Dead Man District

by Julie Miller

  “Why are you...?” Matt still wore his KCFD uniform and insulated jacket. He must have just come from work. Or maybe he was still on the clock. Corie backed away into the deeper snow across the alley, keeping both men in view. “Are you investigating me?”

  Wally raised his gloved hands in a placating gesture. “Has your son been alone in the apartment today?”

  Even worse.

  “You’re investigating Evan?” She shook her head, all her mama bear defensiveness welling inside her and making her shout. “He was at school or with me. All day long—until we got home a few minutes ago. I saw my oven was missing and came down to ask you about it. He’s upstairs right now, getting ready for bed. But you’re not going to interrogate him. He’s a child. An innocent child.”

  Matt’s tone remained calm, his stance annoyingly unaffected by her losing it like this. “I’m not accusing Evan of setting these fires with any malicious intent.”

  Semantics. An accusation was an accusation.

  She glared at the building super. “He is.”

  Chapter Four

  Katie Norwell remembered the flames shooting up into the night sky as Kenny torched their first home. A wailing toddler squirmed in her arms and tears streamed from her eyes to mingle with the blood at the corner of her mouth while her monster of a husband pinned her in front of him, her upper arms almost numb with the pinch of his grip.

  As he forced her to watch his handiwork, Katie felt her entire future going up in flames. Kenny, on the other hand, seemed to be getting off on the destruction of the small house she had worked so hard to decorate and turn into a family home. “Insurance will pay for a bigger, brand-new home, more befitting my new position with the Corboni family.”

  She didn’t bother arguing that she preferred history and character over modern ostentation. She didn’t bother threatening to report his crime—unless she had a death wish. She was trapped, and he knew it. He smacked his lips as he whispered against her ear. “You’re lucky I let you bring the boy out.”

  He didn’t mean he’d done her a favor by letting her save their son. Danny would always be Kenny’s prized possession. He meant she was lucky that he’d let her live.

  “Corie?”

  She snapped out of the memory at the firm, low-pitched call of her name.

  Not Katie. She was Corie now.

  That flash of memory belonged to the past. The wall of Matt Taylor standing in front of her, his dark eyes creased with concern, belonged to the present.

  She rapidly blinked her surroundings into focus and gathered her thoughts. The remnants of two fires. Snow. Cold. She needed her coat. Kansas City. No Kenny. Bald man. Big man.

  Corie tilted her gaze up to Matt’s angular, darkly stubbled face.

  He thought Evan had set these two small fires.

  He didn’t know what a real arsonist could do.

  The hardness around his eyes softened when he sensed she recognized him and could be reasoned with again. “I don’t mean Evan any harm. And I won’t jump to any conclusions. I promise,” Matt stated, making Mr. Stinson grumble about being accused of something himself and turning away. “I want the facts first.”

  “The facts are my son didn’t set these fires.” There was something about Matt’s stoic demeanor that calmed her enough to speak rationally again. “Why would you think that?”

  “Several things about them make me suspicious,” Matt explained. Although she was certain he was wondering why she’d blown up like that, he was too polite to mention it. Or maybe her reaction made it look like she was hiding something. The hell of it was she was hiding a lot. “I asked Mr. Stinson if I could examine them. The signatures are too similar for me to think they were set by two different perps. The residue is what dripped into the pan and set your son’s pizza on fire. The whole oven was primed to burn. If the detector hadn’t gone off—if I hadn’t smelled the smoke...”

  She’d had nothing to put it out with beyond depriving the flames of oxygen. And she’d opened a window. This could have been a disaster. But surely not... There was no way this could be anything but a horrid coincidence, right? A chemical? The unfamiliar smell in her kitchen? A different sort of panic threatened to sink its talons into her. She stepped around Matt to confront the older man. “Mr. Stinson, was anyone besides you in my apartment today?”

  “Just to move the oven out,” he groused, clearly feeling underappreciated and defensive now that he was no longer the one asking questions. “I fixed the outlet, and Jeff helped me move the oven out on a dolly.”

