The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ genetic predisposition to anger, as Frank had. The need to know if that was possible.

      Where was Reese? He’d left the station. She’d called to find out.

      She’d have gone to work to find him two hours ago—when she’d heard from Lila and Sara about what had been going on that day—except that he’d laid down the law. No one was supposed to know they knew each other.

      Or rather, had known each other.

      The always-serious, always-businesslike, strict guy Reese was now wasn’t the man she’d known.

      But then, she probably didn’t even remotely resemble the girl he’d once known.

      One thing about him was the same—besides his apparent appeal where her screwed-up sexual psyche was concerned—he was fair.

      She hoped.

      Would he let her keep her job?

      What had he thought of Elliott? She’d spent so many hours mentally playing out that moment when Elliott and Reese came face-to-face. Would Elliott like him?

      Would Reese care at all?

      Or would Elliott just be someone else’s child, with no attachment value whatsoever?

      Had Reese liked him?

      When his shiny blue truck pulled into the drive, she welcomed the interruption from thoughts that served no purpose. Stepping away from the house, she waited for him to notice her. She’d purposely left her car parked down the block, not wanting him to see it and turn around before she had her shot at him.

      The scowl on his face as he climbed down from his truck didn’t bode well.

      “I know, you don’t want to see me,” she said, approaching him with her hand out in front of her like a stop sign. “But I can’t talk to you at work, and I was afraid you’d hang up on me if I called and...”

      “You’re right, I would have.” He walked past her and toward his door. “You can show yourself out,” he said, climbing the two cement steps and putting his key in the lock.

      She wasn’t in. Was he maybe more rattled than he was letting on?

      The house had a lovely front porch by the front door. But the side door was by the garage.

      She’d known that was the one he’d use.

      Some things hadn’t changed.

      “Reese...”

      He was still in uniform...all official looking in dress pants and shirt with his tie over one arm.

      “If you want to keep your job, I suggest that you leave now.”

      He said the words in the most congenial tone. Still, her feelings might have been hurt if not for the first part. If you want to keep your job.

      He wasn’t firing her.

      She turned before he could see the tears of sheer relief that flooded her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and pretty much ran back to her car.

      * * *

      HE WAS NOT going to get involved between her and her son. Hadn’t asked a single question.

      It wasn’t his business.

      He didn’t want to know.

      If the kid was punished...if they found out where he got the matches... What had Elliott written that was so bad he’d had to destroy it?

      None of it was anything he needed to worry himself about.

      And Faye...

      She did her job well. Damn well, according to Brandt, who had her riding with him most of the time. Calm and cool in the most hideous circumstances...and compassionate, too.

      She’d started an IV on a screaming four-year-old in seconds, finding the vein immediately. Dealt with the mother, whose face had been severely damaged by the crash, and had done CPR on an elderly occupant of the car. Everyone was still alive.

      And that had just been one accident.

      His second-in-command had told him that if he was ever dying on the side of the road, he’d want Faye to be the one who came to rescue him.

      Reese was busy not thinking about her on Friday night, just past ten, when his scanner beeped. There were reports of a fire out of control near a backyard on a cul-de-sac five miles from him. No one was home. There was no sign of anyone near the fire.

      His perp was back.

      Reese wasn’t on call but had consumed only half a beer. He could be at the scene. Pouring the rest down the drain, he grabbed his gear, suited up at home and headed to the site.

      The truck was there ahead of him. Brandt. Mark. Riley.

      And Faye.

      Cyrus had switched with her so he could attend a family event. Reese had seen the change come through on the calendar.

      As before, his guys had the fire put out with little effort, but Reese didn’t like what he saw. They’d had to use the hose this time.

      “He doused a bigger area with gas,” Brandt said as Reese approached. The rest of the crew were standing back, watching, knowing better than to contaminate his crime scene with so much as a footprint that wasn’t needed.

      Their boots were distinct—far different from a size-ten running shoe—but they could still ruin an imprint.

      “And he’s moved to private property,” Reese said.

      “Which is bad, considering that we now have to start giving serious consideration to the fact that people are likely to get hurt if this continues...” Brandt’s concerned tone echoed what Reese had already been thinking.

      “But it’s going to make it harder for him to continue without someone seeing something,” Reese added.

      Police were already canvassing the neighborhood. They’d left the fire scene to Reese. Evidence bag in hand, he took a step closer.

      For now, with the scenes so small, he preferred to be alone. They were a small-town fire department. Paid, not volunteer. If they wanted to stay that way, everyone needed to pull extra weight.

      And Brandt did more than his share.

      Truth be told, Reese liked the fieldwork. He hadn’t fully realized just how much of his time would be taken up with administrative duties when he took the job. He didn’t mind them most of the time, but they’d hired him for his wildfire, investigative and inspection skills, too. That was the work he loved.

      Kneeling near the burning embers, similar to last week’s but in a larger pile than the previous week, he noticed what he thought was a small piece of something white. He shined his flashlight. There was nothing but ashes in the center of the clear gas burn that snaked out for several feet. Except that fleck of white. He had to get to СКАЧАТЬ