by Myra Scott
I raised an eyebrow, and Rodney gave me a concerned look.
“We’re all ears,” I said, turning to Sue, the drummer, who leaned forward and put her fists on the table. “We just got out of a meeting with the engineers, actually, and we’re planning on running another inspection by hiring a third party.”
“Right,” she said. “That’s fine or whatever but hear me out on this. The techs ran a test of the flames before we actually got the show started, and it didn’t do all the crazy shit it did when it started the fire.”
I leaned forward, nodding.
“So,” she went on, “I’m no expert, and it’s hard to see from the stage because of how the lighting setup works, but I could have sworn I saw people closer to the edge of the stage than they were supposed to be. Especially right before the fire started.”
“Exactly,” the manager said, nodding as I looked to my other two employees with eyes lighting up. “And that’s what makes this kind of a strange situation, from a legal point of view. Sue thinks—”
“I’m positive,” Sue interjected.
“Sue is positive,” the manager corrected himself, “that someone in the audience fooled with the equipment and caused the issue that started the fire.”
“It would take a lot of interference to cause a malfunction that intense,” I pointed out, narrowing my eyes.
“I know,” the manager said. “That was my first reaction. This isn’t the kind of malfunction that you can cause by, say, bumping into the machinery.”
“Are you suggesting this might have been deliberate?” Rodney said, leaning forward and stroking his chin.
The band and the manager all exchanged glances with expressions that were hard to read.
“We don’t want to say anything like that just yet,” the manager said deliberately slow. “All I want to say for now is what Sue suspects, and that we would be willing to corroborate any testimony that we need to in that regard. If that helps your investigation over the next few weeks, then take it or leave it.”
“We also want to say that we’re not suing for any damages,” the vocalist added, and the rest nodded in agreement. “At worst, this was an accident, and at best, someone in the audience was trying to set us on fire. None of that is your fault or the technicians’ fault, unless it was one of your security guards.”
“Have Bart interview everyone who was on security that night once more,” I said quickly to Laura, who was already nodding and writing up the email on her tablet. I turned back to the band and stood up, smiling.
“We want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do,” the manager said, “but we want to be clear that there’s no bad blood between us. We’re happy to have performed, and we want to do what we can to make this investigation go well for all of us.”
“Then I appreciate your cooperation, everyone,” I said, and we all got up to begin shaking hands as the feeling of relief washed over all three of us. “We’ll keep you posted on the investigation as it unfolds.”
“Do that,” Sue said after giving me a firm handshake. “If someone was fucking with our stuff, I want to make sure it never happens again.”
“Believe me, I do too,” I said.
“And by the way,” the vocalist said, “I heard someone from the audience happened to be a fireman—really helped a lot of people pull out of that alright, is that true?”
I smiled the first sincere smile of the day at the thought of Casey—my Casey—and I nodded. “Yes, it is. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, in fact.” I thought it better to not give them all the gory details.
“Put us in touch with him, will you?” the vocalist said with a grin, handing me his card. “I want to make that guy’s day sometime soon.”
“I think he’ll appreciate that,” I said, grinning in return.
“That should be everything, then,” the manager said. “Thank you again, Mr. Reynolds. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I said as the band left. As the door closed behind them, all three of us let out deep sighs of relief, and I looked to the two of them.
“Before you say anything,” I told them, “don’t count your blessings yet—we have a lot of work ahead of us. Because if someone did tamper with the equipment maliciously…” I clenched my fist at the thought of someone intentionally causing harm to Casey. “I want to see their head roll.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN - CASEY
“What are you so afraid of?” asked Dr. Waltham, leaning forward and watching me with those shrewd, narrowed eyes.
I looked at her warily, not wanting to even approach the question she had just posed to me. She chuckled and smiled. “Come on. It’s not like I’m going to judge you. I’m your therapist, remember? I talk to people all day long, Casey. There’s not a single thing you could tell me that would surprise me. Trust me, I have heard worse.”
“I don’t like to talk about that kind of thing,” I said gruffly.
She nodded and raised an eyebrow. “I know that. That’s exactly why you’re here. That’s why I’m asking the question: because it’s hard for you,” she said.
“And people wonder why I was so resistant to the idea of therapy,” I grumbled. Dr. Waltham, however, was totally unfazed.
“Okay, you’ve still got a pretty thick brick wall up in front of you. Maybe we can attack this problem from a different angle,” she suggested. She tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, mulling it over. Then she brightened up, an idea apparently occurring to her.
“Do your worst,” I sighed.
“Let’s start small. How are you feeling today?” she asked.
I frowned, already confused. “I’m fine,” I said shortly.
She gave me a wry smile. “No. You’re not just fine. I need more detail.”
“Well, are you asking how I’m feeling physically or mentally?” I inquired.
