Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  He points at the screen. “This is when I dropped them off.”

  Onscreen, he tosses the envelope on the table and immediately leaves. Unless he's edited the video, which I have no reason to believe he did, he's definitely not our thief.

  He clicks the navigation bar again, dragging the cursor along, the video revealing absolutely nothing. Not a single person.

  “By the time he finished work and made it over here for your car, it was probably around seven.”

  At the 7:00 p.m. timestamp, there’s still no one so he clicks again and the video speeds up enough that we can still see if someone comes in, but not so fast that we’d miss anything.

  When Jeremy walks into the kitchen, Phillip taps the mousepad. I check the timestamp: 7:35. He walks first to the refrigerator, grabbing a bottled water, and then to a drawer near the sink. He scoops the keys from the drawer and lifts his head, staring straight across the breakfast bar in the general direction of the doors leading to the pool.

  Right in front of those doors is the kitchen table, where Phillip placed the photos when he dropped them off.

  Keys and water in hand, Jeremy moves to the table where he sets everything down.

  And picks up the envelope.

  "Shit," Phillip mutters, reading my mind.

  Rose backhands him on the shoulder. “Language.”

  "Sorry," he says. “But this warrants it.”

  The three of us stand in silence as Jeremy opens the flap, slides the photos out, and shuffles through them, pausing on one and then setting it on the table. There’s no way to know which of the photos he’s looking at, but I think it’s safe to guess it’s one of the Loretta/Jackson Harlan pics.

  Jeremy draws two more photos from the stack and sets them on the table. Beside that, he places the larger stack. For a moment, he stands there, head dipped. Man, oh, man, I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Standing in his mother’s house, about to swipe her personal property. The curiosity bug inside me wonders what’s involved in that thought process. He doesn’t need money, at least I don’t think he does, so what use are these photos to him? Why steal them unless he’s somehow protecting himself?

  Or someone else.

  Like a former president.

  He crosses his arms and continues to peer down at the table for a solid fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds, I’ve learned, doesn’t seem like a lot of time, but all sorts of things can happen. It’s enough for an intruder to escape or worse, to cross a room and do God knows what.

  It’s also enough to allow a woman to hurl a hand weight at said intruder’s skull.

  For Jeremy, standing in Rose’s quiet kitchen deciding whether he’ll violate his mother’s privacy, fifteen seconds must feel like a lifetime.

  He shoves the larger stack of photos back into the envelope and returns it to where Phillip originally placed it.

  Then he picks up the other three photos, grabs Rose’s car keys and the water bottle and leaves.

  Video continues to roll and Phillip makes no move to stop it. I’m pretty much frozen in place, afraid to even look at Rose. This must feel like such a betrayal. She’s loved this man like her own child and he does this? Even I feel a spurt of rage brewing. Maybe it’s the idealist in me, but people shouldn’t get away with doing crappy, hurtful things. It’s just not right.

  The warrior in me wants to confront this guy and bury him, absolutely thrash him for his sneakiness. The other part of me, the one who has been the target of hate mail, excommunication, and threats wants to retreat. Just run and hide.

  Problem is, I’ve never been good at hiding.

  From his seat at the desk, Phillip lets out a sigh. “Well, that happened.” He peers up at his mother. “I guess we know who stole your photos. I’m sorry.”

  Rose lifts her chin, clucks her tongue, and pats him on the shoulder. “You’re not the one who owes me an apology. Now that we know it was Jeremy, we need to find out why."

  47

  Rose

  * * *

  The three of us exit Phillip’s Mercedes and pause in front of the granite steps leading to Jeremy's front door. He purchased the sprawling ranch out of foreclosure, gutted it, and redesigned it himself after his divorce. The renovation took nearly six months and includes thirty-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling marble, motorized skylights, and a private movie theater. The result is nothing but spectacular.

  Warm sunshine pours down on me and I allow myself a few seconds to soak up the heat and the beauty of Mother Nature’s work.

  “Mom," Phillip says, "how do you want to handle this?"

  As if I should know? I've never had to accuse one of my sons of stealing from me. Even if it's only a few photos, the aftermath is just as devastating. Jeremy is hiding something and God help us all if it's involvement in the Grande fire. With each discovery, it seems that’s where we’re headed and I’m…what? Terrified? Angry? Humiliated?

  All of the above?

  Fatigue settles on my shoulders, its weight keeping me rooted in place. I’ve never been one for a pity party. I’m the one who tucks it away and soldiers on. A flaw in my coping skills, no doubt, but it’s served me well. Kept me upright when grief threatened to level me.

  Now? I’m tired of being strong. Tired of showing the world the Rose I want them to see. Tired of the show. I want truth.

  Finally.

