Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  “We’ll be right up,” Jeremy says.

  The call disconnects as I try to focus my mind on why my boys would be on the island. I informed them both of my travel plans, obviously, since Phillip arranged for us to charter the studio’s jet. Since arriving here, I’ve not spoken to either of them. But…

  George.

  Who phoned me yesterday to share his concerns about my recklessness and working with Rae. And now, the boys have shown up.

  That sneaky rat squealed on me.

  I toss the phone on the sofa cushion and face Rae. "Brace yourself. Phillip and Jeremy are on their way up. And, from his abrupt tone, I'm not sure it's going to be pleasant."

  25

  Rae

  * * *

  The bang-bang-bang of a rapid knock spins me around. After all, it’s not often King Kong is at the door. For crying out loud, people three floors down probably heard that.

  "That would be them," Rose says. "I'll get it. In fact, you may want to step out. Save yourself."

  She laughs at her own joke, but I’m not detecting a whole lot of humor as she walks to the door.

  "I'd like to stay," I say. "If it's okay with you."

  We're partners in this and if her sons plan on yelling at her for whatever reason, they'll have to do it in front of me. She reaches the door and looks over her shoulder, a full smile taking over her face. "I do like your gumption."

  Rose opens the door with a flourish and holds her arms wide. "My darlings," she says, her voice lilting. "What a wonderful surprise."

  I doubt that, but Rose is a socialite’s version of a spec ops warrior, so I figure she knows what she’s doing. A tall guy in a charcoal suit steps through the door. I’ve already met Jeremy, so process of elimination tells me this must be Phillip. His hair is dark, his jaw square, and his cheekbones are like something a sculptor carved. He is, as they say, a hottie. He enfolds Rose in a hug, patting her back, but his crystal blue gaze is on me.

  And not in a nice way. Shoot. I’ve never even met this guy and he’s already mad at me.

  "Mom." The man backs away from the hug. "What the hell is going on? If I thought you'd get arrested, there's no way I would've let you come down here. Much less give you the studio's plane."

  "Oh, hush now. You're blowing things way out of proportion. If I’d been arrested, I’d have called you.” She turns away from Phillip and greets Jeremy with a hug that doesn’t appear quite as welcoming as Phillip’s. Who could blame her after what Sanchez said?

  While that's happening, Phillip-the-hottie heads toward me, hand extended. "I'm Phillip Trudeau. I'm guessing you’re Rae?"

  I shake his hand, offering just enough firmness to let him know I'm no wuss. Hey, I pack a mean three-pound weight. “Yes. It's nice to meet you."

  "Rae," Jeremy says by way of greeting after he and Rose have finished their lovefest.

  I go up on tiptoes and peer over Phillip’s shoulder. "Hi, Jeremy."

  "You got our mother arrested?"

  Rose holds up two hands. "That's enough. Everyone have a seat. Boys, I'm going to assume George called you. Which is fine, but I do wish you would have phoned and let me give you my side before you barged in here."

  While Jeremy drops onto the sofa, Phillip turns back to Rose, hands on hips. “Nice try. You're not spinning this on us. As soon as they let you out of the police station you should have been on the phone to us. Frankly the plane hadn't even left. I’d have put you right back on it."

  Good luck with that, pal. Even with my limited knowledge of Rose, I’m betting that she won’t do anything she doesn’t want to. Go, Rose.

  "That's why she didn't call us," Jeremy says, his voice heavy with fatigue.

  "Phillip,” Rose gestures to the seating area. “Sit. We’ll talk and then you boys can get cleaned up and join us for dinner."

  Dinner. Crap. With this bunch, it’ll be some high-end place that’ll take the last of my dwindling cash.

  Phillip’s head lops forward. “No dinner, Mom. You're coming home. If Rae wants to stay, that's on her. I thought this was some kind of human-interest story. A remembrance of all those who died that day. I didn't think you two would be playing detective."

  Playing? This guy doesn’t even know me. Before I go off on him, I count to three—let’s make it five—and let out a breath. The last guy I yelled at nearly slugged Rose.