“Let’s go with physically, to begin with,” she answered. “So, Casey, how do you feel today in a physical sense? And really think about it for a minute. Think about your body. About how hard it works for you; how good it is at getting you from point A to point B.”
“I feel like shit, to be perfectly honest with you, Doc,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. She nodded slowly.
“Yep. I bet so. Be more specific, though,” she egged me on.
I took a deep breath. “Well, let’s see. My lungs still feel like I swallowed a bunch of burning charcoal. My throat aches. My whole body aches, actually. And my leg…”
“Yes? What about your leg?” she prompted.
I looked her straight in the eyes. “It hurts like hell. It’s not even broken, but it feels like someone hit me with a truck. I have to use these,” I said, lifting up my crutches. “And I have to hobble around like some broken old man. It’s awful. I hate it.”
“Why do you hate it so much?” she pressed on.
I blinked in confusion. “Why? What do you mean, why? I just told you. I’m limping around, I can’t work—”
“Aha,” she interrupted, pointing at me with her pen. “There it is. This is about your job, isn’t it? You’re angry that your body isn’t able to immediately bounce back to normalcy and let you work.”
“Well, yes. Obviously, that’s the main point,” I agreed, shrugging.
“And why does it bother you so much that you can’t go to work right now?” she asked.
“I don’t even understand the question,” I said.
She smiled patiently. “What is the problem with having to sit out of work for the time being? What about that is so difficult for you? Is it that you’re missing out on a paycheck and you’re worried about money? Are you just bored? Are you lonely and missing your work family? What is it, specifically, that has you bent out of shape?”
I groaned. “You’re kind of a ball-buster, you know that?” I said.
Dr. Waltham laughed. “I know. That’s why I’m so good at my job. Are you going to answer the question or should I ask it again?”
This time I couldn’t help but laugh in spite of myself. “Fine. I’ll answer your extremely loaded question. It’s not about the money, okay? I have enough in my savings to last me a long while; besides, Chief Reyes is giving me half-pay while I recover. Yes, I do get bored, but I have hobbies. I can keep busy. But not working… well, it makes me feel like a loser. Like I’m weak.”
“Weak? Okay. Why is that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. A man shouldn’t waste his time sitting around the house doing nothing. He should be out earning his living. Supporting the community. Helping people. Doing selfless things. If I’m not there, I can’t help anyone.”
“Except for yourself,” she clarified.
“Yes, I guess so. But I don’t need help. I’m a perfectly capable man. I don’t need anyone or anything. I can handle everything on my own. So, it’s a waste of my energy to not use it to help other people,” I explained.
“Let me ask you something, Casey,” she said after a long pause. “Why do you think you have to be the one to save people? Think about your coworkers at the fire station for a minute. What do you think of them? Are they not capable? Are they selfish people?”
“Hell, no. All of them are great guys. They would bend over backwards to help someone in need. My crew are the best out there,” I said defensively.
Dr. Waltham nodded. “Okay. So, if they are as competent and good-hearted as you say they are, what makes you think they can’t handle running the show without you while you get back into fighting condition?”
I realized she had checkmated me into a corner. I answered slowly, “Look, I know they can handle it. Chief Reyes is a tough man, and he’s been in the business for decades. My crewmates are fantastic. But that doesn’t make me feel any less shitty about having to sit things out. I need to be there.”
“Why?” she persisted, determined to get to the root of the issue, no matter how desperately I fought her on the way.
I sighed and raked my fingers back through my hair. “Because my job is my whole life, okay? Being a firefighter, saving people’s lives—that’s the only way I really feel useful. It’s the only time I feel good about myself, even a little bit. I don’t have a family. I don’t even have a lot of friends. This guy I was seeing… well, I’m sure he’ll be done with me soon enough. Especially now that I can’t even do my job.”
“What makes you think he only likes you for your job?” she inquired, frowning.
“Well, what else is there?” I said.
“Casey,” she said softly, “do you know that you have value outside of your job?”
I closed my mouth, totally taken aback by the statement. “What?”
“Your job is important to you. You’ve sacrificed just about everything for it. You jump through hoops and put yourself in grave danger for your job. And maybe the reason you are so desperate to get back to work is because you don’t think you’re valuable or worthy without it.”
My cheeks burned, and I averted my eyes.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she pressed gently.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. She was getting way too close to the truth. The truth I had buried a long time ago. It already hurt.
“Yes,” I said in a very small voice.
“Who told you that? Who made you think that way?” she asked me.
I closed my eyes and answered, “Probably my father.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about your father,” she said. “Tell me everything you want to get off your chest.”
I leaned back in the armchair and inhaled sharply. “I guess it started back in high school.”
“What happened in high school?” she asked, picking up her pen and clipboard.
