Molly: House on Fire
Page 1
ADDITIONAL R. E. BRADSHAW TITLES:
RAINEY BELL THRILLERS:
RAINEY DAYS (2010)
LESBIAN FICTION READERS CHOICE AWARD
FINALIST GOLDEN CROWN LITERARY SOCIETY AWARD
RAINEY NIGHTS (2011)
LAMBDA LITERARY AWARD FINALIST
RAINEY’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE (2011)
(SHORT STORY)
OTHER:
BEFORE IT STAINS (2011)
WAKING UP GRAY (2011)
THE GIRL BACK HOME (2010)
SWEET CARONLINA GIRLS (2010)
OUT ON THE SOUND (2010)
(ADVENTURES OF DECKY AND CHARLIE, #1)
Molly: House on Fire
R. E. Bradshaw
© 2012 by R. E. Bradshaw
All Rights Reserved.
R. E. Bradshaw Books/April 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9835720-7-7
Website: www.rebradshawbooks.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/rebradshawbooks
Twitter: @rebradshawbooks
Blog: rebradshawbooks.blogspot.com
For information contact: rebradshawbooks@gmail.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author and publisher.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual persons living or dead or events are entirely unintentional.
Acknowledgments
This novel came to be because of my readers. I must thank them for pushing Molly Kincaid’s story to the front of the line. Molly was a secondary character who appeared in all of my novels for at least one line, whether her name was mentioned or not. She became a fan favorite, with readers begging to know her story. I thought about Molly for a long time. Who is she? How did she become a successful defense attorney? What shaped her into the person the readers saw in the previous novels? I waited for her to tell me and she did. So, I must thank Molly too. She told me her story and I simply wrote it down.
Along the way, I had some help with this story. To Kaycee, my editor, thank you for shaping me into a better writer. To the beta readers, your input was greatly appreciated and vital to the process.
There are two people that I could not have written this book without. District Court Judge Kate Lynch, I owe you big time. I would have been lost among the court filings and attorney actions if not for your input. Thank you for taking the time to help me get it right. And to Michelle Brooks, your twenty-five years of experience with Autism was invaluable to the creation of the character Joey. Your late night conversations helped me more than you will ever know. Without both of these women, Molly’s story may not have been told.
Finally, to my friends and family, who wait patiently for me to return from the land of fiction, without your support I could never do what I do.
To Deb, my wife, you will never know how much I love you. You are my rock.
R. E. “Decky” Bradshaw
Foreword
By Michelle Brooks, M.A., N.C.C.*, HS/BCP**
“I have never written an author before, but I just had to tell you how glad I was to have stumbled upon your works.” A single email, one which I was certain wouldn’t receive a reply marked the beginning of my friendship with R. E. Bradshaw. It was true that I had never written an author before, somewhat surprising considering that I read up to ten books a month. Then again, I never felt compelled to write to an author, that is until I entered the world that R. E. Bradshaw so masterfully creates for her readers. Once inside, I found myself in a place rich with characters I could relate to, characters so deftly portrayed that I felt like I had known them forever. I found that once I started one of her books, I loathed putting it down. I would become so engrossed that I would only pause when my dogs begged to be let out.
R. E. Bradshaw, “Decky” as she is known by some, not only responded to my email, but having discovered that I have spent the last twenty-five years working with individuals diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorders, asked me if I would review a manuscript for a book on which she was currently working. She explained that the book included a character named Joey who had been diagnosed with Asperger’s and asked for my feedback to insure that his portrayal rang true. Asperger’s Syndrome is an autism spectrum disorder marked by impairments in communication skills, social interaction and restricted patterns of behavior and interests. Individuals with this diagnosis have average to above average IQ’s and tend to be very concrete in their thinking. They struggle with abstract concepts which include such things as understanding idioms and perspective taking; empathy is characteristically absent. Someone with this diagnosis does well in environments which offer both structure and well established routines.
Decky had a student with Asperger’s some years back and via countless emails, we swapped stories, she telling me about her student and me sharing those about my own students and clients. I quickly discovered that not only did she possess a deep understanding of Asperger’s on a clinical level, she also had an acute sensitivity and empathy for individuals with Asperger’s as well. Decky wanted her readers to see this character as she saw him, not one to be pitied, but rather one to be viewed as the complex, multi-faceted individual that he is. I watched as Decky brought Joey to life on the pages of this book; her portrayal of Joey is beyond reproach. She didn’t create a diagnosis, she created a person.