  “Jeff? Who’s Jeff?” She tried to picture the retired gentleman who’d fixed her garbage disposal last Thanksgiving when Wally had visited his daughter in Ohio. “I thought Phil somebody helped you.”

  “Phil remarried and moved to Arizona with his new wife. You probably don’t know that because you’re not around much,” he added, as though working two jobs and spending her free time with her son were crimes instead of choices. “Jeff moved in about a month ago. Gets reduced rent as my new part-timer. He lives in the apartment right under yours—612. We were in and out of your place in half an hour.”

  Shouldn’t that make her feel better, knowing no one had been in her apartment who couldn’t be accounted for? Of course, she’d feel a lot better if she actually knew who this Jeff person was and could put a face to the name. There had to be another explanation for the fires, beyond the one that scared her more than anything else. She and Evan were safe. She had no proof that her past had caught up with them.

  So, why did she feel like someone had violated her sanctuary?

  Her shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

  Matt was still calmly explaining his concerns in that deep, resonant voice. “According to my fire captain, it’s a homemade fire starter usually used in vandalism. Spray or brush the flammable substance over the heating elements and crank the temperature until it ignites. Or drop a match into a milk jug filled with the incendiary compound.”

  She knew what he was implying. But he was wrong. Evan had been too young to know anything about his father’s line of work—an arsonist for hire. All he remembered about Kenny Norwell was the yelling and the fist that had shattered her cheekbone when she picked up her toddler and drove away with nothing but the clothes on their backs. There were no tender memories—nothing but the fires and the hospital and the running and hiding until the rest of Kenny’s crimes finally caught up with him. Once she’d given her testimony and the trial and sentencing were over, Katie Norwell had secured full custody of her son, cleared out her savings and sold her car, and gone to the judge to start a new life as Corie McGuire.

  Logically, she knew that Matt had no idea about her past or Kenny’s expertise—he wasn’t making that connection. And she knew genetics didn’t make Evan a firebug like his father had been. This had to be a sick joke. Yes, her son was obsessed with dragons. But that was a coping mechanism—to his child’s brain, dragons were the strongest, most unbeatable creatures ever devised. A dragon would protect him against the monsters. A dragon controlled the flames—he wasn’t consumed by them. Evan could not be fascinated by fire—she couldn’t go through that kind of terror again. “You think Evan is responsible? He’s eight years old. He doesn’t know about flammable compounds, and he would never do anything risky like that to put himself in danger.” She knew kids could be curious, but she also knew her son. In some ways, he was all sweet little child—but in one way, he was mature and protective beyond his years. “Evan would never do anything to put me in danger.”

  “I’m not accusing your son of anything malicious,” Mr. Stinson insisted. “But part of my job is to make sure the tenants of this building stay safe. I know boys will be boys. And you can find out about anything on the internet these days.”

  “No.” She was as emphatic as the chill in the air. “Evan did not set these fires.”

  Clearly both me
n believed they’d been deliberately set. Clearly, both men blamed her son. Both men were wrong.

  Matt took a step toward her, and Corie flinched away. She glared up at him, and he retreated a step. His voice dropped to a husky timbre, probably meant to ease the import of whatever he was about to say. “Sometimes kids experiment with things that get out of hand and are more dangerous than they thought they would be. I’ve done some counseling with other kids who’ve pulled the fire alarm at school, for example. The fire department will go in and sit with the student and explain the importance of respecting their own safety and the safety of others—how answering false alarms could take us away from someone who truly needs our help.”

  She shoved a lock of loose hair behind her ear and held it there, creating another barrier between her and the world that wanted to attack the person she held most dear. “I’m familiar with that program. We’ve had firefighters come to our school and give that same talk.” She glanced at the ruined oven and charred bricks. “But you’re accusing my son of arson, not pulling a fire alarm on a dare or on a lark. Evan might have put a pizza in the oven, but he did not do this.”

