Smoke And Ashes

The letter... The divorce papers... Oh...

She sat up but was forced back down by the thump, thump, thump of the bass drum beating in her skull. She picked up the pills and swallowed them down, anything to stop the pounding.

Light streamed through unfamiliar white curtains and she looked down at a dark gray shirt, underneath which was a miniskirt. She remembered Brittany’s skirt but where had the T-shirt come from?

The bedsheets were yellow and soft, but those, too, were foreign.

She sat up more slowly, and this time the pounding of the bass drum changed to the tom, tom, tom of a timpani.

She pushed down the miniskirt and the simple action brought back a flash of her kissing Kevin, her hands sliding over the muscles of his stomach, her lips tasting the salty flavor of his skin.

Her body ached from what felt like gallons of tequila sloshing through her veins. At the very least she hadn’t had sex with him—if she had, she could have never faced him again.

Hopefully he didn’t think that her feelings were just some attempt at a drunken rebound. She had been foolish, but for her, it had sometimes felt as though there was more than a simple friendship between them.

She was such an idiot.

She tiptoed to the door and peered out into the empty hallway. This early in the morning everything was still. She slipped through the house and made her way outside, making sure to grab her shoes and purse by the front door.

The grass dripped with dew and not a single house’s lights were on, with the exception of her and David’s perfectly white house, where every single window was alight. He must have been awake all night, waiting for her.

Her stomach lurched, forcing her to run to the hedges that acted as a fence between the houses. She made it there in time to be sick.

There was a squeak of hinges as a door opened. She looked in the direction of the eerie, disquieting sound. David stood on their front step and glowered out at her.

His arms were crossed over his chest and his jaw was set, making him look like a dictatorial tyrant peering down upon his subjects.

“Get in the house.”

She made her way to the door, carefully sidestepping him as she went inside. She could feel his glare upon her.

“Your catting around just saved me a lot of money.”

* * *

KEVIN TRIED NOT to think about Heather slipping away. He should have known that was exactly what she would do when she woke. Regardless, it still bothered him that she would run away as soon as she realized how badly he had wanted her.

Hopefully they could still be friends. Hell, maybe something more if her divorce went through, but something like that had to be months, maybe years, away from happening. For all he knew, last night had been her attempt at a one-night thing. Maybe she only wanted to get back at David. Maybe his was just the closest door.

Maybe, when it came to him, she didn’t really care.

He wouldn’t know how she felt until he saw her again. He didn’t know whether to look forward to it.

Meanwhile he walked into Colter’s room. He made his way through the mess and stopped at the side of his bed. Colter’s chin showed the nicked signs of a recent battle with a razor. He reached up and pulled fuzz from a hair that had been missed. The hair was barely enough to be called a whisker, yet it was just another sign of the changes in their lives.

He leaned in and gave Colter a kiss on the head and drew in a breath, the way he used to when his son had been a baby. He no longer smelled of milk and baby powder, but rather he carried the odor of sweat with a pungent sock-scented kicker.

“Hey, bud,” he said softly, trying to rouse him. “Time to get up.”

Colter opened one eye and, seeing him, answered with a forgiving, sleepy smile.

There was still a chance to fix what was broken.

* * *

AFTER COLTER LEFT for school, Kevin dropped Lindsay off and made his way to the diner. No matter what was going on in his personal life, work awaited. At least in an investigation there was a chance he could get answers. It was black and white. Not like his mess of a private life.

His phone rang as he pulled the truck into a parking spot.

“Hello?”

“Inspector Jensen, this is Chief Larson.”

“Hey, Chief, how’s it going?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

“Not so great. I heard you and I may need to have a little meeting.”

Kevin forced a laugh. “Come on now, Chief. I didn’t do anything that bad, did I?”

“You were at last week’s meeting, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you may have some idea why you and I would be having a problem.”

“I’m aware that we’re trying to cut back on costs. I understand and would love to comply with your request. However, sir, I must be able to do my job in a professional manner. Protecting lives and saving property—am I right, Chief?”

“Absolutely.” There was a rustle as the chief moved the phone. “However, as I was made to understand, your investigation was impeded by your need to go to a neighborhood barbecue. Correct?”

His stomach clenched. How did Larson know?

“I did need to attend a social event with my family. It was an unavoidable situation.” He tried his damnedest to make it sound like brain surgery instead of a party.

“So let me get this right, Jensen. You took two rookie firefighters and had them sit on an investigation that should have been buttoned up in one pass so that you could go to an unavoidable social event? Do you know how much you cost us? I had to call in two more firefighters and give them time and a half to cover for the ones you needed to retain your chain of custody.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sir.”

“Your intention or not, this has to come to an end or I’m going to have to start cutting. We’d hate to lose you, Jensen.”

“I’m working on the investigation now. I’ll have this wrapped up soon.” He walked up to the diner. Near the door was a newspaper kiosk where a picture of Elke’s yellow-taped house blared out from the front page.

“I don’t see why you need that much time.”

“I’ve come to believe this may be the work of a serial arsonist. I’m hoping to pin down the suspect before there are any other fires.”

“What makes you think it’s a serial arsonist?”

“It’s just my gut, sir.”