Tara Taylor Quinn - The Fireman's Son

“I told Chief Bristow that I recognized Kyle,” she said. She’d promised him the truth and she was not in a position to go backward on the climb to rebuild his trust. “But I did so for his sake as much as anything else,” she said. “I was concerned about him being out on the street where his father could have had access to him.” She didn’t figure then was the time to tell her son that officials believed the fire was part of a serial arsonist’s work.

Elliott looked at her.

She started the car and drove home, feeling his stare the whole way.

When she pulled into their apartment’s drive, he didn’t immediately reach to undo his seat belt.

“Look, Elliott. I’m not perfect by any means. But I did the right thing Friday night. And I would do it again.” They’d told her to be firm. To be consistent. To set boundaries.

He sat still, staring out the front window.

And she forgot counseling for a second. “You hate it that I didn’t tell on Dad for what he was doing.”

“So?”

“So, I wasn’t a snitch then. And it was wrong.”

His gaze swung toward her and she continued.

“Sometimes you have to tell,” she went on. “And if there’s a possibility that someone could get hurt, you have to tell every time. That’s something I know now.”

She’d known it then, too. She just hadn’t realized that the price of staying had been far greater than the one they’d paid for leaving.

She hadn’t known that Elliott had been affected by, or even known about, Frank’s abuse. She’d been trying to give her son a secure home, with nice things, all the bills paid, a loyal father who came home every night. She’d hoped that as Elliott grew out of boyhood into pre-manhood that Frank would take over—or at least take an interest in the child he’d fathered.

She’d thought a lot of erroneous things back then.

“Did you tell Kyle I told on him?” she asked now, wondering what kind of position her son had put himself in. Wondering if the bond with the older boy would pit them both against her.

“No. ’Course not,” Elliott said. He opened the door and got out.

He didn’t speak to her again as she settled him upstairs in their apartment with Suzie. Not even when she told him good-night and that she loved him.

But she heard Suzie’s voice behind her.

“That’s your mother. A good man responds when his mother speaks to him. And little boys who need their mother’s love are allowed to accept it. No matter what.”

She was smiling as she skipped down the stairs.

She might feel sometimes like she was facing her battles all alone.

But she wasn’t.

She should remember that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE’D BEEN A house fire over the weekend. Reese completed his inspection report on Tuesday. Faulty wiring. No gasoline on the premises.

While he hated to see anyone go through the trauma of losing irreplaceable belongings, he’d been relieved to know that arson wasn’t involved.

On Tuesday, he got the report back from LA regarding Friday night’s fire. He’d been planning to process the evidence himself, but with the weekend fire he’d been unable to do so. The fleck of shiny white he’d pulled out of the small pile of burned ash turned out to be paint that had flaked off from something.

What kind, he didn’t yet know.

But it was something else to add to size-ten tennis shoes. Something else that taunted him, dangling just out of reach when he had trouble sleeping at night.

Still, thoughts of the arsonist were preferable to thinking about Faye Walker. Or her son.

On Wednesday, he ran into her in the station’s kitchen. He’d been leaving with a cup of coffee in hand. Dressed in black Lycra shorts, a black tank bra and a white muscle shirt over top, she’d clearly just come from the fitness room. Her hair was pulled back, her skin was flushed, her forehead covered with beads of sweat.

He was swamped with memories. Specifically, a vision of her after making crazy love with him on a pool table in a frat house. She’d been visiting him for the weekend. They’d found the house empty after a bike ride along the coast. She’d been dressed pretty much the same—she’d hoisted herself onto the table, scooted back and dared him.

In less than ten seconds, he’d pulled her shorts down to her ankles and had brought her to almost instant satisfaction.

Had he been nuts? Had she been?

“Did you find out where your son got the matches?” He blurted the words to cover up the rest of what was going on in his mind.

He didn’t want to know any more about the boy. Didn’t even want to think of him.

Pictures of what might have been, of Faye and her son at home, in the kitchen, watching a movie, on the sand at the beach—would only make life messy. And hard.

She’d been backing up, as though to turn tail and run. But stopped and looked at him.

He didn’t get her expression. Had never seen the doubt and uncertainty mixed in with her usual strength.

“No,” she said. That was all. Nothing else.

She turned to go. He wanted to call her back.

To say what? To what end?

They were strangers. Had nothing to discuss. House rule.

Because this was his house.

* * *

FAYE WAS STILL shaking inside from her encounter with Reese when she lay in bed that night. On call for another eight hours, she didn’t dare take so much as an aspirin to help her sleep. What she needed to do was relax.

Not think about how close she’d been to throwing her arms around Reese when they’d had their near collision that morning.

He’d asked about Elliott and her heart had started beating such a fierce tattoo she’d thought she might have to sit down.

Did he think about them? Did he care maybe even a tiny bit about her and her son?

She couldn’t want him to. Didn’t dare want him to.

And yet...

No. It was only latent feelings from her pre-abused days. Going back to muscle memory from when she was emotionally undamaged.

Sara had warned her. She was vulnerable.

She had to stay aware. Keep control of her feelings through strong mental determination. Not let herself be convinced by a psyche that yearned for easier, happier times.

She would not let that happen. She’d die first.

Her son had barely spoken to her when she’d called him at bedtime, as she did every night she was at the station before he went to sleep. He’d said enough to keep Suzie from calling him out, but that was it. He was withdrawing from her. She could feel it and she was panicking.

Eyes closed, she concentrated on a series of mental relaxation techniques she’d learned over the years. Not just because of Frank, but because she worked a high-adrenaline, high-drama job. Finding and maintaining her center was paramount to being successful in her career.

“Let me out!”

Faye was out of bed before her eyes had completely sprung open, through her open door and across the hallway to her son’s room.

Elliott stood at the barred window, clawing at the curtains. “Let me out!” he screamed again.

It took everything she had not to wake him. To bring him back from whatever hell he’d sunk into. To hold his arms to his sides until the panic within him calmed.

Standing back, watching for any sign that he could hurt himself, she prayed for his angst to end, for peace to settle over his young soul and lead him gently back to bed.

“Let. Me. Out!” The growl was not a sound Faye recognized. It was as though the body standing there did not belong to her son. He grabbed the curtains, pulling at them as hard as he could. Yanking as though to pull the rod off the wall. “Let. Me. Out!”

She couldn’t just stand there. Crossing the room, she took hold of the curtain, just above Elliott’s desperate clutch. She withstood his jerks, a countermeasure to the damage he could do. Her arms ached but she didn’t know what else to do.