He glanced up to the window. Alyson clung to the frame, a white spot in the gloom of fog and smoke. He had to be right about the location of the trellis. He had to get them both safely to the ground before the fire licked its way through the old house.
He hastened his steps. His feet slipped on the shake. He fell hard against the roof. The breath exploded from his lungs. Clutching the sheet, he struggled for air. One breath. Two. His lungs ached as he forced the smoky air into them. Slowly, he pulled himself back to his feet. Thank God the knot he’d tied to the radiator had held. If it hadn’t, he’d be nothing but a spot on the brick below.
He continued backing down the roof, hand over hand on the sheet rope until he reached the end. Now came the tricky part. If he went over the edge of the roof and the trellis wasn’t there, it would be damn near impossible to climb back up.
He lowered himself to his stomach. The moisture from the shake seeped into his clothing. He let himself slide down to the edge of the roof. Lowering himself to the end of the sheet, he tried to feel for the trellis with his feet. It was no use. He would have to let go of the sheet to get low enough to gain a foothold on the trellis. If it was indeed below him.
He sucked in a deep breath and released the sheet. He slid down the shake, the shingles both rough and slick at the same time. His legs went over the edge of the roof. Trying to stop himself, he dug his fingers into the edges of the wood shingles. At the same time, he clawed against the side of the house with his feet.
His feet hit nothing but siding.
He continued to slide. His pulse pounded in his ears. This was it. Either he found that trellis, or he was on his way down to the brick patio. He moved his feet to the side, groping wildly. Finally, his toes hit wood.
He scrambled for a foothold, turning his body to the side to stop his momentum. A piece of the trellis gave way under his thrashing feet. A few inches more. He had to have a few inches more. He strained. His toes caught a piece of solid wood. The edge of the roof dug into his stomach and scraped his skin. He clawed at the shake with his fingers. Just as he was about to go over, he wrenched his body sideways.
Then he plunged over the edge.
He caught the edge of the trellis with his hands. His feet found a hold between vines. He clung there for several seconds, waiting for more of the rotting wood to crumble and send him falling three stories to the brick patio. But it didn’t happen. He’d done it. Now he had to get Alyson off the roof, as well.
Summoning his strength, he pulled himself up so he could see over the edge of the roof.
Alyson was still at the window, staring over her shoulder at the spot Dex had disappeared. Smoke billowed out the window behind her. But even through the smoke, fog and darkness, Dex could see tears streaking her cheeks.
He let go of the trellis with one hand and waved. “Alyson.”
She spotted him, her body almost sagging with relief. She yelled something, but he couldn’t make out the words above the intensifying roar of the fire.
He motioned to her to climb down. She nodded and started lowering herself down the incline as he had, her bare feet skidding on the slippery roof.
She fell twice, but held on, lifting herself back to her feet as if by sheer will. Finally, she reached the end of the sheet rope.
“Get down on your stomach.”
She did as he said, flattening her body against the wet wood.
He reached for her and grasped her foot. “Okay, let go and let yourself slide. Slowly.”
She released the sheet without hesitating. He guided her slide, pulling her toward him as she went off the edge. She swung into the trellis, slamming into his legs. Dex could feel the wooden grid tremble under the strain, but it held. And so did he.
“I’m on the trellis.”
“Do you have a secure foothold? This thing is rotten in places.”
“I have it. I’m fine.”
He released her hand. The shriek of sirens slashed the night. Above, Dex could see tongues of flame licking the edges of the bedroom window. They climbed down the tangle of wood and vines until they reached the ground.
Once his feet touched brick, he enfolded Alyson in his arms. He held her shivering body tight against him. Tears stung his eyes.
She looked up into his eyes. “When you went over the edge, I thought you were dead. I thought we were both dead.”
He smoothed a hand over her wet, tangled hair, careful to avoid the bandage on her forehead. Her sweet scent rose above the stench of smoke and filled his senses. “We aren’t dead. We’re alive.”
“Yes.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, taking in the scent of her, the feel of her.
She tilted her head back and slid her arms around his neck. Her lips were so close. So tempting. All he could think about was the feel of them against his. The feel of love. The feel of life. He fitted his mouth over hers.
She accepted the kiss, moving her lips in a dance with his, darting her tongue into his mouth and accepting his. She clung to him as if she would never let him go.
And he didn’t want to be let go. She tasted sweet and warm and so accepting. He wanted more. He wanted all of her.
He deepened the kiss, moving his hands over her back and tangling his fingers in her hair. She was so alive. So real. It was as if the time they’d been apart never existed. As if all of it was a bad dream.
The cold finger of reality inched up his spine. The last two years hadn’t been a dream. This moment, the feel of her again, the kiss—this was the dream.
He pulled away from her. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn’t return her gaze. And he damn well couldn’t explain how he felt. He wasn’t even sure himself. “The firefighters are here. We’d better let them know we made it out of the house.”
ALYSON WRAPPED the blanket tighter around her shoulders and shivered. The June night wasn’t cold. Far from it. And the flame and smoke engulfing Dex’s beautiful home upped the temperature at least twenty degrees, even from where they stood across the street.