  Matt glanced over at Mr. Stinson. The older man shrugged, as though he was biting his tongue on another possibility.

  Corie saved him the trouble. “I didn’t start that fire, either.” She tipped her chin up to Matt, wondering if his concern was professional or personal, and wondering why the answer mattered to her. “My son doesn’t need counseling. If these are arson fires, then someone else is responsible.” She included the super in her warning. “You’ve had a break-in in this building, and you need to step up security.”

  Wally Stinson clutched his coat in a dramatic gesture. “You think someone broke into this building and I don’t know about it?”

  Someone who’d washed his hands at her kitchen sink and wore a citrusy cologne.

  Someone who shouldn’t even know that Corie and Evan McGuire existed.

  Suddenly, the wintry chill poured into her veins, chilling her from the inside out. “I have to go.” She backed toward the door to the building. She needed to see her son. Now. “I’ll pay for the stupid oven and clean up that mess myself.”

  “Mrs. McGuire, that’s not what I’m saying,” Mr. Stinson started. “You’ll still get a new oven. I just wanted to make sure nothing else is gonna get damaged...”

  Corie swiped her key and opened the door, hearing no more.

  She hurried to the elevator. The doors opened the moment she pushed the call button. She had her finger on the seventh-floor button, and the doors were closing, when a big hand grabbed the door and pushed it open again.

  Corie yelped and darted to the back of the elevator as Matt Taylor filled the opening. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry.” She echoed his apology, hating that she’d screamed at her neighbor, who’d been nothing but kind to her and Evan. Until tonight. And even then, he’d been cautious in explaining his suspicions about her son playing with fire.

  He stepped inside, sliding to the far corner of the elevator as the doors closed. As if a few feet of distance could make him any less imposing, or the scent of the cold, fresh air wafting off his uniform and jacket were any less enticing.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. He pulled his stocking cap from his head and worked it between his hands before flattening his back against the side wall and adding a few extra inches of space between them. His gaze dropped to the death grip she held on the railing before those coffee-brown eyes settled on her wary, wide-eyed stare. “I know I’m a big, scary guy. I just wanted you to stop for a second and talk to me. Help me understand why you’re upset—why you needed to run away.”

  They passed the second floor before she realized he was doing his damnedest to make himself as nonthreatening as possible. Knowing he didn’t deserve to be judged by Kenny Norwell’s standards, Corie made a conscious effort to loosen her grip on the railing. She blinked, trying not to look so much like prey being eyed by a predator. “First, you are a big guy, yes. But you’re not scary, Matt. You’re gentle and kind, from what I can tell. You startled me, that’s all. I’m...more skittish than the average woman. I own that.”

  “Why?”

  His question surprised her. Most people politely kept their distance or dismissed her entirely when she went into escape mode. “There are no gray areas for you, are there? You have a question, you ask it. You see a thing that needs to be done, you do it.” He waited. The elevator slowed as she hugged her arms around herself and gave him the briefest explanation possible. “My marriage to Evan’s father was not a good one. I’m overly cautious around men as a result.”

  “He hurt you?”

  “Kenny Norwell hurt a lot of people.” The elevator doors opened, and Corie hurried down the hallway, aware that Matt was following her—and equally aware that he’d shortened his stride to maintain his distance. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, hated that she projected the air of a woman who needed that kind of kid-glove treatment and was rattled enough by the conversation in the alley that she unlocked her door and headed inside without looking back. “Excuse me. I need to see with my own eyes that Evan is okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be—?” She closed the door on his question and quickly threw the dead bolt behind her. Her breath rushed out on a sigh full of regret as much as relief.

  She didn’t want to hurt Matt, but she was more used to guarding herself than being open, more used to being afraid than trusting. Corie listened for the sound of his key in his door before she fixed a smile on her face and headed back to Evan’s room.

  Peeking inside the doorway, she found him busy building his fortress again. “Hey, little man. Did you brush your teeth?”

