No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  “Way,” Blake throws back.

  Her gaze darts to me. “You...you think he did it, too?”

  “Well,” I wince, my words stalling.

  Oh, boy. I can’t take sides. And honestly, I don’t know what to think anymore.

  Right now, I don’t trust my gut with everything so confusing. Not to mention that little wrist apparatus we found at the vet clinic, the same kind I saw Clark practicing with at the carnival grounds...

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t know him very well. Your father does.”

  “Yeah, but my father’s a dick who hates everyone in his family,” Andrea slurs, her eyes flashing as she turns a glare on Blake. “You’re joking, right? You can’t actually believe it’s Uncle Holt? You just don’t want me to have anyone in my life but you, huh? First Clark, now my uncle?”

  Blake’s face visibly falls, his brows drooping. “That ain’t what it’s about, Andrea. Never was. Believe me. Besides, if it’s your Uncle Holt doing it, then I’ve got no reason to stop you from hanging out with Clark, do I?”

  “Awesome. So now I have to choose between them?” Her mouth twists up in an upset line. “That’s so not fair. It’s not fair that both the people you think are doing it are people I want in my life. They’re both innocent.”

  Blake’s sigh is long, slow, deep, and hurting. “I want to believe that, Little Violet. I really do. But you’ve got so much faith in your uncle without knowing him like I do.” He holds his free hand out to her, pleading. I squeeze his captured hand, offering silent support. “Just shut it and prove me wrong. Can you do that for a couple days? I just...fuck, I need you to help me on this, Andrea. He wants you to stay with him, and if you do...you just might be able to end this.”

  Andrea stares at his hand.

  She doesn’t take it.

  Instead, she turns her nose up, folding her arms over her chest.

  “Arghhh, fine. I’ll help you. So maybe you can stop being paranoid and learn to trust people. Clark didn’t do it. Uncle Holt didn’t do it.” She makes a disgusted sound. “I’ll be your little spy, and then when you’re wrong, you can actually start being nice to your brother. Deal?”

  Blake drops his hand, resting it on his knee.

  “That’s asking a lot,” he says flatly.

  She shoots him a withering look. “More than asking your teenage daughter to spy on the dude you think is setting fires everywhere?”

  “Dammit, you’re worse than he is. I just want you to report back if you see anything funny, and if you do, call me ASAP. And call Peace if I’m not answering.” Blake drags a palm over his face. “Fine. If he’s innocent—if—then I’ll be all smiles for him. Happy?”

  “Now I am,” she chirps, her mood shifting instantly. “How long?”

  “No more than a week,” Blake says. “Check-ins every day. I’ll drop by as often as I can.”

  She smiles brightly, bouncing to her feet and prancing over to drop a kiss on Blake’s cheek, leaving him looking absolutely befuddled as she singsongs, “Thank you, Daddy. I’ll go pack.”

  He stares after her with wide eyes as she spins toward the stairs, then calls after her, “Don’t forget, you’re still helping Justin out with prepping his carnival workshop.”

  “I won’t forget!” drifts down the stairs while Blake just sits there.

  Looking poleaxed.

  Who could blame him?

  “That girl’s going to be trouble when she grows up,” I mutter playfully, and Blake’s wide eyes slide to me.

  “When?” he chokes out.

  Suddenly, we’re laughing.

  And it’s good, and right, and while I know we need to talk, not right now.

  Not now, when I don’t need a fancy name for this thing between us.

  I just know that being with him feels good.

  At the moment, Blake’s music is all I need.

  16

  Stay for the Encore (Blake)

  It’s funny how every time shit goes wrong, we turn the Charming Inn—and specifically Ms. Wilma’s kitchen—into our war room.

  It’s just like when that fucker Nash kidnapped Deanna Bell and left poor Leo hunting for her before her sister, Rissa—now his wife—lost her ever-loving mind.

  Only now we’re all gathered at the kitchen table—me, Warren, Gray, and Leo—around those three scraps of blue paper with their ominous words.

