by Laura Scott
“I’ll make a note in your chart,” Jayme said, grateful that she didn’t have the power to prescribe narcotics.
“Won’t help,” Gary snapped irritably. “Doc is a masochist. Claims I shouldn’t need them anymore.” He cursed under his breath.
Of all her patients today, Gary was the only one who wasn’t grateful for the services she provided. Yet even with his permanent scowl and simmering anger, she couldn’t imagine him sneaking out to her house to set a fire.
Now if the doc who was refusing to prescribe the pain meds was the victim, maybe. But even then, Gary didn’t look like an arsonist.
Not that she had any clue what an arsonist should look like.
“I know it’s painful but do your best.” This was one environment where her scarred hand worked in her favor. It helped her patients know she understood what they were going through as she’d suffered a similar fate.
She guided Gary through his exercises, trying to ignore his cranky attitude. When he cursed again, though, she glared at him.
“Stop it! You know full well that sort of language will get you discharged from care.” The clinic had a policy of not tolerating abusive behavior; the large poster on the wall helped to reinforce the message. “Are you here to get better or not?”
“Not,” Gary shot back. And to her surprise, he turned and limped away. “I’m done with you and this place.”
Battling a wave of guilt, she stared after his retreating figure. Sandra Jones, one of the physical therapist’s she worked for, came over. “What was that about?”
“He kept swearing, so I told him to stop it or he’d be discharged from care.” Jayme sighed. “Unfortunately, he discharged himself.”
“Was he still going on about the pain meds?” Sandra asked.
Jayme nodded. “Yeah. I’m worried he’ll find a way to get what he needs without a doctor’s order.”
Substance abuse and the opioid epidemic were nothing new. Living on the streets with Caitlyn had given her a front-row view of those who chose to abuse drugs. They weren’t hard to find, she’d watched many a drug deal go down in the past. And somehow she suspected Gary was heading down a dark and dangerous path.
Sandra sighed. “We can only do our best.”
“I know. Still, I probably could have handled that better.”
“You’re not responsible for his actions,” Sandra said firmly. “He is.”
Jayme nodded. Being responsible for your own actions was the mantra she’d lived by since running away from the Preacher’s cabin. Jayme knew full well she couldn’t stop Gary from doing whatever he wanted. Even if that meant buying illegal drugs.
Over the past thirteen years, she’d done everything possible to keep Caitlyn fed, sheltered, and protected from predators. It had been her sole mission in life.
And she’d succeeded. Mostly through hard work but also with an unexpected boon from a seventy-year-old man named Remy Edgar.
Remy was gone now, died of a heart attack six years ago. She missed him; he’d been the only parental figure in her life. Or rather, the only one she’d looked up to. Certainly not her drug-addicted and prostitute mother who’d tried selling Jayme to one of her pimps, or her jailed-for-murder father. No, Remy was the real deal. She’d been his waitress at the local café when her scarred hand had caught his attention. As a retired physical therapist, he’d expressed concern for the lack of treatment she’d received for her burn and had taught her various hand exercises she needed to do in order to improve her range of motion.
She’d lied about her age, of course, in order to get the café job. She suspected Remy knew, but he’d never ratted her out. During that time, she and Caitlyn lived in a horrible trailer home that she could barely afford. But it was better than the seedy motel where she’d had to fight predators off on a daily basis.
Remy must have realized how desperate she was because slowly, over time, he’d begun to help her out in a variety of other ways. Not just leaving ridiculously large tips, but often bringing her food he claimed he couldn’t eat and would go to waste if she didn’t take it. At first, she’d been leery of his attention, keeping him at arm’s length. Her second motto during those years had been to trust no one. But Remy had persisted, eventually showing her a picture of his daughter and granddaughter, saying she reminded him of his family.
One day he’d asked her to stop by his house, claiming he had more food to give her. Again, she’d almost refused, fearing this was nothing more than an elaborate trap to get her alone and to attack. She rode her bicycle, the only method of transportation she owned—and a stolen one at that—back and forth in front of his house before going up the driveway, hoping plenty of people would notice her if she ended up going missing.
Remy had surprised her by showing her a small apartment over the garage. Far enough from the house to provide privacy, along with an outdoor set of stairs leading into the place, and a brand-new dead bolt lock on the door. When he’d suggested she and Caitlyn move in, she’d thrown his offer back in his face, telling him she wasn’t going to pay him rent by sleeping with him. The poor man had looked truly horrified by her allegation. She soon learned that what Remy really wanted was a helping hand with the cleaning and laundry. He’d told her how his wife had died shortly before they’d met and that he couldn’t cook without burning the house down. Remy convinced her that he truly just wanted to help. By cleaning his house one day a week and doing his laundry, he allowed her and Caitlyn to live in the garage apartment rent-free.
A deal too good to pass up.
She’d learned to trust Remy and his kind generosity. Even though they’d had to share the single bedroom, the garage apartment was so much nicer than the trailer that she’d pinched herself each morning to make sure it wasn’t a dream. For the first time ever, she’d been able to actually save some money after buying groceries and other necessities.