  Evan glanced up from his work to roll his eyes with the exhausted look of the downtrodden masses that only a small boy who’d lost precious playtime could manage. “For two whole minutes. It took forever.”

  Corie smiled, relieved to see he was fine, happy to hear his dramatic personality hadn’t dimmed one iota and embarrassed to admit she owed the man across the hall an apology. “Get your book and climb under the covers. I need to talk to Mr. Taylor for a couple of minutes. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay. Tell Matt I said hi. And ask if he needs me to use his watch again. Maybe I could borrow it for school when we talk about technology.” She arched an eyebrow and gave him the mom look. “Okay. Don’t ask. I don’t need a watch.”

  Oh, the drama. “To bed, mister.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once Evan was in bed and thumbing through the pages of his book, Corie slipped across the hall and knocked softly on Matt’s door.

  She curled her toes inside her sensible shoes, bracing herself for the door to swing open and the big man to suddenly fill the opening again. But he must have seen her through the peephole, because the door opened slowly and Matt leaned a shoulder against the door frame, trying and failing to look less imposing, and pleasing her all the more for making the effort.

  He’d taken off his jacket and cap, rolled up the sleeves of his black uniform shirt and loosened a couple of buttons that gave her a tantalizing glimpse of another one of those T-shirts that hugged his muscular body so well. “Evan okay?”

  “Yeah.” Corie fiddled with the buttons of her own sweater, feeling an unfamiliar stab of heat. She buried her hands in the pockets of her cardigan, hoping she hadn’t looked like she was imagining undoing the rest of those buttons on his shirt. “Are you certain someone deliberately sabotaged my oven?”

  Not the way she’d meant to start that apology.

  But Matt didn’t seem to mind. He nodded, one curt, certain nod that made her shiver again. “The fire in the alley was also deliberately set.”

  Just rip off the bandage and tell him.

  “My ex-husband... He went to prison for arson—insurance fraud and witness intimidation. Sneaking into m
y apartment to destroy an appliance or tamper with a plug is the kind of thing he would have done...to harass me. To frighten me. He couldn’t grasp that I wanted to end the marriage and sue for full custody of Evan.” Matt’s dark eyes never wavered from hers. He knew there was more to her story, but he didn’t push her to spit it out. He waited patiently until she took in a deep breath and could say it. “My marriage was a lifetime ago. Kenny has spent most of the last six years in prison. He doesn’t know where we live. He doesn’t know his son. He doesn’t know me. Not anymore.”

  She hugged her arms around her waist again, the momentary heat she’d felt fading as the past swept in. “I legally changed our names. Cut all ties to where we used to live. There’s no way he could find me. He can’t be responsible for this.” She paused to take in the scope of his broad, inviting chest, wondering what he’d do if she threw herself against him. Wondering why the arms of a man—of Matt Taylor—seemed like refuge to her tonight. She hugged her sweater more tightly around herself instead, feeling it was a poor substitute for the heat and strength she could see in him. “Those two fires make me think the impossible. They make me worry.” Corie pressed her fingers to her forehead, rubbing at the tension headache twisting there. “I want there to be another explanation besides Kenny tormenting us.”

  “If there is, I’ll find it.” Matt straightened to his full height but drifted back a step into his apartment. “Do I remind you of him?”

  “Of Kenny?” Honestly, the only similarity that popped into her head was that they were both men. And Kenny hadn’t even been very good at that. “No.” She’d just confessed to making the stellar choice of marrying an abusive loser who set fires for a living and not being the woman Matt thought she was—and he was worried about scaring her? “You’re half a foot taller than he is.” And though they were both well-built men with dark hair, there was a difference about their brown eyes she wasn’t sure she could explain. “His eyes are like a cold, empty void, and yours are...warm. Like a steaming cup of coffee.” She allowed herself a few seconds to appreciate the heat shining from his eyes before shrugging off that fanciful notion. “Most importantly, your personalities are different. Kenny would never care that I was afraid of him. He wouldn’t give me a chance to explain or defend myself. And he certainly would never apologize for startling me like you did.”