“Did he have to? Didn’t anyone investigate why Jason was running away?”
“Of course, but DCFS is an overworked and underfunded entity. Things have to be pretty bad for a child to be removed, and like I said, Tammy could keep it clean—or at least keep up the appearance of being clean—for months at a time.”
Shaking her head, Victoria went through the motions of putting together a few cold cut sandwiches for Preston’s lunches. Mindlessly, she stacked the meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomato.
“So, anyway. My dad got wind of the fact that Tammy was prostituting herself to feed her drug habit, and he staked out the apartment one night with a partner. They followed the John to the door and listened.” He paused in his story, snapping out of the past and into the present for a moment. “My dad never would’ve told me this, but they had the downstairs bedroom and there’s not a conversation that he and my mother had that didn’t make its way through the vent and into my room.” In a dry tone, he added, “And I barely had to hold my ear to the ground to hear it.”
Victoria laughed a little at that, grateful for the moment of diffused tension.
Preston’s sardonic grin was fleeting, and his face turned grim as he continued his story. Or Jason’s story as it were. “So, Dad overhears Tammy tell Jason, ‘If you love Mommy, you’ll go spend some time with this nice man.’”
“No,” she breathed, so distracted from her task, she almost sliced through her fingers along with the sub roll.
“I know,” Preston said. “Awful right?”
She could do no more than nod.
“It wasn’t until I was older that I realized what that probably would’ve meant for Jason, but at eight, I was blissfully ignorant. I just knew from the way my parents talked about it that it was bad.”
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to think that was the first time Tammy ever suggested something like that, because my dad and his partner busted into that apartment like two avenging angels, and Jason never had to find out what that ‘nice man’—” He practically spat the words. “—had in mind.”
Victoria turned away, ostensibly looking for plastic wrap for the now assembled sub sandwiches. She hoped the sound of her rummaging through cabinets disguised the fact that she was sniffing back tears.
“My dad and mom had filled out the paperwork to be foster parents months before. I suspect my dad always hoped he’d be able to take Jason in at some point. He had a soft spot for him, and when this happened, Jason was definitely removed from Tammy’s care.”
“And that’s when he came to live with you and your family?” Victoria asked, finally able to force words out of her mouth. Still facing away from Preston, she quickly swiped under her eyes and then tore off a length of plastic wrap.
“Yep.”
She turned back to the island. “So this thing with his mom…You think that’s why the idea of a long-term relationship scares him? Because his mom…who was supposed to love him…used him?”
Preston shrugged. “Maybe that’s part of it.”
Oh, God. There was more? Please, let there not be more. With trembling fingers, she started wrapping the sandwiches.
“My mom…” Preston looked at some nonexistent point past Victoria’s shoulder. “She was a good person. But she was a nervous person. Anxious all the time. Without my dad’s calming presence, I don’t think she’d have survived parenthood. She just worried. All the time. About everything.”
“I’m surprised your father was able to talk her into being a foster parent then. Seems that would bring a whole new level of worry and stress.”
“You are one-hundred-percent correct. And my mother did not want to do it. But my father was determined, and he used her innate Irish-Catholic guilt to his advantage, convincing her that it was their Christian duty.”
“And it didn’t go well?”
“Actually, in the beginning it went quite well. I was a bit of a loner at school—I know, shocking—and Jason was like a built-in playmate. We were inseparable, and I think it eased my mother’s mind to know that I finally had a friend. And Jason was a real brownnoser. Always talking me out of my schemes, insisting that we follow the rules.”
She smiled, no longer working on the meals, but sitting across from Preston, her chin in her hand.
“He worshipped my father. Jason had lived in the Deep South until he was five, but two weeks into living with us, he was talking with a thick Chicago accent. He picked up my dad’s mannerisms, the way he stood at parade rest with his arms crossed over his chest, the way he rubbed his chin when he was thinking about something. I know it tickled my dad.”
There was no jealousy in Preston’s tone. He smiled fondly at the memory. “But even though it was going well, my mother was slow to really warm up to Jason. She didn’t give him hugs, and if she did, it looked stiff and awkward. More like obligation than affection.”
Preston lined up the sandwiches Victoria had just wrapped, positioning them into perfectly parallel sandwich soldiers. “I think my dad might have said something to her about it—about not making Jason feel as if he was part of the family. Because one night they came into our room together to say goodnight, and my dad ruffled Jason’s hair and said, ‘Love you, kid.’ Then my mom kissed both of us on the forehead, something I never remember her doing to Jason, and she said, ‘Goodnight boys. I love you both.’”
Preston continued fidgeting with the sandwiches, this time making a pattern of one perpendicular sub roll in between each pair of parallel ones. “I could barely hear Jason’s response from the top bunk, but he whispered, ‘Love you too.’”
Silent for a moment, Preston stared down at the sandwiches. Finally, he sniffed and said, “I pretended like I didn’t hear it, but Jason cried himself to sleep that night.”
Tears burned the back of her eyes again at the image of a little boy so overcome with emotion just from hearing one simple phrase. I love you. Three little words she’d heard so often growing up, she’d completely taken them for granted.