Dex stood next to her, talking with one of the firefighters about their strategy for saving the house. The flashing red lights from the trucks pulsed off his face. The white dress shirt he wore was rumpled from the day before and wet and dirt-streaked from his slide down the roof. His slacks were ruined and his feet bare. Yet his shoulders were unbowed, as if he was strong as ever, still in charge.
She tried to listen to the firefighter’s strategy for salvaging the house, but her mind wouldn’t obey. Instead it kept replaying her and Dex’s escape from the burning house, the way he’d almost plunged to his death off the roof, the way he’d guided her over the shake and onto the trellis, and most of all, the way he’d taken her into his arms and reaffirmed they were both alive. A flush spread over her skin. Being back in his arms, lost in his kiss, was the only thing that could warm her.
She shook her head. She couldn’t let herself think about the way his kiss made her feel, the passion, the tenderness, the need that surged within her like a flame that couldn’t be doused. She’d experienced those feelings before. She’d reveled in them. And all they’d given her was shattered dreams and a broken heart.
She forced herself to look away from Dex and to tune into the firefighter’s words. “We’ll have to wait to find out for certain what caused the fire, but I’d bet my bottom dollar it was arson.”
“Arson?” Alyson parroted. She shouldn’t be surprised. Houses didn’t generally just break into flame without a good reason, even old houses like Dex’s. “What makes you think it was arson?”
“The fire moved too fast. Some kind of accelerant had to be used. But we can’t say for certain until the fire investigator boys get in there and poke around. They’ll be able to tell right away. Then all that will be left is to figure out who struck the match.”
The chill spread over Alyson’s skin, making her hands tremble. She didn’t have to figure out anything. She knew who did it. A glance at Dex confirmed he knew, too.
Smythe.
He’d told Dex he was going to ruin him. Promised he would take everything Dex cared about and leave him with nothing. Of course that list would include Dex’s house—the house the two of them had restored from squalor.
She’d felt safe in his house, as if just being inside its walls had swept her back to a simpler time, a happy time. How wrong that feeling was.
A firefighter crossed the street toward them. His stride was urgent. His face was shadowed by the fire and spotlights behind him, but she could see he was young, his pale complexion flecked by soot and ash. He stopped beside the captain. “I need a word with you.”
The older man nodded. “Go ahead.”
The young firefighter glanced at Alyson and Dex. “Alone.”
“Whatever it is, you can say it. Mr. Harrington here is the District Attorney. And Ms. Fitzroy is an analyst at the crime lab.”
The young firefighter nodded, but his eyes didn’t lose their wary look. “We need to call for additional help. This isn’t a simple case of arson anymore.”
The captain’s busy eyebrows turned down. “Out with it, Franklin.”
“We found a body, sir. A woman’s body. In the master bedroom. She was on the bed.”
Chapter Twelve
Dex pulled a new dress shirt from the closet in his office and ripped open the package. Good thing he kept a half-dozen new shirts and an extra suit in his office. He needed to look presentable for the press conference, and all his clothing had gone up in smoke. Along with his house.
A hollow feeling lodged in his gut. He glanced around his office. Everything seemed the same as yesterday. Alyson sat in the same chair, concern tightening her lips and knitting her brow. Sun bounced off the waves of Lake Monona outside and streamed through his dingy window. And they still didn’t have a clue where Smythe had hidden their son.
But this morning everything was different. This morning his house was gone—burned to the ground—and a woman’s body had been found in his bed.
They’d stopped at Alyson’s house before heading downtown to the City County Building. There she’d cleaned up, pulled her hair back into some sort of fancy twist, and dressed in a simple black skirt and blouse the same green as her eyes. Now she focused those eyes on him, her complexion so pale the freckles scattered across her nose stood out in sharp relief. “Why don’t the police tell us what’s going on? Why don’t they tell us anything?”
Dex stripped off his wet shirt and pulled on the crisp new one. He wished he could reassure her that everything would be all right. That they would get to the bottom of the fire and the murdered woman. That they would find Patrick and put Smythe behind bars. But he wasn’t sure of any of those things himself. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “They probably don’t know anything yet.”
She glanced at him, shadows of doubt obvious in her eyes. “I’ve been around law enforcement all my life, Dex. I know when I’m part of the team and when I’m not. And right now, we’re not.”
“Don’t read into it. The cops like to play things close to the vest until they know what they’re dealing with. Sometimes that means not communicating everything to the D.A.’s office.”
She nodded as if she accepted his answer. But the way she twisted her fingers in her lap told a different story. “I just can’t help wondering who she is. And why Smythe killed her. Is she Jennifer Scott? Or is she someone we talked to? Someone he thought we were about to talk to?” The pitch of her voice rose. “The woman who was taking care of Patrick?”
He reached in the closet and pulled out a pressed navy suit and silk tie. In fifteen minutes he was scheduled to stand in front of a group of reporters, explain why he was giving up his career, and field whatever queries they tossed his way. And here he could no more answer Alyson’s questions than he could answer his own.
He turned and looked into her beautiful green eyes, so desperate, so worried, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“WHAT IS YOUR REASON for resigning? The election is only five months away. Why not wait until then?”
