“The idea for my theory, you mean?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Because it kind of sounded like you were implying that was how I got the idea for setting these fires.”
“Did you set these fires?”
Flaherty lunged. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
Jason straight-armed Flaherty, pushing him back against the wall. They were evenly matched for size, but at the moment Jason had the advantage of leverage. He increased that advantage by taking another step forward and pressing his forearm into Flaherty’s collarbone. Both men knew if Flaherty didn’t play nice, Jason would push that forearm up and into his throat. He reined in the urge to do just that. He needed to keep his cool. He didn’t want this escalating any further with Victoria in the room.
Breathing hard, Flaherty stared at Jason with murder in his eyes. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Victoria placed her hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You guys, come on. Stop this. Jason, let him go.”
“Don’t think I can do that right now,” he answered, his eyes never leaving Flaherty’s. “Can I, Flaherty? What are you going to do if I let up on this hold?”
“I’m going to kick your fucking ass,” Flaherty spat.
“See? Told ya,” he said to Victoria, keeping his tone light, hoping she wouldn’t be frightened. Surreptitiously, he applied a little more pressure to Flaherty’s collarbone. “You’re going to have to calm down a bit before I let go, buddy.”
“Mike, please.” Victoria’s voice was firm, but he heard the hint of panic.
He wished to God she wasn’t here right now, wished she wasn’t seeing this. He should’ve interviewed Flaherty when she wasn’t around.
“Jason didn’t mean anything by that. He’s just trying to get to the bottom of all of this. He’s on your side, Mike.”
“Bitch, you shut the fuck up.”
Jason grabbed Flaherty by the shirt and slammed him back against the wall then wrapped one hand around his throat, squeezing hard. He felt Flaherty’s racing pulse beneath his fingers and the beast inside roared, screaming for Jason to squeeze even harder. “Don’t you ever—” He tightened his hold. “—talk to her like that again.”
“Jason! Stop.” Victoria’s hands were on his shoulders. “Stop it. Both of you.”
Unable to hear much over the thundering pulse in his ears, Jason gave Flaherty another shake. “You don’t look at her. You don’t speak to her. Ever. You got that?”
Flaherty said nothing, just glared back at Jason, daring him to take this physical threat all the way, staring at Jason with eyes that were not only unafraid of death but welcomed it.
Alarmed by what he saw there, Jason was finally able to reel it in. He loosened his hold just enough so that Flaherty could start taking in air and realized that he was breathing hard himself.
“Please, stop.” The tears in her voice finally penetrated his rage and he let go of Flaherty completely, staring down at his hand—the hand that had held a man’s throat—as if it had a mind of its own.
Slumped against the wall and wheezing, Flaherty glared at Jason. “You think I would put my own people at risk? You think I would do that to my own brothers? You got the wrong guy. I’m not a traitor.” He paused a moment, still catching his breath. “But there are traitors amongst us.”
Flaherty glanced at Victoria but looked away quickly when Jason took a warning step forward. Jason meant what he’d said. If Flaherty so much as looked at her the wrong way, he’d find himself flat on his back.
“She hasn’t told you yet, has she?”
“Just shut the fuck up, Flaherty.”
“About how she murdered a man?”
Not about to stand by while Flaherty spouted off ridiculous lies about Victoria, Jason grabbed him by the lapels. “I thought I told you to shut—”
“Jason, stop.” Victoria’s voice was calm, so calm it was lifeless, and concern for her broke through like nothing else could have. He released Flaherty with one last shove to the wall and turned to find her staring transfixed at Flaherty. “I knew that’s why you hated me,” she whispered.
“Harding was my friend,” Flaherty said, straightening against the wall, staring at Victoria with accusation in his eyes.
“He was my friend too—”
“No!” Flaherty raised his arm and made a move toward Victoria, and instincts took control of Jason’s body while his brain checked out.
Next thing he knew Flaherty was on floor, moaning and holding his bloody nose, and Jason was standing over him with an aching fist.
*
“Jason!” Victoria tried to pull Jason away, but he just stood there, frozen, looking just as surprised as she was to find himself standing over a howling Flaherty.
“I will have your fucking badge, you son of bitch.”
She pushed Jason toward a stool at the kitchen island then wet some paper towels to clean up Flaherty’s face.
Still on the floor, Flaherty ripped the paper towels from her outstretched hand and held them to his nose, muttering, “Crazy motherfucker.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew Harding?” Victoria asked him, furious to discover this was the reason she’d endured a year of unkindness from this man.
He shrugged. “Hardly matters now. He’s dead and you’re free.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I’m not rotting in prison because I’m…oh, I don’t know…not guilty?”
Flaherty said nothing.
She turned, wanting Jason to help her get Flaherty off the floor, but he was gone. Instead, Graham came jogging into the kitchen. “Jesus. What the hell happened in here?”
“That cop fucked with the wrong guy. That’s what happened.” Flaherty’s words sounded muffled as if he had a cold, no doubt because his nose was well and broken. “Bet he won’t think he’s such a hot cop when he loses his fucking job over this.”
