After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  At the door, she turned, a sudden pang in her heart, her eyes lingering on him. “I love you, Ben,” she said, not knowing why she felt so sad.

  Who was she kidding? Unless Kate was blind and brainless, she’d be making moves on him for sure. Good thing I trust him.

  After shutting the door and turning to go, she met Mrs. Jorgensen waiting for her.

  “Go on back in with Ben,” Mrs. Jorgensen told Lucy. “I just need to talk to Charlene for a quick minute.”

  As soon as Lucy left, Charlene spoke up. “Thanks so much for letting me stay with your family.”

  “About that. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think that’s going to work out after all. We wish we could have you, believe me, but,” her voice dropped, “considering what happened, and the fact that that horrible man hasn’t been caught, well, it wouldn’t be wise. We have to think of Lucy. You have to understand our tough position as parents. We have to do everything we can to protect her.” She tucked a thread of brown hair behind her ear and continued.

  “Ben’s not thinking with his head, only his heart. He has enough to worry about, though, and anymore stress won’t help him heal, so please don’t mention this to him yet. Can I count on you for that?”

  Mutely, Charlene nodded.

  “Good. And really, I’m sure you’ll find a better fit than our crowded little place. You have your brother. Or your grandfather. He’d have room for you. How could he not?” Mrs. Jorgensen gave a little laugh.

  How could he not? Let me count the ways . . .

  But Charlene didn’t want to.

  Every once in a while over the past two years, Ben had encouraged her to reconcile with Grandfather, but persuasive as he was in all other things, he couldn’t get her to budge on this. Important and close as his family was to him, he just didn’t get how bad it was with her and Grandfather. But then Ben had never met him.

  She scrambled to raise her sinking heart. She’d known this was too much of an imposition. She should never have let Ben convince her otherwise.

  “Oh, I understand completely.” Her tongue tripped over the words. “No big deal.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Jorgensen’s dry lips stretched into a smile. “We would take you in, really, if you didn’t have any other options, no family at all, but you do, and we have to put Lucy first.”

  “Of course. That’s the right thing to do.”

  Mrs. Jorgensen patted her shoulder and said, “Thanks for understanding,” before returning to Ben’s room.

  Charlene retreated to her car, and for a moment, she rested her forehead on the cool steering wheel.

  It took her a second to register the note on her windshield. When she did, her gaze slid over the words again and again.

  Be careful whose company you keep. You don’t know him like I do.

  She glanced around her, searching the shadows of the parking garage. Be careful. A threat? About spending time with Ben? It made no sense. She almost hopped out of her car to pull the note from the wiper, then thought better of it. She popped her locks, started her car, and let the wipers swish the note right off the windshield. Then she drove over it.

  She had nowhere to go but back home, alone.

  At a stoplight, she pulled out her phone and attempted calling Max. Reaching voicemail, she only said, “Hey, Max, I hope you got back safely.”

  Postponing her return home, she stopped for dinner at McDonald’s, something she rarely did. She sat in a corner booth and ate, dragging out the time as she dragged fries through ketchup. She toyed with the idea of seeing a movie next, but she’d only be putting off the inevitable.

  Leaving McDonald’s, she aimed her car for home. Halfway there, she pulled over for shrieking sirens and flashing lights. A firetruck and police car flew past. Her gaze lifted above the buildings and treetops, and she noticed a dark gray plume of smoke bulging into the night sky. Cracking her window, she could even smell it, a bitter, ashy odor.

  Easing back onto the road, she realized the smoke billowed from the direction she was heading. With a rotten, knowing fear festering in her stomach, she sped toward home.

  Reaching her street at last, her worst suspicion was confirmed.

  Her condo was on fire.

  * * *

  Nausea built, but the woman battled it down, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing herself to control it. To be in charge. To not be—

  “A screw up.” She could almost hear her dad saying it.

  “Only a screw up would be in this situation.”