Dex glanced around the conference room at the gaggle of reporters and television cameras waiting for his answer. He knew what he had to say. Smythe had all but scripted his answer. The trick was in forcing the words past his lips without choking on them. Focusing on the aggressive blond television news anchor who’d asked the question, he gripped the edge of the speaker’s stand and gave her his best attempt at sincerity. “Thank you for asking that question, Jancy. I’ve decided to resign because I’ve let the people I serve down.”
“How did you do that?” Jancy Brock demanded.
“I made a major mistake. Andrew Clarke Smythe never should have gone to prison. He is innocent.” The words stuck in his throat like dry plaster. He forced himself to push on. “Instead of serving the people, I let my own personal and misguided bias determine my actions in his case. And it resulted in a man doing prison time for a crime he didn’t commit.” He glanced away from the blond anchorwoman and found Alyson in the back of the small crowd. Tears sparkled in her eyes and stained her cheeks.
He dragged his gaze from her and focused on the reporters, many with their hands in the air, waiting to prod and probe for tidbits to splash across their articles. He pointed to a male newspaper reporter with bushy eyebrows who’d been relatively soft on him in the past.
“Could your resignation have anything to do with the fire at your home last night?”
“No. I planned to resign long before last night.”
“So the fact that the police found a woman’s body in your bed had nothing to do with your decision?”
Dex struggled to hide his surprise. The reporter seemed to have as much information as he did about the fire in his own home. He took a calming breath. Maybe he just listened to his police scanner religiously and put the pieces together. “No. I set up this press conference two days ago with the express intent to announce my resignation. Now if there are no more questions—”
The blond anchorwoman’s hand shot up.
Dex tried his best not to flinch as he pointed to her. “Jancy?”
“My sources say the woman found in your house was murdered. Do you have any comment about that?”
As far as Dex knew, the police hadn’t made that determination. Not for certain. But it was possible a sharp-eared reporter like Jancy Brock could have heard speculation to that effect. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I have no comment. Not at this time.”
“And the woman worked in the State Crime Lab. Her name was Jennifer Scott. Can you confirm that for me, Mr. Harrington?”
Dex’s mind spun. Jennifer Scott was no longer missing. She was dead. Her body burned to a crisp in his bed. “I have no comment.”
“My sources say she worked on the Andrew Clarke Smythe case and that you’ve been looking for her lately in relation to that case. Is that true?”
Pressure assaulted his chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Are you withholding comment to protect yourself, Mr. Harrington?”
“No. I’m withholding comment because I haven’t been briefed on the facts of the case.”
“Is the reason you haven’t been briefed because the police don’t want to share their information with you?”
His voice caught in his throat. He pushed it out in a husky growl. “I’m sorry, Ms. Brock. I can’t speculate on things I have no knowledge of.”
“Let me reword the question, counselor,” Jancy said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Are the police keeping this information from you because you’re a suspect in the murder and the fire?”
Dex’s heart froze, then picked up a frantic beat. That was the change he’d been sensing all morning. The change that Alyson had alluded to. The change he hadn’t wanted to accept. He wasn’t part of the crime-fighting team anymore, but his resignation wasn’t to blame. He wasn’t briefed on the case because the police suspected him of killing Jennifer Scott and setting fire to his own house to cove
r up the murder.
He forced himself to meet Jancy Brock’s gaze. “I assure you I’m not a suspect.”
Jancy smiled, as if she had secret knowledge. Knowledge he’d never be privy to. “That’s not the way I heard it, Mr. Harrington. And I have a very reliable source.”
A chill raced through him. He found Alyson’s eyes in the crowd—eyes that echoed the fear roiling deep in his gut.
DEX CLOSED his office door behind him, wood cracking against wood with the finality of a judge’s gavel. By the time this evening’s news ended, he’d be accused, tried and convicted in the court of public opinion.
All courtesy of Andrew Clarke Smythe.
He fell into his desk chair. He’d done everything Smythe demanded—he hadn’t gone to the police, he’d given up his career—and still the scum had taken his child, his home, his good name and maybe even his liberty. Dex had to figure out a way to fight back. Because he damn well wasn’t going to wait around to find out what Andrew Smythe would try to take away next.
A sharp knock reverberated on the closed door. His pulse picked up its tempo. After catching his eye from the crowd, Alyson had wisely ducked into the bathroom before the press conference had broken up. He’d been grateful for her quick thinking. If the reporters had seen them together, who knew what they would dig up for their stories. Memories of Fitz. Or worse, they might discover Patrick.
He sprung from his chair. He hoped she hadn’t taken any unnecessary chances in working her way back to his office. But truth was, he couldn’t wait to see her. He needed her more now than ever. Needed to see her, to talk to her, to take her into his arms and to feel her body against his.
He opened the door, but instead of Alyson, he looked into the ice-blue eyes and Nordic-fair face of Assistant District Attorney Britt Alcott.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Dex. But we need to talk.”
“Come on in.” He turned back to his desk, letting Britt close the door behind her.
Claiming His Family Page 11