  "Guys,” I say, “I understand you're worried about your mom. I’m sorry if we scared you. I didn't intend for us to get hauled down to the police station. She's fine, though. Really. If I thought we were in any kind of danger, I'd be the first one to say we need to get out of here."

  I don't kid myself into thinking they believe me, but it's the truth. After what I've been through in these last weeks, the threatening calls, the goon in my apartment, I don't need any more haters coming after me. Or Rose. I like her—a lot—and if anything happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.

  "She's right," Rose says. "I don't know what you've heard, but all we did was go to the Grande. There's a no-trespassing sign but," Rose waves a dismissive hand, "you know how these things are. There are signs like that everywhere. And frankly, if they didn't want people on the property, they should have better fencing. As it was, we slipped right on through the gate."

  Phillip slowly shifts his head back and forth. “You were arrested for trespassing? It seems extreme."

  No dummy, this one.

  "There's a bit more to it,” Rose concedes.

  "I'm sure there is."

  At Phillip's sarcasm, Jeremy laughs. The family dynamic here is kind of fascinating. I mean, Jeremy is older by what? I do some quick math. Nineteen years. And, yet, Old Phil is definitely the alpha.

  Ignoring the smarty-pants comment, Rose shoos Phillip away. “The officer was quite aggressive."

  "What do you mean? Aggressive? Did he touch you?"

  Um, yeah. Rose eyes me and I immediately get the message. She’s about to lie her butt off to keep her son from losing his alpha I-will-kill-you mind.

  "Of course not,” Rose says. “But he was quite agitated that we were on the property and well, I didn't like his attitude."

  "Oh boy." Phillip looks at Jeremy. "You getting a vision of this?"

  Not waiting for an answer, Phillip waves a hand in the air and it’s a move so similar to Rose’s I have to bite my lip to hide a laugh. That elitist wave must be part of their DNA.

  "So," he says, "he got mouthy with you. You, I assume, announced your feelings on that and wound up in handcuffs."

  "Wow," I say to Rose. "They've got all the details. Whoever George’s source is, the guy is solid gold."

  “What?” Phillip roars. "They handcuffed you? I was being facetious."

  "Whoopsie," I say, because well, what else is there to say?

  From his spot on the couch, Jeremy lets out a sigh. Between the bags under his eyes and his frown lines, this poor guy seems like he's had a hell of a rough day.

  He pushes out of his seat and straightens the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I don’t think we need any further details. The important thing is the two of you are safe. Obviously, you'll be coming home with us in the morning. For now, I'm going to my room to get cleaned up and then we'll go have that dinner Mom suggested.”

  "Dinner sounds lovely, dear, however, after that your plan falls apart. We have a list of witnesses to speak to and until we get through those, I'm staying put."

  Alpha Phil is back to the head shaking. “Absolutely not.”

  "Phil,” Jeremy says, “you know how this goes with her. Give it a rest for now."

  Once again, Phillip shoots me a hard look, but the guy is so stinking good-looking I can’t even focus enough to be scared.

  "You may have noticed,” he says, “my mother is stubborn. She’s also the only mother we have and this investigation could put her—as well as you—in danger. If something happens to her, I'll hold you responsible."

  His emphasis on the word “you” knocks me back a step. Coul
d he know about my issues back home? The threats and hate mail and goon? If he’s dug around enough, maybe. And that suddenly has me starting to doubt this whole plan. What was I thinking, letting Rose come here?

  "Oh, Phillip,” Rose drawls. “Please stop with the drama. If you're so concerned, maybe the two of you could offer some assistance. Did you ever think of that? After all, you're the one who told me to get a life."

  "I did not tell you to get a life. I suggested that maybe you were bored and could use a project. A charity function, organizing a fundraiser, whatever. I didn't expect you to turn into Columbo.”

  Phillip’s cell rings. He drags it from his pocket and swears softly. “I need to take this." He pokes his phone at Rose. "We're not done here."

  26

  Rose

  * * *

  My son takes his leave, giving me the perfect opportunity to speak privately with Jeremy about Detective Sanchez’s information. I face Rae. "Dear, would you mind giving me a moment alone with Jeremy?"