  But she could fix it. She pressed a hand to her forehead. She was smart. The way she saw it, there were two solutions: the clinic, or the man.

  The first was the easy option; the second, the challenge.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. She was always up for a challenge.

  The higher the stakes, the better.

  Chapter Nine

  Flames licked the sky from the roof of Charlene’s corner unit, saturating the night with a bright orange radiance. She parked on the street, then sprinted to the edge of the crowd gathered in the cul-de-sac. Riveted by the blazing sight, the blinding light, she already knew her home was gone.

  Huge gray hoses snaked from flashing firetrucks and blasted water into the heart of the fire. Maybe there was hope that the firefighters could keep the flames from spreading too much to the connecting units, which still looked okay. She prayed everyone had gotten out in time, and it appeared likely. The damage was concentrated on her unit, now completely engulfed.

  The onlookers talked excitedly, many with cell phones up, filming the action. Countless neighbors watched the disaster as if it were entertainment, while almost everything she owned literally went up in smoke.

  * * *

  Nails had followed her home, but the place was crawling with cops. His cue to leave. He swung around and headed for his motel. Now was not the time to make a mistake.

  He let himself into his stuffy room, remembering what his last mistake had cost him. Three years in the slammer. All for a gutsy spur-of-the-moment assault and robbery in broad daylight. It shouldn’t have happened. But the fool had asked for it. Pushing past him on the street, rude and unapologetic, having the gall to tell him, “Watch it, son.” Like Mr. Callaghan. Short-circuiting his good sense. He’d socked him an uppercut, then snatched his wallet and bolted.

  But he didn’t get far.

  When the cops clapped the handcuffs on him, he heard Mr. Callaghan’s smug voice. “Consequences, Lance.”

  Now he dropped to the motel floor and pumped pushups. Blood coursed through him, muscles bunching and working. Burning with power.

  He had lots of years left. Those years inside were nothing. And he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He grinned. Most cons went into the joint pretending like it didn’t scare them—like that Cissy. But Nails always knew who’d be crying into their pillows at night.

  He never had to pretend anything. He went in with steel in his veins and iron in his fists, owning the joint, leading a gang in no time.

  Cissy had never been gang material. Nails had his eye on him from the moment they hauled him in. He’d been highly amused by all the mistakes the kid made in his first weeks, ignorant of the code of respect, bringing trouble on himself. His case had been high profile enough that he suffered for it.

  And high profile enough that Nails knew exactly how to use him. Still, he took his time, studying him, planning his approach, letting him think he hadn’t noticed him.

  He’d wanted to provoke him that day in the yard, but hadn’t expected the powerful reaction. He’d found the kid’s greatest weakness. The girl. Of course. It would be the girl.

  Something about that rankled Nails in the worst way. Especially the fact that the girl forgave him for what he’d done. What made Cissy so special that he had her to go back to after his pitiful, slap-on-the-wrist sentence?

  No, the kid had life too easy.

  Something had to be done about him. He had to learn his place.


  Nails halted his pushups and rubbed his sweaty face.

  He’d never expected the broken jaw. The rumors about it had cramped his reputation. He’d had to quell it fast.

  That’s where being gang leader came in mighty handy.

  The day Cissy was brought back into general population, Nails ordered him a welcome back surprise: a special thirty-second beat-down under the stairs. Thirty seconds, because that was the soonest any CO ever responded to that stairwell.

  It was enough. A lot of damage could be done in thirty seconds. Pretty boy wasn’t so pretty after that.

  It wasn’t Nails’s best thought out plan, though, for two reasons. First, he didn’t get the satisfaction of personally giving the beating. Second, prison staff promptly put the kid in the infirmary, and Nails couldn’t get to him.

  Then Cissy’s time was up, and Nails’s bid was extended. Another three years. Getting caught with that CO screwed it all up. Women had no business being COs, anyway. Chicks, thinking they were tough? Made him gag. Whatever they got, they deserved.

