Sacrifice

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Her son leaned into her and looked up at Irish. “Are you a fireman?”

  Irish still looked shell shocked. “Ah . . . yeah.”

  “Do you want to see my Lego house?”

  “Um—”

  “Maybe later,” Hannah said. “Go wash up for dinner.” She gave James a kiss on the forehead. “Especially this sticky face.” He took off.

  Her father held out a bottle of beer to Irish, keeping one for himself. “All I have is light.”

  It seemed to break through Irish’s surprise. “No. Thank you, sir.” He shrugged. “I’m still on call.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes at the sir and dutifully pulled glasses out of the cabinet, then started filling them with ice and water from the dispenser on the front of the refrigerator.

  Irish appeared at her side and put out a hand. “I can help you.” “I’ve got it.”

  “You’re going to carry four glasses at once?”

  Something about him being here was pricking at her nerves. She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it was the extra formality in front of her father. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d seen James. “Sure,” she said. “In one hand. While twirling. Watch.” Then she picked up the four glasses—two in each hand—and carried them through the archway into the dining room.

  Without twirling.

  Irish followed. “I didn’t mean to take you off guard.”

  That made her look up. “What do you mean?”

  “By coming here. Marshal Faulkner invited me to join him for dinner, but I didn’t know—”

  “You didn’t know he was my dad?” She placed the last two glasses. “Come on.”

  “No—I didn’t know you still lived at home.” He cleared his throat. “Or that you had a son.”

  She didn’t know how to read his voice. It wasn’t quite judgment, but it wasn’t full of sunshine and flowers and acceptance, either. “Don’t worry. You’re not the father.”

  “Who is?”

  The question hit her like a hammer to the temple. He hadn’t meant it to be invasive—but it was, and she didn’t have her usual deflection ready. She wiped her palms on her jeans and couldn’t look at him. “I’m going to grab the salad bowl.”

  Her parents were speaking in low tones when she walked back into the kitchen, and they shut up quick when she came through the archway.

  Her eyes narrowed. Everything about this evening left her feeling like she was missing something. “What?”

  Her mother pushed the salad bowl across the island. “Your father and I are talking, Hannah. Please take the salad out and give us a minute of privacy.”

  Well.

  It wasn’t often her mother used her I-mean-business voice, and Hannah knew better than to argue with that. Unfortunately, it meant she had to go back in the dining room to entertain Irish. She grabbed the bowl, wishing she could fling it on the table and keep on walking out to the backyard.

  And then keep on walking for miles.

  No, she could never do that. Not with James at the center of her orbit, drawing her back from wherever life took her.

  Irish looked abashed when she returned to the dining room. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t know—”

  “It’s fine.” She dropped into her usual chair and ran her finger around a glass of water. “I didn’t mean to be short. It’s complicated.”

  “And it’s none of my business, really.”

  She smiled. “That, too.”

  “Is it the guy from last night?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Didn’t you just acknowledge that it’s none of your business?”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not still curious.”

  She gave a nod at the chair across from her, which was usually reserved for guests because it was beside her father. “Sit down if you want.”

  He hesitated, then sat. “I really didn’t realize I’d be coming for a family meal. . . .”

  “Don’t worry. My mom is a better cook than whoever is running the kitchen at the firehouse tonight.”

  Irish smiled. “I’m not worried.”

  They fell into silence for a moment.

  Hannah was very aware she’d never answered his question.

  “Michael isn’t James’s father,” she finally said quietly. “I’ve known him since high school, but we’ve only been dating a few months. Sometimes I wish . . .” She shut her mouth and cut herself off.

  “You wish what?”

  She glanced at the kitchen door. Her parents still seemed to be engrossed in conversation. She looked at her water glass. She never talked to anyone about these things, but she’d seen a different side of Irish this morning, and it had added a new level of closeness to their relationship. She always felt like an outsider at the firehouse, and now she knew he did too.

  “This is going to sound ridiculous, but sometimes I wish he was.”

  “You guys are that serious?”

  A blush found her cheeks. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way at all. “No. Not really. Maybe. Ah—I don’t know. I didn’t mean—”

  “What did you mean?”

  Hannah hesitated and wondered how she’d dug herself in so deeply. She sighed. “I mean, Michael would have stepped up.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  “I am sure. He’s a good guy, you know?” She paused, surprised by the sudden well of emotion in her chest. “He’s been taking care of his brothers since his parents died. He’s the type of guy who’d do the right thing, no matter what. He’s sacrificed a lot, just for his family.”

  Irish frowned. “You know, your dad thinks he had something to do with those fires last night.”

  Hannah glared at the doorway to the kitchen and wanted to throw something at it. She didn’t want to upset her mother, so she kept her voice down. “My dad is an asshole. He’s looking for an easy target. Michael didn’t set those fires any more than you did.”

  Irish put his hands up. “I’m just saying. Sometimes it pays to keep your eyes open.”

