American Heroes: The Complete American Heroes Collection

by Teagan Kade

  She let the men see the pretty, sparkly version of herself. I always got the tired, bitter one—the mother who thought I was spoiled and ungrateful. The mother who thought I looked down on everyone in the trailer park. The mother who tried to make me feel bad for wanting a better life.

  I have to stop thinking about the past. If I keep going like this my anger will get the better of me and I’ll never make the phone call. This crazy thing is already in motion. My mother needs to know. Hell, my mother has probably pulled crazy schemes like this before in her life. She can probably give me some advice. It’s not the sort of thing I would have picked to bond over, but it’s better than nothing, right?

  I pick up the phone with a shaking hand and punch in the phone number.

  “Hello?” Her voice is scratchier than I remember. I guess she hasn’t given up her smoking habit after all.

  “Lucinda,” is all I can make myself say. My mouth is dry like it’s still filled with smoke from the fire. I still think of her as my mother, or mom, in my head, but for some reason I can’t make my mouth say the word. I probably sound like a telemarketer, calling her by her first name like that. Or a stalker.

  “Who’s this?” she asks, her voice is hard, as if she assumes anyone calling is someone she doesn’t want to talk to saying something she doesn’t want to hear.

  “It’s Elisabeth,” I say. I have no idea why I use my full name. My brain feels like it’s filled with static interference. My nickname, Beth, is the only thing I took with me from the trailer park, and that was purely out of habit. I would have changed my name completely if the paperwork wasn’t such a pain in the ass.

  “Beth?” Recognition blooms in her voice along with something like… joy? “Did you get my letter?”

  “Yes,” I say. What am I supposed to say next? How does one talk to a dying person? How does one talk to an estranged mother? I need a drink. “How are you?” I ask in a halting voice. There is a hollow laugh on the other end of the line.

  “Fine and fucking dandy, thanks for asking,” my mother says. I feel a sense of ease come over my body. That’s exactly something my mother would say, only now her words aren’t dripping with spite. There’s a humor in it I can’t remember ever hearing. I guess dying really changes a person. “Got a new trailer and I still have my hair, so I guess there’s a plus.”

  “You always did have fantastic hair,” I say. My throat is suddenly tight. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “No matter how hard I try I can never get mine to look as shiny as yours.”

  “Raw eggs, baby,” my mother says. “Bring some eggs into the shower with you and coat your hair with them.”

  “No way!” I exclaim. As a child, I thought my mother’s hair was magical or something. We both used the same cheap off-brand shampoo from the dollar store, but her hair always looked like one of the pretty ladies on the posters in the salon we couldn’t afford to go to while mine was always dull and limp.

  “Hand to God, that’s all there is to it,” my mother chuckles. “I read it in one of those fancy fashion magazines when I was about twelve. Been doing it ever since.”

  “I guess that explains why we went through eggs so quickly,” I say, laughing. This is strange. I haven’t spoken to my mother in seven years and the first thing we do is swap beauty secrets?

  “Yeah,” my mother says softly. “I probably should have left more for you to eat. Your scrawny body could have used the protein.” Wait, what? That almost sounds like an apology. My mother never, ever, apologizes for anything.

  “So,” I say, desperate to break the silence. “Treatment is expensive, huh?” Wow, Beth. You’re such a smooth operator. I wince inwardly.

  “An arm and a leg would be an understatement,” my mother snorts.

  “I thought you got insurance working at Billy’s,” I say.

  “I did. But Billy fucking fired me when I told him I’m sick,” my mother says. I can taste the bitterness of her words. “Had to get out of town, find myself somewhere a little more affordable-like. That’s why I wrote. You never would have found me out here in this backwater hole.”

  “Are you serious?” I gasp. “After everything you’ve done for that lowlife, he goes and fires you like that?” The rage I feel is unexpected after seven years of convincing myself I didn’t care.

  “He’s had it out for me ever since I refused to give him a blowjob the first week I was hired,” my mother says in a matter-of-fact way. “Didn’t think he wanted me dead, though.”

  “He’s going to be in for a real surprise when half of his regulars stop showing up,” I say. “They only come to see you.”

  “Yeah, maybe that will get him to reconsider,” my mother says, but there isn’t any fight in her voice. Now would be a good time to tell her about my plan. My stupid, poorly thought out plan.

  “I might be able to help you,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds. My mother hates the word ‘help.’

  “What are you talking about?” she asks. I can hear the suspicion in her voice.

  “I don’t have a lot saved up now,” I start, the words tumbling one after the other. “I’ve got a good job. I could save a considerable amount if I have the time. But it sounds like I don’t.”

  “No, there’s not a lot of time at all,” she says. She sounds defeated—another emotion I have never heard coming from her.

  “But, I have a plan,” I say quickly. “I have a damn good insurance policy on my home. If something happens to my house, I could use the payout to help pay for your treatment.”

  “You’d do that for me?” my mother asks. The surprise in her voice is genuine.

  “You’re my mama. I don’t want you to die,” I say. A tear rolls down my face. I let it drip off my chin onto that silly rose-covered carpet.