Preston started to speak, and Victoria almost told him to stop. But she stayed silent, holding her breath and waiting for Preston to explain how it had all gone south.
“So, the next day, Jason and I are at school and I’m getting razzed by these punk-ass fifth graders. No other way to describe kids that pick on children two years younger. Anyway, I may or may not have made a smart-ass comment that earned me a fist to the face.”
Preston shook his head, as if years and years later he still marveled over what happened next. “Jason went ape-shit. I mean he just beat the crap out of the kid. His friends tried to get into the fray and Jason went after them too. This one little third grader takin’ on four fifth graders, and he totally smoked their asses.”
He chuckled to himself for a second and then brought his gaze up to Victoria’s. “He did it for me. He did it because they’d hit me. They’d pushed him around before, but he’d never fought back, not until the day they went after me.”
Jason’s young heroics didn’t surprise her. She thought of all the times he’d been there for her in the short time they’d known each other. The hug that’d led to a now-infamous photo, the groomsman he’d been willing to throw from the dance floor, the kiss in the courtyard—given to shut the mouths of a few spiteful women. How remarkable that someone shown so few kindnesses could be so kind to others.
“Unfortunately,” Preston continued, “my mother couldn’t be convinced Jason was defending me. She thought I never would’ve been involved in the fight in the first place if it hadn’t been for him. In a way she was right. Before Jason, I never would’ve been bold enough to tell those kids off.”
The fondness she’d suspected underneath Jason and Preston’s quarreling earlier was crystal clear now. Preston’s voice held nothing but affection for the brother he had, not by blood but by choice.
“We heard my parents arguing through the vent that night. My dad was proud of us for standing up to the bullies. My mother saw it differently. She said Jason was a bad
influence on me. That they should call Family Services to find a more suitable placement for him.”
Victoria bit her lower lip. How heartbreaking would that be for a little boy to hear? Even knowing the man he’d become, the capable, successful man he’d become, it still squeezed like a fist around her heart.
“Two days later my dad was killed in a high-speed chase, and my mom told Family Services she couldn’t handle being a foster parent without the help of her husband.”
Preston’s voice went hoarse. “But I don’t think Jason ever saw that as anything other than an excuse to get rid of the kid she’d already changed her mind about. A kid she might not have ever wanted in the first place.”
His story complete, he stopped fidgeting with the sandwiches and glanced back up at Victoria. She swiped at the tear she hadn’t been able to hold back, and he went to the paper-towel rack and ripped off a sheet for her.
“Thanks,” she said, pressing it to her face and allowing herself a moment to hide behind the big white sheet.
He’d lost the only father figure he’d ever known and been rejected by a woman he’d tried so hard to impress with his good behavior. And then he’d been separated from the closest thing he had to a brother. All at the tender age of eight. Her heart broke for him.
“Things changed for Jason after that,” Preston said. “He stopped trying to ingratiate himself to the foster families that took him in and instead did whatever he could to push them away. To make them send him away. When his mother died in prison and some distant relatives adopted him, they immediately sent him to boarding school. If you believe anything some of my many past therapists have said, I’d say it’s easier for him to reject people before he gets rejected.”
Victoria nodded. “Preston…” She groped for the right words. The words to express her gratitude for this gift of understanding he’d given her. “Thank you…for telling me this.” She understood so much now. Why Jason needed his rules, why he didn’t want anything long-term, why keeping his independence was so important to him. “You’re a good friend to him, Preston. You can pretend you told me this for the tiramisu all you want. But I know better.”
“Well, I don’t know about the good friend part. But I’m certainly the perfect friend for him.”
“And how’s that?” She smiled, knowing he’d say something conceited and outrageous.
Her smile vanished, however, at the honesty of his answer. “Don’t you see? I’m the only one who can’t leave him. Where the hell am I going to go?”
*
With the key Preston had given him long ago, Jason let himself back into the townhome. The house was quiet when he entered. A quick glance upstairs showed Preston’s office door ajar and light coming from the room, proof he was still furiously working to finish his manuscript on time.
Victoria lay curled up on the couch, sound asleep and still in her rumpled bridesmaid dress.
He put the keys in his pocket, careful not to let them jingle and wake Victoria, and tiptoed across the hardwood to where she slept. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and carefully draped it over her, then tucked it around her bare shoulders.
In the hours he’d been gone, he’d thought of little else but her. She’d acted distant when he left—probably because he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her again. She’d done the same thing after their tryst at the hotel. His conscience told him she was having cold feet about their arrangement, but he shut that voice up right quick, because all he could think about was picking up where they’d left off in Preston’s kitchen.
Despite his desire, part of him—the less horny and more cerebral side of him—was glad she was finally sleeping. Sleeping and snoring. And not cute, adorable little feminine snores either, but robust, sleeping-the-sleep-of-the-dead snores that made him smile.
Good. She needed the rest.
Moving to the kitchen, he went to check and see what still needed to be done. She probably hadn’t had the time or energy to finish all the meal prep Preston had bamboozled them into doing.