I have worked with hundreds of individuals with Autism and Asperger’s over the last twenty-five years, it is work that I am deeply passionate about and while I have been blessed to have been surrounded by professionals who share my passion, Decky is the first person I have met outside of my field whose passion matches my own. Her portrayal of Joey in this book speaks to that passion. To be quite honest, she didn’t have to include a number of Joey’s subtle traits as she did. Unless you were knowledgeable about Asperger’s, the reader never would have noticed. If you’ve read any of her books before, you know that’s not Decky’s style. Her attention to detail is one of the things that her readers have come to expect and is one of the fine qualities of her writing that separates her work from that of others.
I will admit that I cried when I read the finished manuscript. I cried because I saw so many of my own clients in Joey. I cried because even with all of my years in the field, I couldn’t have written a more accurate portrayal of a character like Joey. I cried because I was so proud of Decky and the work she had done to bring this story to life. I cried because she gave Joey a voice, a voice that would now be heard by her readers.
If you have dogs, take them out before starting this book; trust me, you will thank me later. You are about to embark on a remarkable journey , one that will evoke a range of emotions. You will find new friends within these pages; you will laugh with them and cry for them. Along the way, you will discover why the “Joey’s” of the world have so much to teach us, if we are wise enough to pay attention. Decky Bradshaw not only paid attention to the real “Joey” in her life, she touched his life in a way that he will never forget. In return, he granted her with the gift of countless memories of her time spent working with him that will live forever in her soul. Decky honored those memories with this book. Now it’s your turn to meet Joey. Enjoy the journey; you’ll be richer for having purchased a ticket.
M. B.
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* Nationally Board Certified Counselor
** Human Services/Board Certified Practitioner
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”
~ Charles Dickens
PROLOGUE
June 2, 1983
The helmet sat squarely on his upright head, rifle gripped tightly in both hands. He was striding up the rock, his facial expression a mix of fear and courage. The weary, frightened soldier with the thousand-yard stare bravely did as he was told, climbing that ridge with the full knowledge that if he survived, his life would never be the same.
He was warm to the touch, a bronze moment frozen in time. The early morning sun warmed the statue and in turn cracked the ice around the little girl’s heart. Reading the words on the marble base soothed her.
She read in a whisper, “Erected in honor of the men of Dobbs County who gave their lives during World War II.”
Cupping her hand over her eyes, she peered into the shadowy features of Sam’s frozen face. She named the statue the first time she saw him. He was a trusted friend. In the ten short years of her life, trips to the Dobbs County Courthouse were a regular occurrence. These meetings often meant her mother could not take care of her and she was again being placed in a “safer environment.” She usually waited outside, seated near Sam, to learn her fate. This time it was different. This time the little blond girl with the piercing blue eyes was leaving her mother forever. She knew this because her mother told her so. Today the little girl in the crisp blue sailor dress and patent leather shoes, provided by her new family, was saying goodbye to Sam for the last time.
“I’m going to a new home, Sam. I won’t be seeing you anymore. I did something and now I have to go away. Momma says it’s best, so I guess it is. If they’d just let me tell the truth —”
“Hey there, kiddo. Thought I’d find you here.”
Deputy Joe approached the little girl. His easy strides and smile were a comfort to her. She would miss this kind man. She had known few good men in her young life. Joe Webb had shown compassion for the poor little girl and her mother. He looked out for them, repairing things around the rundown shack of house they lived in, and came to the rescue more times than she could remember. He was the most consistent and stable influence on the little girl and she was about to tell him goodbye, too.
“Are they done, yet?”
Joe sat down on the granite steps and patted the stone beside him. “Come on, sit here with me a minute.”
The little girl sat, pulling her dress down over her knees, already missing her favorite jeans that were thrown away this morning. The kind woman and her husband promised replacements were waiting at her new home. Joe put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight to his side. He smiled down at her as she gazed up into his blue eyes.
“Darlin’,” Joe began. “I know you’ve been given a heavy burden to bear, but it’s for the best.”
“That’s what Momma said,” she replied.
“Your momma is right. She needs help and she cain’t get it and tend to you. What happened just proved to her she ain’t capable of taking care of you. You go on now and have a nice life. These are good people. Your momma wouldn’t just hand you over to anybody. These folks can give you the life she wants you to have. Do you understand that?”
The little girl’s lip trembled when she said, “Yes, sir.”
“Your momma loves you, and so do I. I don’t want you to waste another minute frettin’ over what’s been done. You put that out of your mind now, and it’d be best if you just kept that little secret to yourself, like we talked about.”
“Will I ever see my momma again?”
“I hope so, darlin’, but these folks have adopted you and your momma has agreed to stay away. Maybe when you’re older that will change. What you should pray for is that the hospital can help your momma.”
“I tried to help her,” the little girl said, kicking a pebble with her patent leather toe.
“A lot more grown people than you tried to help your momma. It ain’t nobody’s fault that she cain’t get well, ’specially not yours. She’s a broken woman, honey, only God and time can fix that.”