  She stares at me for a long moment before recognition seems to dawn. “Sure. I'll go grab a drink or something. Call me when you're done."

  She nods at Jeremy and heads to the door. I keep my eyes on her rather than Jeremy. Nothing about this conversation will be easy and it’s not one I’ll enjoy. But I want the truth. I deserve that much.

  Once Rae is out the door, I face my stepson and a fresh bout of hurt floods me. I shake it off. I can't get too far ahead of myself on this. Spinning out won't help either of us. Rather than sitting, I walk to the window, staring out at the blue-green ocean beyond.

  "Mother?"

  I turn back and clasp my hands in front of me. My go-to stance when trying to look casual but firm. "We met with Detective Sanchez earlier."

  Just as I'm about to ask if Jeremy remembers him, I pause, leaving the statement right where it is. On my son’s handsome face I see nothing. Not a raised eyebrow or frown or tightened jaw. If he remembers the detective—which I'd hoped he would, considering the man questioned him regarding an unsolved arson case—he's done an Oscar-worthy performance.

  Finally, Jeremy shrugs. "All right."

  "Do you remember him?"

  "Should I?"

  Now he's just being coy and I'm whipped back to finding him climbing out his bedroom window to attend parties he had no business attending. Not only was he too young, the kids hosting the parties were hardly the crowd he should have befriended. At these particular parties, alcohol ran a distant second to cocaine and heroin.

  "Please don't," I say. "You're not a teenager anymore and I've more than earned the truth. Do you remember him or not?"

  He lowers himself to the arm of the sofa, then runs his fingers through his thick head of dark hair before dropping them into his lap. "He spoke to me after the fire."

  Truth. Excellent. "Yes. He mentioned it. He also mentioned your father attended that meeting with you. All these years, neither of you chose to mention it.”

  Jeremy locks his eyes with mine and the betrayal sits between us, opening a cavern that may never be sealed. Of all the things Jeremy knows about my relationship with Simon, he understands I’ve prided myself on transparency in our marriage. My God, wasn’t I the one who gave the now-divorced Jeremy a pre- and post-wedding lecture about honesty being the key to a long-standing marriage?

  All along he knew his father had lied to me regarding the Grande. Humiliation rolls over me, but I tip my chin up. Fool or no fool, I have my pride. At this point, it might be the only thing I’m sure of.

  "I'm sorry," he says.

  "For what? Keeping secrets or me believing all these years I knew the men I’d built my life around?”

  “You knew us. Dad felt the meeting was meaningless and didn't want you to know. He kept it between us." He lets out a soft laugh. “A father-son thing, he'd said. Back then, you and I were in a good place and Dad wanted to keep it that way."

  "And what about this counterfeiting scheme? Were you involved?"

  His mouth immediately opens and I hold my hand up. "If what you’re about to say to me is a lie, save it.”

  After those tumultuous teenage years, I learned a hard truth about our son. He is a gifted liar. If Simon thought I could sell a dog off a meat truck, Jeremy could sell a lion.

  He closes his mouth, drops his chin to his chest, and his full cheeks sag. Good. At least he's giving me the courtesy of not trying to bamboozle me.

  "The only thing I want from you," I say, "is the truth. Whatever that may be. Unless you started that fire, there's nothing you can tell me that will change how I feel about you. I love you, Jeremy. I always have.”

  He lifts his head and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “You think… Wait. Mother, I didn't start that fire. I promise you.”

  His obvious omission of the counterfeiting ring sends my pulse hammering. Lord, what had this boy gotten into? "The counterfeiting ring,” I press. “What did that have to do with you?"

  "At that point, nothing."

  Enough of the wordplay. The pressure at my temples—all that blood roaring inside me—builds and I lock my jaw shut, trying to breathe through the emotional onslaught. In the war between temper and patience, temper is about to call victory. For the first time ever, I have the urge to physically strike Jeremy.

  And I don’t like it.

  I step closer and fold my arms. “Your father lied to me for thirty years. You'll have to do better than that."