  “I can’t ask you to do that, baby,” my mother sniffles on the other end of the line. “I don’t deserve it after the way I treated you growing up.”

  “You don’t have to ask. I already did it,” I say.

  “You did?” My mother gasps. “What exactly did you do?”

  Here goes nothing.

  “I sort of set my house on fire,” I say sheepishly.

  “What the fuck, Beth?” she shrieks. “Oh my God, you really are my daughter. Only a child of mine would do something that bat-shit insane.” She’s laughing. I take that as a good sign. I find myself laughing as well.

  “It was only supposed to be a little fire, but it got out of control. I ended up in the hospital.” I sound hysterical. But my mother is right; this is completely insane.

  “Well, at least that will make it look more convincing,” my mother cackles, falling into a fit of coughing.

  “I sure hope so. I’ll keep you updated on everything, okay?” I say. I’m nervous talking about this over the phone. Logically, I know it’s impossible, but I wouldn’t put it past that cop to bug my room or something.

  “Sure, baby. I’ve got to go lie down. All this excitement has worn me out,” my mother says. She sounds drained.

  “You get your rest,” I say, hoping I, in turn, sound reassuring. “And don’t worry. Everything is going to work out.”

  “Thank you, Beth. I love you.” The words take a minute to settle over me. I can’t remember the last time I heard her say that. I never expected to hear her say those words again after I left.

  And suddenly that single tear turns into a river. “I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DEREK

  My footsteps thud against the broken concrete of the sidewalk as I make my way up the path to Beth’s house, uncertainty flooding my mind. This is the first time I’ve come back to a house fire of my own accord, and without being paid for it at that.

  After talking to Beth again and spending a little time with her at the café, and agreeing to have a drink, I was overtaken with this urge to do a little investigating of my own. Speaking to Officer Brady at the hospital beforehand certainly piqued my interest. I’m hoping this little field trip will s
atisfy my curiosity.

  Why am I doing this for her again? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great lay and I definitely had loads of fun with her last night, but I barely know the girl. Not to mention the fact that the house is still sectioned and taped off for investigation. I could get into serious shit for this.

  Despite all that, there’s just something about Beth that makes me want to do, well, something. What that something is, I’m not sure yet, but I’ll sure as fuck figure it out.

  Being with her makes me feel alive, as pathetic as that sounds. I find myself craving more of it. Not just the sex either, but her general company. I feel like I could sit there and talk to her for hours and she wouldn’t judge me or treat me like an ass like most do.

  She talks to me like I’m just a normal guy, and I find myself wanting to know more about her. When she speaks, I’m not listening for a chance to talk about myself. I’m listening because I actually care about what she has to say. That’s far from the case when it comes to most of my bed-mates.

  There’s a lot I don’t know about her, but I’d like to spend some time to find out more.

  What I do know for sure is I want to help, and coming back to the scene of the fire may be able to point me in the right direction to do just that.

  Last night with her was… different. Sure, we had sex and it was great—I don’t have bad sex, after all—but there was a whole other kind of connection I’ve never felt with someone before. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m craving more. Usually doing something as extensive as this for a girl is something I avoid, but for some reason not only does this not feel like a chore, but I actively want to do it.

  I snap back to reality by a voice calling out to me, some cop telling me I need to stay away.

  There’s caution tape all around the perimeter of the house and I have to stop and duck under it, flashing my fire station ID to the cop at the door who had hollered out to me. He nods me through with a frown. I keep going, thankful he didn’t ask any questions. Not that I’m technically doing anything illegal, but still, the fewer explanations I need to give, the better.

  The crunching sound of debris, ash, and dirt echo from beneath my boots as I walk through the threshold.

  There are scorch marks on most of the walls in the main living area, the one with the large picture window featuring more than the others.

  Hmm, probably a good place to start looking then.

  I walk over to it and crouch, examining the blackened floor and curtains just below the windowsill. As I lean forward to swipe my glove against the wall in order to check the smoke pattern, I stop, a strong chemical smell filling my nostrils. I look down and see the culprit, a scrap of burnt fabric that looks as though it’s come from the curtains. I take another whiff, and realize that the smell I was getting was acetone, and a shit-load of it.

  Odd.

  I graze my hand over the now charcoal-colored fabric of the curtain that’s fallen to the ground and bring it closer to my face, scrunching up my nose and coughing as I do. The smell is strong enough to make my eyes water. It’s very obviously been drenched with the stuff, and my heart drops as I put it back down, seeing another scrap just a few feet away. I pick it up and toss it back, my suspicions confirmed as the stench overwhelms my senses.

  I stand and run my hand up the rest of the fabric that’s left hanging, shaking my head and sighing in frustration when I grab the other one and the same stench wafts over me.

