Cynthia Reese - Sweet Justice

Dutch rolled his eyes. “Such Pollyanna attitudes. Whistle right by that churchyard, why don’t you? Daniel? You want to set your little brother straight?”

Daniel scratched his chin and stretched out his long legs. His poker face was much better than Andrew’s had ever been, and for a long moment, Andrew waited for his decision. “I can see your point, Dutch. It will be a mess if she does sue. Plus, you’ve got more experience with these things than either of us. Maybe being a lawyer means you’re like a hammer. Everything you see, well, it’s gotta be a nail.”

Dutch shrugged. “Even a broken watch is right twice a day.”

Daniel cocked an eyebrow. “In that analogy, are you the broken watch or are we?” He didn’t wait for Dutch. “I think we can thread the needle here with a little watchful waiting. You keep your ear to the ground for any signs of a lawsuit, and maybe check out the well-heeled Ms. Blair for any past litigation. And meanwhile, we can let Maegan do what she does best—make patients better. Besides, if it did come to a lawsuit, we did everything by the book that day. We followed protocol, and my guys—even my little squirt of a brother here—were bona fide heroes, and they have the commendations to prove it.” Daniel rose to his feet and clapped a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Bottom line is, Mallory Blair wouldn’t have a sister at all if it hadn’t been for Andrew.”

Unexpected pleasure rushed through Andrew at Daniel’s rare compliment. The city had indeed awarded Eric, Chase Jackson and Andrew commendations for bravery following the fire. At the time, it had kind of embarrassed Andrew, and he figured it was mostly because Eric had been hurt, and he and Jackson had only managed to get Katelyn out.

Daniel’s praise? That meant something—something that helped take the sting out of any accusing glare Mallory Blair might shoot his way.

CHAPTER SIX

FRANTICALLY MALLORY DUG through yet another box. Nope, no pots and pans, even though it was labeled clearly with the word Kitchen scrawled in her hand. She must have mixed it up with this box of sheets and towels in her hurry to get everything out the door before the landlord charged her another month’s rent.

“I’d help you if I could—” Katelyn grunted with effort as she tried to shove another stack of cartons over to maneuver her wheelchair through the clutter of moving boxes.

At the sound, Mallory stopped and looked up. “Don’t! You’ll knock those over and hurt yourself!”

“Mal...” Katelyn sighed. “Forget it. Let’s order a five-dollar pizza. I saw a take-out place as we drove through town. Just tonight, can we please, please, please not scrimp?”

For a moment, Mallory was so tempted. She, too, had seen the pizza place, and the last tenants had thoughtfully left a fridge magnet with the number on it. There was the phone... One call, and someone would be winging his way over with a hot, cheesy pizza that Mallory didn’t have to lift a finger to get.

Reality came crashing down. “Katelyn... I don’t have five dollars.” The confession humiliated her.

“What? C’mon. We’re not that broke. Are we?” Surprise and disbelief flooded Katelyn’s eyes...and when Mallory didn’t deny it, alarm quickly followed. “Are we?” she insisted.

“Yeah. We are. I’m between jobs, sweetie. I won’t get paid for another two weeks, and I had to use our savings for the first and last months’ deposit.”

“Well...what about your slush fund?”

Mallory couldn’t help but smile. Her “slush fund” was an emergency twenty she had tucked behind her driver’s license. “I used it to pay Kyle for the gas to move us down here.”

“Oh, man, if you used your slush fund, we are broke.”

“Well—we’re not totally broke, but I have to have gas money to get you back and forth to therapy and me to work. If worse comes to worst, I can ride your bike or even walk. It’s only a couple of miles from here to downtown.”

“A couple of miles! That’s an hour’s walk! And not even you could bike in heels. No, Mallory, you’re not going to walk. We’ll... Man. I so did want a pizza.”

“Yeah. I can taste the pepperoni. I have some flour and yeast, and we have that block of mozz. And I scored a couple of cans of tomato paste on sale. I think I’ve still got it—somewhere...” Mallory surveyed the sea of boxes. “We’ll have pizza, Katelyn. Maybe not pepperoni, but we’ll have pizza.”

Katelyn made a sudden choking sound, and Mallory realized she was trying not to cry. Mallory weaved her way back through the boxes and knelt down beside her sister. “What? Are you hurting? I can get your meds.”

Katelyn screwed up her fists and scrubbed at her eyes. “I hate this. I hate it. I can’t even help you look for the blasted tomato paste. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt—”

“No. No, honey. It’s not your fault. The house burning down wasn’t your fault. You being left there—that wasn’t your fault, either—” Was it Andrew Monroe’s? Would it make it easier somehow to blame someone for the circumstances of their life?

Yeah. Yeah, it would.

“Can I— Is there any way I can lie down for a while? I’m sorry, Mallory, but I’m so tired...”

Katelyn did look tired. Her earlier energy seemed gone, and now dark circles ringed her lower lids and her pink cheeks had faded back to chalky white, with her freckles standing out in stark contrast. “Sure. The bed’s the one thing we can actually get to.”

Mallory helped her sister to her cramped bedroom, felt her back ache even at Katelyn’s slight weight as she assisted her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. Katelyn was already drifting off as Mallory pulled the covers up to her chin—over those poor scarred legs and feet.

Mallory felt her own throat close up and she choked back tears as she watched Katelyn settle into sleep. The facility had warned her that Katelyn still had nightmares and that her sleep “wasn’t of good quality,” as the discharge planners had put it. Mallory wasn’t surprised that her sister was tuckered out by seven o’clock.

Rest. And a settled, stable home life, away from medicinal smells and beeping monitors and nurses that said, “This may hurt a little,” when they really meant it would be agony. Yeah, that was what Katelyn needed.

Mallory sighed. She had an apartment to settle and arrange, and a first day on the job tomorrow. Katelyn needed that, too.

By eight, Mallory had discovered that the tomato paste and other canned goods weren’t in any of the boxes labeled Kitchen, and that her usual organizational skills must have taken a leave of absence when she’d been packing up.

Still, she’d made some progress. The pots and pans were found and liberated, the glasses unpacked.

The last one in the box, a big brown iced-tea tumbler, she set carefully down on the dinette table and examined for nicks or cracks. With a sigh of relief, she realized it had come through the move unscathed. It had been her dad’s favorite glass, much to her mom’s despair, as it hadn’t matched anything else in their kitchen.

Neither Mallory nor Katelyn drank anything out of it. It stayed in the cupboard with the other glasses, a reminder of all the times Mallory had toted a tall glass of iced tea out to her dad’s garage workshop.

With a gentle finger, she skimmed the smooth brown surface—it had been some leftover of the 1970s that he’d found for a quarter at a garage sale. Touching it felt as if she was touching him, that he was a breath away, ready to wrap her in his arms for a reassuring bear hug and a promise that things would get better.

The loud, unfamiliar brring of the doorbell startled her out of her reverie. The rental manager? A neighbor?