  James came flying into the dining room. “I washed my hands, Mom!”

  His sleeves were soaking wet. Hannah couldn’t help but smile. She looped an arm around his waist and pulled him in for a hug. “Good boy. Dinner isn’t ready yet. Do you want to watch YouTube videos on my phone?”

  “Yeah!” He took the phone and flopped on the couch in the living room.

  Irish watched this exchange. “I don’t think your friend Michael is the only one who knows something about sacrifice.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you the type of girl who’d do the right thing, no matter what?”

  His voice was full of something she couldn’t identify. She lost the smile. “I like to think so.”

  Irish shrugged a little. “I’m just saying. Sometimes right and wrong aren’t easy to identify.”

  “You’re a lot deeper than I expected, Irish.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes people see a big guy and they think stupid. I like to prove them wrong.”

  She smiled back.

  Just as she wondered if his smile meant a little more, Irish stood, breaking the eye contact. He gestured at the back wall of the dining room, where more than fifty photos had been arranged in mismatched frames. Some were old: her parents’ wedding picture, or a shot of Hannah as a baby. Some were new, like James’s kindergarten photo.

  He glanced down at her. “Your mom loves family photos, huh?”

  “You should see the basement.”

  One broad finger touched the edge of an old photo in a faded frame. “Is this you?”

  She noticed the one he was indicating and froze. These photos had been here for years, and she rarely noticed the old ones anymore. The one he’d touched featured her as a little girl, not much older than James, standing beside her father, who was kneeling. She was in a Sunday dress, all pink lace and frills and crinoline, her blond hair long and curled. Her father was kneeling i
n his fire gear, soot on his cheeks and hands, probably fresh from a fire. She was holding his helmet, a huge toothy smile on her face. Her father was smiling back at her as if she made the sun rise and set each day.

  She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her like that.

  “Blondie?” Then Irish caught himself and smiled. “Hannah?”

  “Yeah.” She coughed. “It’s me. That’s back when my dad was just a fireman.” She paused. “He didn’t start training to be a fire marshal until I was in middle school.”

  Irish studied her. He must have heard the bitterness in her voice. “You don’t like what he does for a living?”

  “Not as much as he does.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He gets off on it.” She smiled, and it felt a little sinister. “I’m glad you turned down the beer. I’d bet money he knows you’re on call.”

  Irish’s eyes lit with surprise—then settled into something like challenge. “Oh. So he’s like that.”

  “Yeah. Keep up with the sir stuff. He’ll eat it up.”

  Irish sobered. “Too much?”

  “Nah.” She paused. “Do you really want to be a fire marshal? Or were you just kissing ass?”

  “Oh, that’s real. My dad is a detective in Chicago. I think he always expected me to follow in his footsteps, but I wanted to make my own way.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes I feel like there should be something more, you know? It’s a career path to look at.”

  “You’re a good firefighter,” she said.

  His eyes met hers again, and she blushed. “But don’t let it go to your head,” she added.

  “I won’t.”

  “You want to do something else?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked back at the picture. “Maybe.”

  “My dad took a lot of crap when he made the decision to switch. It’s a lot of work, and you’ve got your foot in both departments. Not quite a cop, and not quite a fireman either.”

  “He took a lot of crap?” His voice dropped.

  She glanced at the kitchen doorway. Her parents were still having a heated conversation, but she couldn’t make out anything but whispers. What on earth was up with them?

  Irish was waiting for an answer, so Hannah looked back at him. “Yeah. He was in line to be chief, and he turned it down. He’d been a great fireman, but there was a massive fire and some people died during his shift. He couldn’t get them all out in time. After that, he didn’t want to walk into another active scene. The guys in his crew thought he got afraid. They thought he was running from his job.”

  Her father spoke from the doorway. “What do you think?”

  Hannah straightened so quickly that she bumped the table and made the water slosh. “Dad. Sorry.”

  “What do you think?” he said again. His tone was even—not irritated, yet not warm either. Just level. Patient. His investigator voice.

  Hannah hated that voice.

  She looked back at him. “I guess it’s going to have to remain a mystery.”

  “Your mother asked if you could get the rolls and put them in a basket.”

  She hated this voice, too. This was his dismissal voice.

  Hannah was tempted to curtsey and mock him. Luckily, this wasn’t high school. Besides, she had an audience.

  She looked at Irish before she made her way back to the kitchen, and gave him one last warning. “Remember what I said. He’s great at this job, too.”

  Then she brushed past her father without even looking at him.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Roadhouse Bar and Grill sat along Magothy Beach Road, a few blocks off the water and surrounded by an acre of trees. Beige paint peeled away from the siding in numerous places, and a few fake palm trees swayed in the November wind.

  Michael had never been here, but it was obviously popular, given the packed parking lot. He found a spot for the truck at the back of the restaurant, between the back door and the Dumpster.

  When he killed the engine, he just sat there.