  Nobody’s touching their food.

  I don’t think anybody’s got any appetite. We’re too busy staring at the scrawled, scratchy handwriting.

  You and your merry band of assholes aren’t as smart as you think, you scarred freak.

  Jenna was the real hero, Warren.

  And you can’t even protect her memory.

  If only you’d kept your germs to yourself, Doctor. Heart’s Edge wouldn’t catch fever.

  I’m warming my hands against a cup of coffee, the thick omelet Ms. Wilma laid out in front of me left untouched. The others are the same, bracing black coffees like it’s the only thing holding us up.

  “So we’re sure,” I say, “that this has nothing to do with those fucks at Galentron?”

  “It doesn’t have their smell,” Leo growls, his tattooed and scarred hands tightening against his coffee mug to the point I’m worried he’s gonna crack it. “They leave a real stench. Patterns. We’d see strangers in town posing as tourists, standing out just a little too much. Strange happenings. People spending too much money. Fuchsia Delaney.”

  Everybody goes still, a nervous hush settling over the room.

  Doc actually looks over his shoulder. “Can we not say her name this time and invite Count Dracula’s mistress in?”

  I look up and grin. He’s hardly exaggerating. That woman’s a black cat.

  Bad luck to anyone who crosses her path.

  And somehow, she always seems to materialize not long after you mention her, usually bringing trouble in her wake.

  But Fuchsia’s ghost aside...it’s just us in the kitchen, which is always sunny and light-filled even in the dead of winter. Cozy enough to banish the memory of that witchy woman but not enough to remove the dread silence.

  “All right.” Warren’s the man who finally breaks it. “I made a few calls. Nothing to do with the old drug ring, either, or any leftover bad business here in town. I thought maybe someone was coming back for a little revenge after we busted everything up and ruined their cash flow, but they’d have to be pretty dedicated to get this whole vengeful stalker thing down in this detail.”

  “So it’s personal, it’s local, and we have few options for who it might be,” Doc says in his flat, even monotone that says his temper’s on the verge of bursting. “Other than a minor who really has no reason to go to such extremes.”

  “I have one idea,” I growl. “And y’all won’t like it.”

  They all wait, just looking at me. I feel like they’re already bracing for what I’m about to say.

  “Holt. My brother.”

  War immediately sighs, pressing his face into his hand. “I can’t believe that brat’s back in town.”

  “And still a brat. Just bigger and more dangerous,” I say. “I’m keeping him busy right now pretending to be the good uncle, and Andrea’s snooping for any leads. But he’s not stupid. He wants to keep up appearances. Still, right now, he’s the one who stands to benefit the most from new construction contracts on the buildings he’s burned up.”

  “He won’t be getting my business,” Doc snaps. “Not even if he’s innocent. You’ve told me how slipshod he was in high school. I won’t have that kind of work on my clinic, a place of rest and healing.”

  I can’t help a smile at that, even if it’s tired. “He’s...I don’t know, man. I don’t want to believe my own brother would do that, asshole that he is, but who else has a grudge against all of us who isn’t connected to either the drug gang or Galentron?”

  “Occam’s Razor,” Leo grunts. “The simplest, most obvious solution is usually the right
one.”

  “Unless we’re overlooking something,” Warren adds, cracking his knuckles.

  “But what?” I ask.

  I’m only answered with blank looks and spread hands.

  Leo shakes his head. “The question is, if it’s Holt, what do we do about it?”

  “Flush him out,” I say. “He clearly wants to humiliate us, hurt us, get under our skin. This is a game to him. One where he wants recognition, and it’s fucking eating him alive that we’re the heroes of the town. Sooner or later, he’ll do something showy.”

  “Shit. The thing coming up, the ceremony,” Warren says. “He’ll want to sabotage it, won’t he?”

  “Exactly,” I snarl.

  Everybody trades awkward looks over the table.

  None of us wanted this damn ceremony at the carnival.

  It’s not worth it.