  All the curtains have clearly been soaked with acetone. I’m willing to bet this is where the fire started and that it was deliberate. How else would both of the curtains in the room become completely soaked with something like acetone? It’s incredibly flammable, plus it’s not a household liquid one walks around with enough of to ‘accidentally’ soak an entire set of curtains. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

  I let my arms fall to my sides. My hands ball into fists, anger and frustration rolling over me in waves. Shit like this is how people get hurt, or worse, killed. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when a fire gets so out of control people can’t make it out, even firefighters. Beth was lucky we got here when we did, because this fire could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  I dig around my pocket and pull out Officer Brady’s card, using my cell phone to give him a call. He’d be able to check the system for previous arson cases involving acetone as the accelerant and cross-reference them. For all we know, this isn’t necessarily this guy’s first fire.

  I start dialing Officer Brady’s number and stop suddenly, huffing and shoving his card back in my pocket along with my phone. I stand there in the middle of the room, deliberating and looking over the burnt fabric of the curtains.

  Shouldn’t I tell Beth first? I mean, I’d want to know if someone set my house on fire, or—even worse—is trying to kill me. Sure, it’s not a call that anyone wants to get, but it’s better to be prepared, isn’t it?

  I decide I’ll call Officer Brady and tell him what I found after I talk to Beth and make sure she’s safe. Besides, if I can talk to her about this, she may be able to tell me if she has anyone she suspects. She’d know better than anyone if she has any enemies. That way, when I call Office Brady, I’ll have more information.

  I decide to take a look around some more and see if I can find anything else that may point to any evidence, or suspects. I’m overcomes with anger. It pulses through me hot and thick. I start pacing in an attempt to calm myself, focused on finding more evidence I can rather than stewing around in anger.

  I wander about the rooms, checking and inspecting all the areas affected by the fire and discovering that none of them come close to being as scorched as where I found the curtains. After a few minutes, I head back into the main living area.

  I cross my arms over my chest and lean against a beam, my lips pursed together in a scowl as I give the room one last look over before I leave.

  My gaze falls on the acetone-soaked pieces of scorched curtain fabric on the floor. I curse under my breath.

  Who the fuck would want to do this? Especially to someone like Beth? The thought someone would not only want to hurt her, but burn down her entire fucking house sets my blood on fire. I don’t want her to have to deal with this shit on her own. I decide to call her as soon as I’m done here, go and make sure she’s okay.

  Someone may have tried to hurt her once, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to get the opportunity again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ELISABETH

  I’m sitting on the bed in my hotel room reading a magazine when my phone rings, startling me out of my celebrity gossip-fueled haze. Thinking Derek may be calling me to make plans, I lean over to where my phone is sitting on the end table, picking it up with a smile.

  It soon disappears to make way for disappointment, my face falling when the caller ID tells me it’s not Derek, but Officer Brady.

  I knew he was going to call me again, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be so soon, that I would have a chance to come up with something to tell him. Reluctantly, I press the answer button, putting on a fake smile in hopes it will make me sound more pleasant and less like I’m dreading his call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ms. Montgomery? It’s Officer Brady calling.”

  “Oh, hello, Officer Brady,” I say politely, “what can I do for you?”

  There’s a pause on the line. For a split second I think that by some miracle he’s hung up or disconnected, but his voice rings through and I sigh, accepting the fact I’m going to have to talk to him. Who knows, maybe he’s calling to tell me they’ve concluded their investigation and that I’ll be dealing with my insurance company from here on out?

  “I’ve got a few questions for you regarding the house fire. I came by the hospital but you had already been discharged, so I figured I’d give you a call.”

  Well, so much for that theory.

  I swallow before speaking. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

  I try to psych
myself into it. All I’ve got to do is keep my answers short, concise, and to the point. Derek got the letter out, so I know they don’t have that as evidence or motive. This is probably just a routine set of questions. You’ve got this.

  “Well, for starters, what can you tell me about the fire itself?” he asks.

  “Uh, well, Officer Brady, I’m not sure what I can tell you. Like I said, I don’t know a whole lot about it. I woke up to my house on fire, and being carried out of it.”

  “Right…”

  There’s an edge to his voice, and I can hear him typing away at a computer in the background as I talk, presumably for a statement. I decide this is probably a good time to throw him a bone, give him an idea to chase to lead him away from me, or to at least buy me some time.

  “Although,” I say contemplatively, “I’m pretty sure I remember seeing one of my outlets throwing sparks. That could start a fire, couldn’t it?”

  Obviously my outlets weren’t throwing sparks, but he doesn’t know that. Plus, something like that would at least have to involve an electrician and extend the investigation.

  “It could, yes.”

  His voice is cold and firm. I don’t like it. I don’t think he’s buying my story. Still, I have to hold my ground and keep myself calm.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” he snaps. “Perhaps anything involving ill intentions?”

  Shit, that doesn’t sound good. My heart rate starts to pick up and I take a breath, steadying and calming myself. I have to keep my tone level and play dumb, otherwise I’m going to blow this whole thing and end up in jail. Not to mention it’ll have all been for nothing. I won’t get the insurance money and my mother will be back to square one trying to afford her treatment. So, I take a deep breath and answer, playing along.

  “Ill intentions? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “You don’t?”