“I promise I’ll be good. Maybe if I’m good enough, she’ll take me back.”
“I know you’ll be good. You’re the smartest little girl I ever met. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop you from being somethin’ special.”
“I’ll never forget you, Joe.” She threw her arms around him and sobbed.
“I’ll never forget you, either, Molly. Ain’t nobody ’round here ever gonna forget you.”
CHAPTER ONE
March 13, 2012
The email message was open in front of her. She read it and then read it again. Trying to make sense of it, she looked at the sender’s email address:
mollykincaidstayhome@gmail.com
This was obviously somebody’s bad idea of a joke. Still, the message gave her pause. “Stay out of Dobbs County,” it read. Dobbs County was the last place Molly Kincaid intended to go. Any other time, she would simply send it to the trash bin, but the pink message slip on her desk stopped her finger just before she hit delete. The message was placed there almost a week ago. Slips, reflecting more calls from the same number, had been added to the pile. The name on the message was Joe Webb. The email and the messages had to be connected. Joe Webb lived in Dobbs County.
Molly Kincaid sat at her antique Victorian desk, with burl walnut inlaid drawers and hand-lathed legs. She was the only one still at work in the three-story, impeccably restored, Victorian home. Molly rescued the neglected structure from the bulldozer, restoring it to its original splendor, right down to the authentic yellow exterior, trimmed in white. The Kincaid Law Firm had two offices, this one, and the one in the cold marble and glass building near the Durham County Courthouse. Molly preferred the old home and its warm wood-paneled walls. Every form of modern technology and communications equipment needed to run the firm was tactfully placed, all wires concealed, so as not to detract from the original elegance of days gone by.
Molly dreamed of living in a house like this as a child, sliding down the mahogany banisters, climbing the huge pecan tree out back. She settled for a Victorian office and a mansion in the secluded Rosewood Hills neighborhood near Jordan Lake. Molly Kincaid, successful attorney and owner of the Kincaid Law Firm, turned thirty-nine today. She looked around the office filled with antiques, a reflection of her wealth. Little Molly made it to the Big Time. The email and the message warned she might not have made it far enough.
Alone on her birthday — her choice — Molly was catching up on a backlog of paperwork. The murder trial she was preparing for came to a screeching halt yesterday, when the judge threw the case out during a pretrial hearing for insufficient evidence and possible misconduct. The judge stopped short of charging the young prosecutor, but lectured him rather sternly on the Brady vs. Maryland decision, requiring the prosecution to turn over all exculpatory evidence to the defense. Molly enjoyed the judge’s admonishment, particularly since the detective investigating the case informed on the young man. Molly had taken her turn enduring one of Judge Watson’s tirades and it was not pleasant, to say the least. The prosecutor learned a valuable lesson early in his career, one he would not soon forget.
; Now, with time on her hands, Molly was wading through messages and emails accumulated in her inbox and on her desk. She could have been celebrating her birthday in a loud club, dancing the night away. Randy, her newly made partner in the firm, offered to take her out on the town. She begged off, saying she was going home for a quiet evening and early to bed. Molly was awaiting the inevitable crash she experienced after a case she prepped weeks, months, sometimes years in advance, concluded. She tried to go home and relax, but she found herself back at the office. The pink message slip with Joe Webb’s name on it nagged at her.
She saw the name on the first message, when Davis placed it on her desk a week ago. Davis was her current office manager. Molly liked to help out young law students and rotated through office managers after they passed the Bar and moved on. Davis was a handsome young man, putting himself through law school at night, and handling the Victorian office by day. A few hours ago, as he placed the tenth message from Joe Webb on her desk, he scowled at her.
“Molly, I’m not trying to get in your business, but I really think you should call this woman back.”
“Woman?” Molly was under the impression the messages were from Joe Webb himself. “A woman has been leaving these messages?”
“Yes, and she is desperate to talk to you. She says it’s very important, but she can only talk to you, personally.”
“That’s all she said?” Molly asked, her thoughts racing.
“She says she can’t say anything to anyone, other than you. Seems very mysterious. I know Joe Webb is a man, because she made sure I knew that. I also know that number is registered to a cellphone in Waitesville. If you want me to dig deeper, I will.”
“No, I’ll deal with it,” Molly said, dismissing Davis.
She had not dealt with it. She left the office just after six, without giving the messages another thought. She learned how to do that at a young age, simply turn off the things she did not want to think about. It served her well and she continued to use it as her coping mechanism. Still, here she was, staring at the message. It was now eight-thirty, according to the clock on the computer monitor. The old house creaked against the March wind. Molly read the email again, “Stay out of Dobbs County.” She looked down at the messages Davis left with her. The last time she spoke to Joe Webb, she told him not to contact her again. That was twenty-one years ago, to the day.