Victoria’s vision took on a slightly red hue. She dropped to the ground, pinning Flaherty down with her knee and applying her thumb to his clavicle.
“Vic, what the fuck are you doing? Get off him.”
She ignored Graham, keeping her gaze trained on Flaherty’s gray eyes and taking satisfaction in the fact that those eyes were currently wincing with pain. “You will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“The hell I won—”
“You won’t,” Victoria said through clenched teeth. “Because you know you provoked him. You’re in pain. You want to feel pain. You wanted a fight. And you provoked him.”
Flaherty’s silence was its own kind of admission, and Victoria continued, keeping her full weight over the knee pressed into his chest. “Jason couldn’t see that you were pointing your finger at me. From his angle you were about to hit me. That’s how you ended up on the floor. And you know you damn well deserved it.”
Graham crouched on the floor next to Victoria. No longer trying to separate them, he narrowed his eyes and glared at Flaherty.
In silent warning, she pressed her thumb further into the pressure point in Flaherty’s shoulder and he hissed in pain. “Should you feel the need to go to the police with accusations of assault, I will not defend you. My eye-witness account will say that you tried to hit me and Jason stopped you.”
“Because you’re a natural-born liar,” he said, gasping for air, thanks to the knee crushing his lungs.
“No. Because I’m loyal. Just like I was loyal to Harding. And you can fucking hear me out and end this shit right now. Or you can decide not to listen and spend the rest of your life not knowing the truth, stewing in your own impotent rage.”
He said nothing, but this time curiosity mixed with the coldness in his gray eyes.
“So, what’s it going to be, Flaherty?”
She leaned back slightly, relaxing the pressure on his rib cage, allowing him just enough air to speak.
“The truth,” he said, sighing. “I want to hear the truth.”
Chapter
20
Exhausted—more exhausted than she’d ever been, mentally and physically—Victoria changed out of her uniform in the women’s locker room. Her shift ended at 7 AM and Jason still hadn’t answered any of her texts asking where the hell he’d gone. He wasn’t picking up his phone either.
Graham had said Jason woke him up from a dead sleep and told him to go help Victoria in the kitchen, but no one had seen him after that. And the only thing keeping her awake at the moment was the fact that she was a tad bit pissed off about his disappearing act.
She rehearsed her speech in the car on the way to his townhome. She was going to read him the riot act all right. Walking out when she needed him most. Sure they weren’t a couple, but they were friends dammit, and she could’ve used a friend while she told her story to Flaherty—a man who was definitely not her friend.
When she got to his house, she tried the door without even knocking and was surprised to find that it opened easily. Jason stood up from the brown leather sofa, a cordless phone in his hand.
“What the hell is your problem?” she asked.
“Victoria, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. He lunged at you and I—I just lost my shit. I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back—no, that’s not true. He was going for you, and he deserved what he got, but I wish you hadn’t had to witness that…that…violence. I’m sorry.”
She closed the front door and walked uninvited into his living room. “Well, you got half of that little speech right.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she stood facing him. “I like the ‘Victoria, I’m sorry’ part. But the rest you can keep.”
He opened his mouth, took a breath then shut it, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
“You think I want you to apologize for decking Flaherty?” she asked. “’Cause I don’t.”
“I—I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“You sent Graham in to help, and you left. I mean, Christ, I know this thing between us isn’t serious, but we’re friends, right? You can’t be friends with benefits without being friends first. And you left.”
“Are you okay? Did Flaherty hurt you? I told Graham—”
“I didn’t need Graham. I needed you.”
“I’m sorry.” He shrugged, the cordless phone still in his hand. “I thought…I scared you…when I hit him. I thought you’d want me to leave.”
There was something so achingly boyish in his confession, in his belief that he’d done wrong somehow, that Victoria’s rage just melted. All of it. All that righteous anger she’d clung to on the way to his house—it sat in a puddle at her feet. She thought of Preston’s mother, the woman who’d wanted to send him back to Family Services after he’d fought to defend her son.
Dear God. He thought she would leave him over this.
“I was scared,” she said softly. “I was scared the situation would escalate. I was scared he would hurt you. But I was never—” She stopped herself. He’d looked away when she admitted being scared, and she waited for him to look at her again before she continued. She wanted him to see the truth in her eyes. To see she didn’t fear him.
After an extended silence, he finally brought his worried blue eyes up to her face.
“Jason,” she whispered. “I was scared for you, but I was never scared of you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t. I swear to God, I wouldn’t.” His words tumbled out quickly. “I’ve never raised a hand to someone who didn’t have it coming. I just—when I see something like that, I can’t control it. I have to do something—”
“Jason, shh.” She put her fingers to his lips. “I know. You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She smiled, trying for a teasing tone. “Except for the part where you left.”
He held her hand to his mouth for a moment, closing his eyes and kissing her fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She glanced down at his other hand, the hand that was still holding the cordless phone. “Who were you calling?”
“No one.” He released her and bent to put the phone in its cradle on coffee table. “I was waiting for work to call.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to find myself suspended today.”