He opened the fridge and stood, stunned. In an organized fashion that only someone truly OCD like Preston could appreciate, Victoria had lined up an entire week’s worth of meals. The bottom shelf contained the tri-sectioned Tupperware containers, which held Preston’s pre-cut bell peppers. The middle shelf had a number of plates wrapped in plastic wrap with sticky notes on top. Each one had precise all-caps handwriting with the name of the dish and instructions for re-heating. One read, STUFFED PORK CHOP WITH ASPARAGUS AND BROWN RICE: RE-HEAT STUFFED PORK CHOP ON SEPARATE PLATE TWO MINUTES. THEN ADD RICE AND VEGGIES. HEAT ONE MORE MINUTE.
On the top shelf were Preston’s lunches for the week. A grilled chicken salad and a selection of subs and sandwiches. Even one that was labeled BEST SANDWICH YOU’LL EVER EAT: ROAST BEEF AND CHEESE ON RYE.
And finally, a selection of desserts that appeared to have come from a restaurant as they were in clear to-go containers. Tiramisu, a slice of chocolate cake, lemon torte. Had she had them delivered?
He closed the fridge, overwhelmed by the effort Victoria had gone to for someone she’d only met that day. She could’ve phoned it in, could’ve slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and made a lasagna big enough to last Preston for a week of dinners. But no, she’d taken what must’ve been hours to prepare meals that were distinct from one another and—from the looks of it—hella appetizing. And she’d done all of that after being up all night, volunteering her time to help others when no one would’ve thought twice if she’d left the hotel and gone home to be with her family.
He’d known very few honestly good people in his life. People who were truly altruistic in all that they did. His foster father, Luke St. James, was one.
And Victoria Russo was the other.
Jesus, she’d even done all the dishes and erased any trace that someone had been working away all day in this immaculate kitchen.
He seriously owed her one.
On his way to check in with Preston, he passed by the sofa again, unable to resist combing his fingers through her hair and sweeping it off her face.
In sleep, some might mistake her for plain. Without her big brown eyes visible or her easy smile, her face was fairly unremarkable, and yet…he knew what those lips tasted like, knew what they felt like against his.
Victoria deconstructed and examined by her features individually seemed common, but taken all together, no other woman could match her level of extraordinary. She made him laugh with her unexpected humor and surprised him with her shy sensuality.
He’d just have to make sure he didn’t hurt her. If he stuck to the rules they’d established, if he made sure they didn’t cross over into something more, then maybe he could protect her from his own incurable flaws.
With one last touch to her cheek with the back of his finger, Jason headed up the stairs to see how Preston was doing.
“Hey,” Preston said, not even looking away from the computer or pausing in his typing.
“Hey, man.” Jason sat on the armrest of the office’s corner chair.
Coming to the end of a paragraph, Preston tapped the period key and finally turned his swivel chair to face Jason. He took off his glasses and tossed them on his desk, then yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “So, what’s the news?” he asked on the tail end of his yawn. “What’d you find out at the hotel?”
“The carpet in a room on the sixth floor has a pour pattern, indicating some kind of accelerant was used. Gasoline is the most common, but we won’t know for sure until the carpet samples I collected get back from the lab. The fire originated in that room—the room right next door to Victoria’s aunt’s room. Aunt Sophie has emphysema and is on oxygen.”
“Oh, shit,” Preston said.
“Yeah. One of her portable oxygen tanks was also found in the room where the fire originated, but it hadn’t exploded. My current working theory is the arsonist stole her tank, released the valve and emptied the oxygen into the room, then i
gnited the accelerant.”
“Do you suppose he—or she—did that remotely? The oxygen would’ve fueled the chemical reaction between the accelerant and the fire, making it burn pretty fucking fast. Doubt he would’ve wanted to stand there holding the match.”
“Exactly. I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I do think it was ignited remotely. That room went up so fast, the fire was already out of control before the smoke alarms went off. And it would explain why that particular tank didn’t blow. It was fairly empty. But when the fire spread to Sophie’s room, her other tanks did explode.”
“Shit. That must have been some fireball.”
“It was.” He fought against the memory of the largest explosion. When he thought Victoria was in harm’s way. She’d been on the opposite side of the building, thank God, but the minutes where he hadn’t known that had taken years off his life. And now he had to worry about where she would be on September twenty-seventh.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Preston.” Jason told him his other theory about police and firefighters being the primary target. “I don’t know what he has planned for September twenty-seventh, but each incident is bigger than the one before. If I don’t stop this person…”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Preston was smart. He knew. If Jason didn’t stop this arsonist, next time, more people would die.
“You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”
“I’ve been an arson investigator for approximately two months. That’s not much experience.”
“Yeah, but you’ve a lifetime of experience at not giving up.” Preston grinned. “And hey, maybe that fancy degree in chemical engineering will finally pay off.”
“Doubt it. There’s far less overlap than you or Lieutenant McCann seem to think.”
Preston’s grin vanished. “How is old McCann?”
As Preston’s dad’s best friend, McCann had been an honorary uncle to the boys—well, mainly to Preston, but he’d treated Jason as family too for the year he’d lived with the St. James family. After he went to his next foster family, Jason never saw McCann again until he tried out for the Evanston Police Department, but he thought Preston had stayed in touch with him.
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