  He had half a mind to drive back to Adam’s apartment, to tell his brothers that “the guy” never showed to talk about a landscaping job that didn’t exist. Then he’d help himself to a few slices of pizza—if there was any left, given the way they’d attacked the boxes when the delivery guy showed up. They could break out a deck of cards and pretend their lives weren’t skirting the edge of disaster.

  And then the real guy who was threatening them would burn down the whole place.

  Michael got out of the truck.

  The gravel of the parking lot offered no information. No threat of danger, no hint of a problem.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

  How will I know you?

  You’ll know me when you see me.

  Did that mean his mysterious texter wasn’t here yet, but he’d arrive in a way that was unmistakable? Or that Michael would recognize him on sight?

  He’d worried all afternoon that this was another way to lure him away from his brothers—but what choice did he have? He sure as hell wasn’t going to bring them with him. And whoever set this meeting had implied that Michael could bring anyone he wanted—including the police.

  Was that an extension of trust? Or a finely laid trap?

  Maybe he should have involved the police. Hannah’s father was still waiting to talk to him. Michael pulled the fire marshal’s card out of his jeans pocket—now washed, though soot still stained the seams—and considered dialing.

  Then he remembered the photo of Hannah and James on the school steps.

  This was too close to home, for all of them. He wasn’t putting anyone else in danger if he didn’t have to.

  Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and circled around to the front of the building. Some older guys in layered flannel held the door for him on their way out. Jukebox music hit him hard when he crossed the threshold. He’d expected a simple bar with a few tables, but the place was bigger than it looked from the outside. A polished wood bar stretched across the rear of the restaurant, tended by an aging man with tufts of white hair. Swinging doors led to a kitchen beyond. A middle-aged waitress burst through them with a tray of steaming plates: gravy fries, nachos, Buffalo chicken wings. Bar food. At least eighteen tables crowded the open area, and all were occupied. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and Michael’s boots crunched through them as he stepped out of the doorway.

  His eyes swept the room once. Dim lighting didn’t reveal much, and several people had their backs to him, but no one looked suspicious. Everyone seemed engaged, whether in food or a conversation. Mostly men over thirty, mostly blue collar, in for a quick drink or a dinner before heading home for the night. Flannel and denim everywhere. Laughter and loud voices carried over the music.

  The waitress stopped in front of him on her way between tables, and he was so keyed up that for a second, he worried this forty-year-old frizzy-haired woman was his mystery person. Then she gave him a puzzled look and said, “It’s seat yourself, sweetie.”

  He cast his gaze past her, at the bar, and then back to the door. “I don’t—I’m meeting someone—”

  “What’s wrong, Merrick? Run out of lawns to mow?”

  He recognized the voice, but with the noise and the low lighting, it took him a minute to spot its owner. About three tables over, with his back to the door, sat Tyler Morgan.

  Tyler. Tyler.

  You’ll know when me when you see me.

  Michael stormed between patrons. He hadn’t thought Tyler was behind this. Not really. But now, with proof right in front of him . . .

  He slammed his hand down on Tyler’s table. It took everything he had not to drag the guy out of his chair and slug him in the face. “You think you’re going to mess with my family?” He hit the table again, and he must have looked fierce, because Tyler shoved back a few inches. Michael got in his face. He was yelling and he didn’t care. “You think I’m going to let
you get away with it?”

  Tyler didn’t move. “Get out of my face, Merrick.”

  “Those people. All those people. You—”

  “What people?” Tyler glared back at him. “Did you forget your medication or something?”

  “You know what people.” Michael shoved him, causing the chair to scrape back a few more inches.

  Tyler gritted his teeth, but he didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you think this is funny?” He was causing a scene, but Michael didn’t care. That Tyler would do this—that he would make jokes—that he could—his neighbors had died—

  “What is your problem, Merrick?”

  “You’re my problem! Did you do this? Did you start those fires?”

  Tyler’s expression darkened. He didn’t move from his chair. “Look,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “I don’t know what you’re on, but if you don’t sit down and act like a normal person, Tammy is going to call the cops.”

  Michael stared at him. The restaurant had gone silent except for the jukebox still cranking out tunes in the corner. Four men were standing nearby, ready to come to Tyler’s aid. The waitress—Tammy? —had a phone in her hand, and she was looking at Tyler, as if waiting for him to tell her what to do.

  Michael’s breathing echoed in his ears.

  Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Sit down and behave, or leave, Merrick. Your call.”

  Michael swallowed. He felt like he’d run a mile at top speed. “Did you text me to meet you here?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you fuck with me, Tyler—”

  “Jesus! I don’t even know your number! Why the hell would I text you?”

  “Tyler?” said Tammy. “Should I call?”

  I don’t even know your number. That was true. Michael had never given Tyler his number. Not that it wasn’t listed with most of his business stuff, but still . . .

  Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He glanced around again. He was causing a scene—but no one else had come out of the woodwork.