  Some kind of prideful circus the town council threw together for morale or something. Really, it’s just making a big hoopla out of the hell we’ve been through over the past couple years and acting like we did anything other than try to make sure Heart’s Edge survived along with us.

  I can’t stand it.

  The way folks look at us, gab about us. Like they wouldn’t do the same if they were under pressure. This town’s full of good people.

  We ain’t special.

  We’re just the guys who got tossed in the pressure cooker and had to come out the other side.

  But Holt wouldn’t miss a chance to show the town who we “really” are.

  The people he still sees.

  The big kids who didn’t give him enough attention. Because if I know Holt, I know some part of him is still holding old grudges.

  Doc cocks his head, watching me keenly over the top of his glasses. “Then the plan is to lure him out at the ceremony?”

  “The plan’s to keep him away from the ceremony,” I correct. “He’s gonna try to set some kind of fire, if his pattern holds up. So far it’s been juvenile-level prank shit. Easy to pass off as one of the kids. No one really gets hurt. But so many people at the winter carnival...he fucks one thing up, and we’ve got a lot of casualties.”

  “So what do we do?” Warren asks.

  I grin.

  “Easy,” I say. “We give him a bigger target.”

  * * *

  It doesn’t take us long to come up with a plan.

  We’re gonna put on a variety show.

  Listen. I know it’s silly. But people like my radio show, and I know I can bark up a crowd.

  And that crowd’s gonna be gathering around inside the ice palace they’re building.

  I can’t think of a better place to keep a bunch of people safe from an arsonist than inside a building that’s damn-near solid ice bricks.

  He can try to pull his shit, but it won’t work.

  I’ll have fire containment on standby, Justin and Rich and the part-timers ready, plus a fire truck or two.

  The town council might complain about the aesthetic—but considering they’re building a temporary wooden windbreaker wall around the entire carnival grounds so nobody freezes their asses off in the biting winds, they won’t even be able to see the trucks.

  It’ll be fine.

  And maybe, just maybe, we’ll either catch the bastard red-handed...or just bust up his schemes so he’ll turn tail and run right out of town.

  Right now, though, I’m out following up another lead. Chasing down loose ends.

  Even though my suspicions are fixed on Holt, I gotta cover all my bases.

  That’s why I’m at the Patten house, eyeing the big white rental truck in the driveway with the Patten Pyrotechnics logo stuck to the side on a big magnet.

  Just makes me think back to that dark, glittery truck Peace saw.

  Damn.

  Why ain’t nothing sitting right?

  Why does everything keep bouncing between Holt and Clark, but never really falling on either?

  At least this means Roger Patten’s home.

  The poor man looks like a flustered mess when I bang on his door, holding the half-busted pyrotechnic device in my hand from the clinic.

  His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he stares at me, then down at the phone in his hand, tapping redial on a listing that says Clark.

  “Blake Silverton? Thank hell, man, I was gonna call Langley.”

  “Langley?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, uh, have you seen my nephew? Is he out with your daughter?”

  My lips pinch a thin line.

  Ah, shit.

  “Haven’t seen him. You want me to call Andrea?”

  “Please!” Rog says, his throat working in a hard swallow. “Clark hasn’t answered his phone in over a day.”

  Not good.

  And I don’t want to tell Rog what I’m thinking.

  That maybe Clark did it, and he’s gone to ground till we lose his scent.

  I’m starting to get whiplash from this case. It still doesn’t make sense, that whole thing about Jenna Ford when Clark’s too young to remember that crap, but maybe he heard enough whispers?

  Or maybe nothing about this makes a lick of sense.

  I pull my phone out and dial Andrea. I’m half worried she won’t answer.

  Nobody wants to pick up the phone for their idiot dad—but after a few seconds her voice comes over the line, laughing breathlessly. There’s someone else laughing with her, a male voice, but it’s not Clark.

  “What, Dad?” she asks without a hello, and I wrinkle my nose.

  I taught her manners. I swear I did.

  “Where are you?” I ask. “Is Clark with you?”