“No, you’re not. Flaherty’s not going to say anything about what happened.”
“Like hell he’s not. That guy wanted my blood last night.”
“I got him to see things my way. Trust me. He’s not going to say anything.”
“How? How’d you manage that?”
She sat down on the leather sofa, curled one leg underneath her, and glanced pointedly at the cushion next to her, silently instructing him to sit. He sat facing her, one arm resting on the back of the sofa while she told him about her threat to Flaherty.
“I’d never let you lie for me,” Jason said when she’d finished. “It’s not worth it.”
“It’s not really a lie. I know that—from where you were standing—it looked like he was going to hit me. Besides, Mike knows he contributed to that whole situation. He was purposefully provoking you before that. So…he and I have an understanding now.”
Jason shook his head, not quite smiling, but looking more relaxed than he had since she’d arrived at his house. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, returning his smile.
He cleared his throat, his tone turning serious once again. “Listen. I’m sorry I left.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He grabbed her hand, his touch light, giving her the chance to pull away if she wanted, but she didn’t want to.
She clasped his hand back.
“Will you tell me about it?” he asked. “About what Flaherty was talking about?”
She sighed. She didn’t really feel up to rehashing this again tonight—this morning to be exact—but something told her Jason needed to repent. He needed to be there for her and to listen the way he hadn’t been able to when she’d told the story to Flaherty. Knowing this, she prepared for the emotional onslaught with a deep breath.
“PFC Harding—Blake—was a guy in my unit. I learned tonight that he and Flaherty went to boot camp together and became good friends.”
“And he thinks you killed this guy?”
She appreciated the disbelief in Jason’s voice. It was nice to know someone found the idea of her killing a person completely ridiculous.
“I was there when he died. When he killed himself actually.” He squeezed her hand, giving her the courage to let her memory take her back to that horrible place. “See, a few weeks prior, our unit ran into an IED attack. Harding took a hard blow to the head when we were thrown from the truck, and I always thought he was never the same after that.”
“PTSD?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. But it was more than that. He was…altered. Like his personality did a complete one-eighty. He went from being this affable, funny guy to just constantly angry and sarcastic and mean. And I know that sounds like PTSD, but lots of us dealt with that, and this was different.”
She paused, trying to figure out how to explain it. She hadn’t done the greatest job explaining it to Flaherty, and in fact, she suspected he didn’t one hundred percent believe her side of the story, but with Jason, she could take her time. He was patient, giving her a chance to choose her words carefully.
“Even with PTSD, people are capable of being themselves, but there was literally no sign of the old Harding. I wondered if the part of his brain where his personality lived might’ve been damaged in the blast. I pushed the doctors to do scans again. I was convinced something more was going on. But no one listened to me. That initial CT came back clear and no one saw a need to do anything else.”
Sighing, she laid the side of her head on the sofa back, too emotionally spent to hold it up any longer. “I saw Harding sneaking into one of the convoy vehicles one night, and I got in the passenger se
at. He told me—and not very nicely—to go away. But I didn’t listen.”
“What was he doing?” Jason asked, his gruff voice somehow soothing.
“Leaving. I tried to talk him out of it, but the more I talked, the angrier he got. He pulled out and drove about ten miles from camp. The whole time I was begging him to turn around. I was positive one of the night guards saw us leave. I knew someone would be following us and we’d both be in a shit-ton of trouble.” She paused, studying their intertwined hands. “I was so relieved when he pulled over.”
“You thought he was going to turn around.”
She nodded. “But he didn’t. He pulled out a pistol and shot himself in the head.”
He squeezed her hand and she squeezed it right back, fighting back the tears that always accompanied that terrible memory. “It happened so fast. He moved so fast. There was no time to try to talk him out of it. All of a sudden this shot rang out, and I was screaming.” Her voice fell to a feeble whisper. “I couldn’t stop screaming. I just kept seeing the blood and the gray matter from his br—it was—pieces of him were on me, and…I tried, you know? Futile as I knew it was. I wanted to put him back together.”
At some point in her story, Jason had scooted closer on the sofa to wipe the tears from her cheek with his thumb.
“I loved the army. I loved being a medic. I would’ve stayed in, but I couldn’t take the rumors. Everywhere I went that story followed me. Only the versions of it were twisted. Some people said I was a deserter, some said Harding and I were having an affair and I killed him in a jealous rage and tried to make it look like suicide. It didn’t matter that a full investigation had been done and no charges brought forth. They’d all tried and convicted me in their minds. So, when my contract was up, I got out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing her long bangs away from her eyes.
“When I came back to the states, I went to his grave—Harding’s grave. I wanted to say goodbye and…I don’t know…”
“Find closure.”
She nodded. “I sat in front of his grave, feeling this horrible heavy weight, this hopelessness that I didn’t think would ever end. And while I was sitting cross-legged in front of his headstone, a butterfly landed on my knee. Right on my knee. And it stayed there. It didn’t fly away. Have you ever been able to just hold a butterfly?”
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