“I was a jock. Football star. Honors student. Tons of extracurricular activities. I was an all-around good student. My parents were constantly bragging about me to anyone who would listen. Especially my mom, but even Dad sometimes did it,” I said.
“What changed?” asked my therapist softly.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “All my teammates were dating cheerleaders. You know the drill. We pair off like swans. But I was seeing someone else. A guy. His name was Todd, and he was my first—well, everything. We were friends at first, and it just happened. I was pretty happy with him, but we had to sneak around. I hated having to keep it a secret, but it was high school. And I was a football player. Anyway, my parents got divorced over the summer between junior and senior year.”
“How was that? Difficult?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. I mean, it was a little tense at first. A lot of new changes that were weird to get used to. But my parents—they didn’t hate each other or anything. They just didn’t want to be married anymore. It was a mutual split. I never thought for a second it was my fault or anything.”
“That’s a really mature way of thinking for a high school kid,” she remarked.
I shrugged. “I guess so. I spent most of my time with my mom, because she kept the house. My dad got a tiny place close to the mechanic shop he runs. I would spend weekends there sometimes, but there wasn’t a lot of space. He still came to all my games, though. Everything. Even sat next to my mom just like they always did before.”
“So, what happened with Todd?” she asked.
I winced. “Senior year. He wanted to go to prom with me, make that our big coming out moment. I was scared at first, but I loved him. I wanted everyone to accept us. And besides, it was hard work keeping it a secret. So, we did it. We came out—to everyone. Family, friends, teachers, classmates.”
“The kids at school… how did they react?”
I smiled faintly. “They were happy for us. Even my buddies on the football team. Everyone accepted us for who we were. Except my father.”
“What did he do?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said with a shrug. “Nothing at all. My mom and I talked about it, of course, but Dad didn’t bring it up at all. Ever. It just wasn’t something he wanted to hash out with me.”
“Did that hurt your feelings?”
I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “I mean, I didn’t cry about it or anything. I just let it go. I knew I was disappointing him. I knew I was destroying the vision he had for me, for the red-blooded all-American football jock son he wanted, the one he had. So, I kept quiet when I was around him. And over time, I guess I just realized that the only way I could make him proud of me was to be a man. To be tough. To be strong and dependable and heroic.”
“Is that why you became a firefighter?”
“Not quite. I mean, it was a factor. But after high school graduation, Todd and I broke up. He headed across the country to college, and I stayed behind in our small town. I was heartbroken, aimless. I had no plans. Chief Reyes, my boss, he’s been a friend of the family since before I was born. He recruited me to work at the station, and I accepted. I’ve been there ever since,” I concluded.
Dr. Waltham was nodding, thinking it over. “It makes sense now.”
“What does?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Why you’re so dead set on being the selfless hero. You want your dad to be proud of you. You want him to accept you,” she said.
“Jeez, that makes me sound like a kid,” I snorted.
She grinned. “No, it doesn’t. No matter how old you get, your parents are important. What they think of you—it clearly matters a lot.”
“There’s something else,” I began, blurting it out before I could stop myself. I couldn’t figure out why I was suddenly so keen on sharing, but Dr. Waltham seemed pleased, so I went on. “Part of why I work so hard is because I am lonely.”
“Tell me more about that,” she requested.
“Okay. Well, after I got this scar,” I said, pointing to my left cheek, “I realized that I was probably never going to find someone willing to look past it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ugly. Because it shows that I was weak, that I let myself get hurt,” I answered. “That’s part of why I stay so busy. If I’m too busy with work I have an excuse to not date. I know how stupid it sounds. I married my career so I wouldn’t have to get hurt out in the dating world. Who would want to be with me?”
“What about that guy you were seeing?” she brought up.
I blushed again. “I don’t know. I truly don’t understand what he sees in me.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” she suggested.
I chuckled, shaking my head. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because it just doesn’t,” I said, laughing.
“Do you like him?”
“Yes. Of course, I do,” I replied.
“Then give him a call.”
“I don’t know,” I said, trailing off.
“Well, that’s your homework, then,” said Dr. Waltham, setting her clipboard aside. “First of all, you’re going to relax and take care of yourself. But you’re also going to call up that handsome guy, the one you saved from a fire, and ask him out again. And then you’re going to ask him what he sees in you and really listen to what he has to say.”
“This homework is way harder than anything I ever got assigned in school,” I joked.
She smirked, standing up. “Welcome to therapy, Casey. We’re done for the day. Come back and see me in a couple weeks, alright?”
I got to my feet, leaning on my crutches. She opened the door for me, and I hobbled my way through. I was healing slowly but surely. It was already better than it had been. But I had a long way to go. As I left the building, I made the decision to follow through on my assignment. Even though my heart was racing, I knew I had to try it. As soon as I got into my car, I sent Luke a message.