  “Dammit, Dad, are you really—”

  “It ain’t that,” I cut her off. “Listen, he’s not answering his phone, and his uncle’s scared sick.”

  She goes still. Dead silent.

  I can just hear her breath turn quick and wild and scared.

  “Oh,” she says. “I’m...I’m at the carnival grounds helping Justin right now. Clark’s not here. He was supposed to come help, but I thought he just ditched me and was busy with his uncle.”

  Fuck.

  “What’s wrong?” Justin asks in the background. “Drea, you look pale.”

  She pulls the phone away enough for her voice to mute a bit, though I can still make out, “It’s Dad. Clark’s missing, he thinks.”

  There’s a fumbling sound on the other end of the line, then Justin’s voice comes over. “Chief? It’s Justin.”

  “Hey,” I say with a flush of relief. At least I know my daughter’s somewhere safe; Holt must’ve dropped her off. “You seen Clark Patten around?”

  “Not hide nor hair,” he says. “But I’ll keep an eye out. Ask around. Somebody had to have seen him recently. Half the town’s been in and out of here getting the last stuff set up.”

  “That’d be appreciated.” I pause. “Say, if you run into him, keep him busy, Justin. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “Chief?” Justin sounds puzzled.

  “Trust me, I got a funny feeling,” I say. “That’s all.”

  We exchange a few more terse comments, then I hang up and look down into Rog’s watery, worried eyes.

  “We’ve got fire crew out at the carnival grounds,” I say. “They’re keeping an eye out and asking around about Clark. Wherever he is, they’ll figure it out.”

  “Oh, thanks! Finally some good news,” Rog says, clutching his phone to his chest, closing his eyes. “I’ll go have a drive around and see, too.”

  “Good man. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. But you should let the sheriff know, too, just in case. Missing minor and such. He can put the word out to his deputies.”

  I pause, though, fingering the device in my jacket pocket. “One more thing...I don’t wanna add to your woes, but I came by to show you something.” I hesitate a moment longer, then pull the device from my pocket—and I know by the click of recognition in his eyes even before I ask.

  “Is this yours?”


  * * *

  It’s his.

  And that’s another nail in Clark’s coffin.

  Except Rog says it’s been messed up by someone who doesn’t know how to use it.

  He says it’s a little magic trick, not meant to hold more than an ounce or two of fuel. Magicians use them all the time for dramatic bursts of flame.

  He said someone who knew how to use it wouldn’t have dented up the little fuel can like it is. They’re fragile and have to be opened just right. Whatever the person who used it did, it also fucked up the firing mechanism, so it only gave off a weak flame.

  Somebody clueless tried to rig it to go off by itself once he left the building.

  But since he didn’t know what he was doing, he just broke it, and sabotaged his own arson attempt.

  That’s a pattern pointing at unfamiliarity with pyrotechnics, and once again steering away from Clark.

  So if Clark’s missing, and he ain’t the arsonist...

  Where’d he go?

  That question’s still weighing on me like ten tons of bricks by the time I make it home.

  The burden lifts a little as I step inside, and I’m greeted by the sound of singing.

  Peace.

  She’s practicing that song from The Nest.

  The one about a desperado who’s got a heart of gold inside gunmetal plating, that tired man looking for a reason for his heart to still beat.

  Can’t help but smile. It still feels like she’s singing that song for me.

  Like she’s singing it to guide me home.

  And I can’t resist following the sound upstairs, where she’s curled up in my bedroom like she belongs there.

  I want her to belong there.

  Hell, she’s gorgeous.

  Just simple and natural, swimming in one of my oversized t-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts, her legs bare and lush with the guitar in her lap pressing down on her thighs.

  They give in to the soft pillows of flesh around it, her bare feet tucked up under her knees.

  Her hair falls and sways around her face as she bends over the neck of the guitar and strums away, her lashes lowered in quiet focus, strawberry lips moving in low, lyrical thrums that turn simple words into pure soul.