  I face Phillip. “This is my issue. I'll take care of it. He's your brother. If you would rather stay outside and not be involved, I understand."

  He shrugs. “The way I see it, I’m part of this family and it's a family matter. We’ll do it together.”

  He holds his arm out for me. I love that about him. He makes me insane with his constant hovering, but with that comes support. And love without conditions.

  I take hold of my son’s arm and glance at Rae. Is it fair to Jeremy that she’s here for this impromptu meeting? Probably not.

  Then again, he should have considered that before being deceitful.

  Rae stays. “Are you ready?”

  “I sure am.”

  I have no doubt. We climb the steps and ring the bell. We'd phoned on our way over to let Jeremy know we were on the way, but I refuse to simply walk in when we have Rae with us. Particularly since it’s still work hours and he very well could be on the phone with a client. Jeremy keeps an office downtown, but mostly works out of his home. The office is a convenient write-off and place to have mail shipped.

  The front door opens and Jeremy greets us with a wide smile that is somehow incongruent with our visit. “Hi. This is a surprise."

  He waves us inside and I take the lead, with Rae behind me and then Phillip. "I'm sorry to barge in on your day, but we need to speak with you."

  “Of course. Is everything all right?"

  I bear left into the large sunken living room where the floor-to-ceiling windows reveal rolling hills and the distant, towering downtown high-rises. The view, as designed, is extraordinary.

  Phillip wanders to the mantel, propping one elbow on it while I lower myself to the sofa, patting the space next to me for Rae.

  Jeremy makes the typical offers of drinks and food—we all decline—and then sits across from us in a royal-blue high-backed chair I discovered while shopping one day.

  He holds his hands out. “I’m guessing this is about the trip to La Paradisio?"

  "It is. You'll recall, I asked Phillip to pick up some photos for me."

  I leave it there, giving my son a few seconds to ponder—or make an admission.

  His gaze stays on me, his mouth soft with his bottom lip slightly jutting out. He’s trying to appear merely curious, but I’ve seen this look many times. Jeremy is deciding whether to lie.

  "Please don't," I say.

  "Don't what?"

  "Whatever it is you're about to lie about. I've had a rough week and I’m not up for it."

  "Mother, I have no idea—”

  "Jer," Phillip cuts in, “save it. We know you took three pictures out
of the envelope."

  His head jerks back as if Phillip has struck him.

  "Take a second and think about this," Phillip says. “It’s all on Mom’s security footage.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, the revelation clearly stunning him. "I'm…whoa." He slouches back and releases a hard breath. "I… don't know what to say."

  There’s comfort in that at least. That my son, when faced with his own bad behavior, can feel…something. “The truth is your only option,” I warn. “Combined with what we learned in La Paradisio about you being questioned, I have a healthy suspicion you were involved in that fire.”

  He jerks up, his spine straightening, shoulders flying back. “You think…Mother…I…” He shakes his head. “No. I…”

  Leaning in, I hold up one finger. “Be careful here. I want the truth. All of it. From there, I’ll decide how we proceed.”

  His gaze pings to Rae, then back. "Can we do this in private?"

  “Absolutely not. You had thirty years to talk in private. I also gave you an opportunity in La Paradisio. Now you’re out of chances. I've given my word to Rae and I intend to keep it."

  He’s not happy. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he shifts in his seat and drums his fingers against his thighs. I know him. Maybe better than he knows himself.

  “I wasn't involved in the fire,” he finally says.

  "What, then, and why steal those photos?"

  "It was Loretta.”

  “She was having an affair with Jackson Harlan.”

  I pose it as a statement rather than a question and his eyes bulge. “You knew?”

  “Not before this week. You just confirmed it. I knew about the affair with George, but not this.”

  He blows out a hard breath, runs his hands over his head, and finally peers back at me. “She ended things with George after she met Jackson. It was at your fundraiser. I guess they slept together that night after leaving George's. Soon after, she broke off with George. After that, Harlan strung her along."

  "You knew this?"

  "No. Not at the time. I found out after the fire."

  "From who?"

  He meets my eye. “Dad."

  Oh, Simon. If he was alive, I’d call him out on this, rail on him about breaking our rule for honesty. I may do it anyway. Tonight. When I’m alone. For once, I may scream at my dead husband. For now, I simply nod. “All right. So, you stole these photos for what reason?"

  "George was freaking out about you asking questions. When Phil and I got back from La Paradisio, George called me. Wanted to know what you'd found out so far."

  "You told him—”

  "I had to. The counterfeiting involved him. I thought he had a right to know."

  Astonishing. After the week I’ve had, the things I’ve learned, this latest discovery shouldn’t be a hot sword running through me. “And yet,” I say, keeping my voice level, “for thirty years I didn't get that same courtesy.”