Unfortunately, they’d only had four years of living with Remy. One day he’d suffered a massive heart attack while she’d been at work at the café and Caitlyn had been at school. To her horror, he’d been pronounced dead in the emergency department.
Losing Remy was devastating, and only then did she realize how much she’d come to care for him. How much she’d miss him now that he was gone. Yet she was even more shocked to discover Remy had provided her and Caitlyn a small dowry in his will. Ten thousand dollars with a note begging her to use the money toward attending college.
Remy’s grandkids, Gloria and Marco, had flown in from California to take over selling the house. Marco had been upset at learning about the ten grand, and she’d nearly given it back. If not for needing that money to ensure Caitlyn’s welfare, she would have walked away. After the argument, Marco had left in a huff, and she’d never seen him again.
Jayme glanced around the now empty clinic, knowing her job here today was the result of Remy’s kindness. His unselfish generosity in helping a couple of runaway foster kids. Granted, she’d done her fair share, holding two jobs to make ends meet while taking classes. She hadn’t wanted to spend all Remy’s money, in fact, she’d pretty much hoarded it while supporting Caitlyn through high school and then on to college. She’d used part of Remy’s money as a down payment for the house. Caitlyn was almost finished with her associate degree as a veterinary tech, the only career she’d consider because of how much she loved animals. When Caitlyn graduated this December, Jayme could be satisfied in knowing that Remy’s modest endowment meant they’d both graduated in their chosen fields with four years of college credit between them along with a roof over their heads.
Not bad for two foster kids with fake names and IDs. There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that without Remy, she’d still be living in that awful trailer and working as a waitress.
Caitlyn too.
Jayme pulled herself together and focused on finishing her notes on Gary’s visit. As diplomatically as possible, she’d outlined his concern over pain management, his foul language, and his walking out in the
middle of his appointment. When that was finished, she helped put the equipment away. The clinic closed early on Fridays, her day ending at four o’clock, which was nice. Especially today. She was physically and mentally exhausted, having been unable to fall back to sleep last night after the fire.
Lincoln Quade’s business card was burning a hole in her pocket. Several times she’d had to prevent herself from pulling it out to look at it.
As if the small white card held the answers to her questions.
“Have any plans this weekend?” Sandra asked as they met in the small locker room.
Jayme shrugged as she opened her locker and removed her purse and jacket. “Not really. The usual.”
“Girl, you need to forget about that jerk and find yourself a new man,” Sandra said with a wide grin.
To her shame, Linc’s face popped into her mind. She ruthlessly shoved it away. “Nah, I don’t need a man. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Not the right man,” Sandra countered.
“Hey, you scooped up the only good guy in town.” Sandra’s fiancé, George, was a sweetheart, and the two of them were perfect for each other. She slammed her locker. “Have a good one.”
“You too, hon,” Sandra called to her retreating figure.
Jayme didn’t dare mention that the highlight of her weekend would be to volunteer at the food pantry for five hours on Saturday morning. A job she did every weekend. Not that she was ashamed of doing the work, but she knew Sandra would try to convince her to go out with one of George’s friends. Personally, she’d rather be at the food pantry than go out on another blind date. After Remy’s kindness, she’d felt the need to give back in some way.
By some standards, her five hours might not seem like much, but Irene Lambert, the woman who ran the pantry, insisted that every little bit helped.
And now that Caitlyn had moved out, she had more time on her hands than usual.
Slipping her purse strap over her shoulder, Jayme walked toward her car. She paused when she heard the sound of music playing and almost turned and headed toward the pub. Music was something she loved, but sitting in a crowded room with strangers? Not so much.
She liked her patients, but those visits were short and focused on regaining health and mobility. Each patient came with a goal that they either met or made some sort of progress toward.
Idle chitchat wasn’t her forte.
And a single woman in a pub on a Friday afternoon would draw men the way a neon sign drew gnats.
Ugh. Who needed the headache?
Still, she leaned against her car for a moment, listening to the country-western music drifting from the outdoor patio. It was difficult to admit that Sandra might be right. Ever since Caitlyn had moved out, she’d felt at loose ends. Jayme had been the one to encourage Caitlyn to move on with her life. To experience all those things Jayme hadn’t been able to.
She was proud of the young woman her foster sister had become.
Even if she missed Caitlyn like crazy.
Don’t you think it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself? Her inner critic didn’t pull any punches.
She pushed away from the car and opened the driver’s side door. She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman experiencing empty-nest syndrome.
The pathetic thought brought a reluctant smile. Good grief. How sad was that?
Honestly, she needed to get a grip. Just because her life had been focused for so long on Caitlyn didn’t mean she had nothing else to offer. Remy would be extremely upset to know she was wallowing in this sort of self-pity. She was young, there were plenty of things she could do, important things. She had her writing, but she viewed it as a hobby more than anything. She could possibly go back to school to become a real physical therapist. She was smart, and the clinic would likely provide her a good reference.