  Nails cracked his neck from side to side, then pumped another ten pushups.

  No, he wasn’t through with Cissy yet.

  * * *

  I have to leave town. The thought struck Charlene with great clarity as she watched her condo burn like kindling. So much had already been destroyed: her reputation, her job, now her home. Did she really want to wait to find out what was next?

  All she had left was Ben. Maybe the only way to protect him was to leave.

  Moisture welled in her eyes, blurring the scene. Still, like the other onlookers, she gazed. She swiped her vision clear and succumbed to the horrible fascination. Because in a terrible way, it was a beautiful, spectacular display. The hungry inferno of ferocious orange-gold flames roared up into the night as if it could set even the moon on fire.

  Meanwhile, calmly coordinated firefighters worked together, bravely and efficiently, moving swiftly to battle the blaze. For a brief second, she wondered if Kate was among them. Even from where Charlene stood, the heat was palpable, the scent of smoke thick. She coughed.

  The crowd bombarded questions and exclamations, but the police kept everyone back.

  “There you are!” Even in the noisy, crackling chaos, that shrill voice refused to go unheard. Charlene turned to see Darla, the head of the condo association, trotting her way as fast as the woman’s hefty frame allowed.

  “What happened, Charlene? What did you do? How did this start?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I only just got here.”

  “What a disaster!” Darla pulled fingers through her short, feathered hair. “It obviously started in your unit.”

  “Maybe you left the oven on?” suggested a bystander, one Charlene now recognized as the Harley owner who lived in the end unit.

  “I can’t believe this!” wailed the single mom from the opposite side of the building. In her arms, her young son watched and pointed at the streams of water shooting into the fire.

  But Charlene was still stuck on the oven comment, almost overcome by the possibility. That would be one of the most classic stupid mistakes to make. Surely, she hadn’t. But she couldn’t deny that she had been in a rush . . . She strained her memory, needing to capture a precise recollection of turning the oven off.

  But she couldn’t.

  “Did you clean out your dryer vent like I reminded you to in the monthly condo memo?” Darla persisted, clearly determined to pinpoint blame. “This is what happens when people don’t take the condo rules seriously. I always say—”

  “I did clean it,” Charlene replied weakly, as she felt more and more eyes turn on her. People nudged each other, not even attempting to whisper.

  “That’s her.”

  A finger pointed.

  “It started in her condo.”

  “Trouble follows her everywhere.”

  “I never would have moved into this place if I’d known she was living here.”

  Charlene’s nerves seized. She wanted to flee the cruel comments, but where could she go? She had no home. The last of the flames were finally being doused, leaving a dark, pitiful, crumbled shell where her home had stood. Besides, she knew enough about disasters by now to know that the police would want to question her.

  She was almost relieved when she spotted them heading her way.

  She shook the haze from her mind and answered each question as best she could. What time did she leave her condo? Where did she go? Could anyone corroborate her whereabouts?

  It sounded like she was a suspect, but she reminded herself the authorities had to gather facts. This was merely routine. Further investigation would hopefully determine the cause of the fire as electrical or something equally nonblameworthy. She didn’t want the fault to be hers, but she also didn’t want it to be arson.

  With everything bad that had been happening lately, she tried to tell herself that the fire was just a coincidence.

  Then she returned to her car and saw the white writing smeared on her back window.

  Burn, Witch!

  Heart hammering, she looked back at the charred remains of her home. No coincidence. Whether the fire was deliberate or not, someone had hoped she was in there.

  Someone wanted her dead.

  Her feet pounded the road as she raced back to the police, suddenly not above the humiliation of pleading for protection.

  With steady composure, the officers listened and jotted notes. They checked out her car and questioned remaining bystanders.

  Both the fire marshal and a detective questioned her. When they asked if she’d had trouble with anyone lately, she hardly knew where to start. After telling them all about the intruder, she voiced her suspicions about the knife guy, the note on her car, the flyers which gave her address . . .