  “That summer,” he says, clearly aware I’m done waiting, “when I showed up for work, Myles asked if I wanted to get involved in more of the business side of running the hotel. Up to that point, whatever they needed me to do, I did. A chance to not smell like fried food and fish sounded pretty good, so he put me to work in the accounting office. Occasionally I worked the count room in the casino."

  "You were dealing with money."

  He nods. “Yes. Some of it fake."

  I gasp and remind myself to not jump ahead. To wait. Hear the whole thing. But counterfeiting? Oh, Jeremy. Our son had always been highly motivated by the finer things in life. Having grown up around money, he had certain expectations. It didn't shock me when he became a financial planner. It was the one job that allowed him to be around the thing he loved most.

  Still. Counterfeiting? I’m stunned. And heartbroken. “What did you do?"

  "I was a kid."

  "You were twenty-two.”

  He shrugs again, conceding the point. "Myles came to me one morning and handed me a canvas bag they used in the casino to transport money. He told me to take it down to the count room. So I did. He owned the place. If he asked me to do something, I did it."

  "And what happened?"

  “Nothing. I brought it to the count room and handed it over. After that, he continued bringing me bags of money. When you and Dad came down that summer, I told him about it. I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling Myles was doing something illegal. I was thinking laundering, but not laundering counterfeit money."

  Oddly enough, I’m not shocked. I should be, but no. Myles always had a slickness about him, but dragging our son into it? That’s despicable. We trusted him. “How was he laundering counterfeit money?"

  "I think he had the guys who worked the count room swap out real bills for the counterfeits. They must have been getting a cut of the operation to risk doing that. Anyway, Dad wasn't happy."

  "I'll bet he wasn't. The whole point of you going down there was to keep you out of trouble. George had promised us he'd keep an eye on you."

  "He did. This thing with Myles? I don't think George even knew."

  Well, that’s something at least. “I cannot believe your father kept this from me."

  "He told me he’d take care of it."

  "What did he do?"

  The only sound is the whir of the air-conditioning unit. At least until my last nerve cries uncle, the snap filling my ear. I can’t do this. Not anymore. All this being strong and formidable and controlled. It’s too much. Too damned much
. I jab my finger at him. “Stop lying! All these years I've done nothing but support you. I deserve better. Now tell me the truth or I swear to God I will cut you from my life like a cancer."

  His eyes bulge, those eyebrows hiking up again. He looks like something out of a cartoon and all I can think is I’m finally getting somewhere. That maybe this little hissy fit, along with harsh words I’ve never come close to saying, will earn me some honesty. All I know is that the horrendous pounding in my head has been knocked back to a dull thud.

  "Mother, please, this is the truth. Dad told me he would take care of it, and from that point on Myles didn't bring me any more canvas bags."

  "And he never said anything to you about it?"

  "Who? Dad or Myles?"

  "Either. Both."

  "No. Nothing. At least until after the fire, when Detective Sanchez told us about the Secret Service agent who was investigating. Sanchez thought I knew something. I told him what I knew. Exactly what I just told you, that's what I told him. I found out then that Dad had gone to Myles and told him he wanted me out of whatever was going on with the money. That's what Dad told Sanchez. I think Sanchez thought the fire was started to cover up the counterfeiting ring."

  The casino, the entire ground floor of the building, had been destroyed in the blaze. Everything. The gaming tables, stools, slot machines—all of it—burned to ashes. Including the money.

  "You think they set the fire to get rid of evidence?"

  Preposterous. Myles, from what Simon had told me, had been a savvy businessman until a brain aneurysm sent him to an early grave fifteen years ago. Why would he risk the crown jewel of all his properties, not to mention the lives lost, to cover a counterfeiting scheme? None of it made sense.

  As if reading my mind, Jeremy rolls one hand. "Think about it, Mother. Counterfeiting is a federal offense. Those come with heavy sentences. He could've gotten twenty years."

  At the time, Myles would have been in his early forties. I ponder Jeremy's argument. A twenty-year prison sentence would have made Myles my age before he'd have been a free man. I mentally rewind my life, all the experiences, watching my sons graduate from various schools, anniversaries with Simon, charities I worked with that changed people's lives. All of it in the last twenty years.