Time to pull herself together. After tossing her purse into the passenger seat, she slid behind the wheel of her ancient Ford Fiesta. It had over a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it, but so far, it was holding up. And it was better than using the stolen bicycle. Thankfully, she only drove around town, not trusting the vehicle to get her to Nashville or anywhere else for that matter.
The last stanza of the country-western song drifted toward her. With a wry smile, she cranked the key in the ignition.
The car started up without a problem, but before she could put the vehicle into drive, the hood of her car burst open with a loud pop, and she gasped when the engine went up in flames.
What in the world? Jayme frantically pushed out of the car, making a quick grab for her purse before running away from the burning vehicle as fast as possible. She’d made it several blocks before she heard the loud boom.
She swung around, looking back at her old Fiesta with horror. Billows of black smoke surrounded the car, and even from that distance, she could see the flicker of yellow and orange.
Fire. Her car was on fire.
Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her weight. First the smoke in her house and now a car fire.
Who had done this?
And what was coming next?
Chapter Three
Linc was heading home to change for dinner with his aunt Becca when the call came in. He winced, knowing she’d be upset if he couldn’t attend the family gathering. “Yeah?”
“You’ve been requested to go to the scene of a car fire,” the dispatcher informed him.
“Car fires aren’t usually arson,” he pointed out.
“Car belongs to a Ms. Jayme Weston. She requested you specifically, asked if you could please respond ASAP.”
Relief washed over him knowing Jayme was okay enough to have made the call. Then he went tense. “Where is she?”
The dispatcher rattled off the information, but he was already stomping on the brake to execute a tight U-turn. He should have guessed her car was still at the physical therapy clinic where Jayme worked.
Was it possible the fire was a result of her car overheating? Not likely. Two fires in less than twenty-four hours were not a coincidence. It was clear Jayme was being targeted by this particular nontraditional firebug.
And if he believed what she’d told him, she had no idea who would do such a thing.
Linc sent up a silent prayer for God to keep Jayme safe. Considering she’d asked for him, he felt certain she must not be badly hurt. Yet she may have sustained minor burns.
The image of her scarred hand flashed in his mind, but he thrust it away impatiently.
He knew firebugs. Knew how they thought, how they worked. They didn’t target people like this. Normally, they searched for easy prey, like old dilapidated buildings that would go up in a beautiful flash of fiery orange and yellow flames. Barns with lots of dried hay were a particular favorite.
Arson car fires were mostly used to cover up evidence of a crime. But he didn’t think that was the motive here.
No, he knew this car fire was a specific warning for Jayme herself. One she couldn’t afford to ignore.
He pulled up in front of the clinic five minutes later. Jayme was standing off to the side wearing a pair of blue scrubs covered by a dark blue jacket. When she saw him, he caught a flash of relief cross her features.
“You’re not hurt?” he asked tersely even as he raked his gaze over her, searching for any signs of injury.
She shook her head. Her red hair was loose around her shoulders. “I was able to get away.” Her husky voice trembled in a way that made him long to pull her into his arms.
He pushed away the inappropriate thought. “What happened?”
“I—just turned on the car.” Her blue gaze appeared bewildered. “There was a loud sound, and the hood popped open. When I saw flames shooting out, I bailed from the car and ran.”
He glanced over to her bright yellow Ford Fiesta. The damage was centered on the engine; the rest of the car appeared untouched. The Fiesta was an older model, Ford didn’t even make them anymore, making it possible this could have been t
he result of an engine malfunction. Still, he wasn’t buying the coincidence. “Stay here, I need to check it out.”
“Okay.” She hugged herself despite the mild temperatures. Belatedly realizing she was vulnerable out there, he changed his mind and reached out to lightly grasp her arm. If the firebug was out there watching, he wanted to keep her close.
“Better that you stick with me.” He drew her toward her not so sunny car. The firefighter crew was different from the guys who’d responded last night. They worked twenty-four hours on and forty-eight hours off. Sometimes the twenty-four hours on dragged on long and boring. But not today.
“Meyers, what do you have?” He addressed the senior member of the group of firefighters.
“Hey, Linc.” Meyers gestured toward the Fiesta. “Incendiary device apparently rigged to start on fire with added gunpowder to make a small bomb. At least from what we can tell.” Meyers grinned. “That part is up to you.”
“Yeah.” Linc stared at the charred remains sitting on top of the vehicle’s engine. It was an odd way to get someone’s attention. Why start a fire, then cause an explosion? It didn’t make any sense. He turned toward Jayme. “And you’re sure you didn’t accidentally pop the hood by hitting the latch?”
“Positive.”
He nodded and drew her away from the Fiesta. The fire was out, but the car was too hot for him to learn anything more. He’d need to wait until it cooled down to begin his formal investigation. “I’m glad you called to ask for my help. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
“You mean other than my house?” She shivered and shook her head. “No. But I’ll be fine.”
“This isn’t something to take lightly.” His tone came out harsher than he intended, and he did his best to soften it. “Ms. Weston, I’m worried about you. I suggest you stay the night with a friend.”