  It could have been anyone.

  A near hysterical laugh threatened ludicrous thoughts. Max had left on bad terms. Grandfather had been insulted when she didn’t let him bail her out.

  But no, not family. She knew the truth. She heard the voice from less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “You’d better not be lyin’ to me.”

  The night intruder.

  He did this.

  When her swirling mind settled, she heard the fire marshal saying he’d do a thorough investigation come daylight. “I’ll be sending some of the burnt wood to the lab for chemical analysis. But I’ll tell you now, while arson can be easy to determine, it’s usually not easy to nail the perpetrator. Unless they talk. The fire destroys DNA and fingerprints.”

  She nodded, though it was difficult to even care about the investigation right now. She just wanted to leave.

  “We’ll take you somewhere safe for the night,” Detective Green assured her.

  Too bone-weary to concern herself with the snide comments her neighbors made about her being arrested, she trusted Green as he assisted her and her luggage into his car. It felt good to sit, to be safe, and for a moment she let her worries fall away. Her eyes roamed the car’s interior, the radio dials, and the hidden strobes.

  “Don’t forget to call your insurance,” Green said. “You could even do that now.”

  So she did, instead of paying attention to where they were headed.

  When the car stopped and they stepped outside, she gripped her luggage and gazed up at an all too familiar gray stone mansion.

  Green expected her to walk forward, but she hesitated. “I don’t know if I want to stay here.”

  “What do you mean?” He looked at her like she was becoming too high maintenance. “This is your grandfather’s.”

  “But we don’t . . . get along,” she offered feebly. “He disowned me. He doesn’t want me here.”

  The detective shook his head and led the way up the steps. “Sure he does. We called ahead, and he’s expecting you.”

  “Really?” She recalled how he had visited her in jail. Despite his gruff manner, he had seemed ready to reconcile.

  “Really. Not only that, thin
k about how safe you’ll be. He’s got great security.”

  The front door yawned open, spilling harsh light. Grandfather stepped into the spotlight of the doorway, smiling a gray-toothed grin and looking genuinely pleased. “Welcome, Charlene.”

  Green’s radio crackled and a voice came through. He put a hand to his belt. “I have to go.” With a saluting wave, he departed swiftly down the steps.

  Grandfather swept his hand wide, inviting Charlene to enter. Biting her lip, she stepped over the threshold and into the mansion.

  As she stood dwarfed in the expanse of the room, the door closed behind her. She glanced back to see the exit blocked by a hefty, square-jawed man. Lines creased his weathered face in too many places. He grinned, and more lines appeared. She wondered how long he’d been working for Grandfather and what type of work he did. Shady work, I bet.

  “So the prodigal granddaughter returns,” Grandfather said triumphantly. “I’ll show you to your room. Frank.” He summoned the big man to bring her bag.

  The mansion décor hadn’t changed much, if at all, since she’d been here last. The same cold, unlived-in feeling permeated the place. Ugly pieces of art punctuated the vast space and did nothing to fill it. Grandfather didn’t speak, but if he did, she knew his voice would echo. She couldn’t shake the feeling of having been sucked into a very beautiful chandelier-lit lair.

  She was led to a spacious, luxurious room with its own whirlpool bath. The bed boasted marble pillared headboards. A picture window provided a sweeping view of the partially lit grounds two stories below.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Grandfather said.

  She eyed him, trying to finger his motives. “So you’re really welcoming me back? I still stand by what I told you before. I’m not retracting my support of Clay’s defense. Not that it matters anymore. But if you expect me to make some kind of public statement—”

  “It’s time we move past that.” Grandfather waved a hand dismissively.

  “Okay.”

  “We have a new turn of events to negotiate.” He steepled his fingertips. “A more pressing, important bit of business. But it can wait till morning. Get a refreshing night’s sleep, and we’ll discuss it after breakfast.”