy him enough time to make a start on the next hour. And that hour would be the down payment on the next one after that.

God. He’d hoped that because he’d been able to pull himself out of the last panic attack-the one following the damage to the backhoe-he’d be better able to handle the stress on the job. But the vandalized equipment hadn’t hit him this hard. Because of Ned, because of…what had happened six years ago.

Because this morning’s act of vandalism seemed personal.

Would this ever get easier? Would he ever be able to make a break with his past? The despair nearly sucked him under again, and he lifted his gaze to the picture of Rosie pinned to the bulletin board above the counter.

Rosie. Counting on him.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, as fragile and worn as a thousand-year-old parchment, fumbling in his pocket for the cell phone with fingers that no longer seemed to hold the strength to shake. There were two more calls he needed to make this morning. One to Geneva and one to Tess.

He’d phone Tess first. His mouth quirked up in one corner, and a thin layer of misery evaporated as he thought about how hot she’d get if he didn’t report in on time. And about how appealing she looked when she was throwing one of her subtly steamy tantrums.

Through the window, he watched Gregorio lift his camera to get a shot of the scaffolding, and a fresh wave of anger bubbled through him. Clean, healthy, energizing anger. No, he wouldn’t leave his site. Not yet. Not with the newsman prowling around, poking through the remains of this day’s disaster and looking for an angle on the wreckage of the past.