  Beside me, Rae clears her throat." Why don't we try sticking to the facts? Then maybe the two of you can talk privately."

  This might be a good idea. Facts, I can focus on and sort into manageable pieces. This other? The emotional chaos that comes with betrayal? I can’t. Not now anyway. “You can thank Rae later," I tell Jeremy. "What else did you tell George?"

  "I told him you'd found a roll of film from that last weekend and asked Phil to pick it up. He asked me if I could get a look at them. Dad and that damned camera. George didn't want to take any chances."

  "I don't understand," Phillip says. "What chances was he referring to? The affair?"

  He shrugs. “Yes and no. Loretta died in their hotel and if there were pictures of her with Harlan that last weekend, it might not look good."

  Beside me, Rae sits forward and holds up a hand. “Wait. I'm confused. The affair was thirty years ago and Harlan served one term—hardly a memorable one at that. It's not as if he's some historical icon."

  "There are still a lot of questions surrounding that fire. Between the counterfeiting, Loretta’s affairs, the fire, and Harlan having connections, George is paranoid. Particularly since Myles is dead and George would be the one facing legal ramifications.”

  Truer words never came out of my son's mouth.

  "All right,” I say. “Tell me what you know about Harlan and Loretta."

  "It's not a lot. He broke it off with her prior to that weekend, though. When the election started heating up, he couldn't risk the affair with Loretta coming out. She didn't take the break-up well and was trying to rekindle things. That’s why she showed up at the Grande that weekend.”

  Edgar Lonnie's words stream in my mind. All Loretta wanted was to be loved. She'd been used by so many people. Jackson Harlan one of them. The man should be castrated. He'd gotten what he needed or wanted from her and simply cast her aside. Poor Loretta.

  "So," Rae says, "he uses her and her celebrity status to help his campaign, he sleeps with her, and then dumps her because she’s inconvenient. That about sum it up?"

  "Sounds like it," Phillip says. “What a bastard.”

  Jeremy concedes the point with a brief tilt of his head. "I suppose."

  "What happened that weekend of the fire? "

  "He slept with her and then told her—again—it was over. She lost it.” He flings his hands in the air. “Went on the bender of all benders. Then she told George and Myles they'd better talk to Harlan because she had secrets on all of them and unless Harlan came around, she’d go to the press."

  "Oh, my God."

  "Yeah. She'd already had a lot to drink. Plus she had some prescription meds she was taking."

  The meds aren’t a shock. Loretta had broken an ankle months before and found the painkillers helped her sleep. She had somehow convinced her doctor to keep writing prescriptions, something she'd mentioned in passing when I told her I occasionally had trouble dozing off.

  "The painkillers," I say.

  Jeremy stays quiet for a moment while he stares out at his fantastic view. As if it’ll save him from me.

  It won’t.

  I’ll sit here all day if he prefers, but he won’t avoid telling me the rest of the story.

  What feels like a full minute later, he faces me again. “The painkillers and sleeping pills. She woke up the following morning—the day after the party where those photos were taken. She was still half drunk and went to Harlan's room to try and talk to him. From what George said, she was causing a scene in the hallway. To shut her up, Harlan let her in and she told him her plan about the press."

  Phillip, still standing near the mantel, lets out a quiet oath. "That had to go over well. How do you know all this?"

  "George told Dad after the fact.” He waves it off. “Anyway, Harlan wanted to buy time, so he talked her into taking one of her sleeping pills. Told her she could sleep in his room and when she sobered up, they'd talk."

  I suck in a breath. “Between the alcohol and the drugs, he could have killed her.”

  “He didn’t, but she was out cold. That's when George called me. Harlan wanted his security people to take her back to her room so he could bolt.”

  Beside me, Rae pops from her seat and does a lap to the windows and back. “He’s a regular prince, this guy. Not only is he a creep, he’s a coward.”

  Jeremy doesn’t respond, but faces me again. “They couldn't find her key in her purse. They thought maybe she left the room without it and locked herself out. All I know is George and Myles were at a meeting off-site and George called me in a panic. He told me—didn't ask—to get the master key and wait at Loretta's room. I didn't know what was going on, but it wasn't the first time Loretta needed assistance. I got the key and waited in the hall like George told me to. Ten minutes later, one of Harlan's guys came out of the service elevator carrying Loretta. I opened the door, he put her in bed, stuck a pillow behind her to keep her on her side, and we left." He holds his hands out. “That’s it. That’s all I know.”

  Idiots. Every last one of them. When
we’re done here, I’ve a mind to pay George another visit. He’s next on my list. How did I admire all these men so much? Such a fool.

  Later, I’ll deal with my own shortcomings. I pin my gaze on my son. “And no one checked on her? You left her alone?”

  Jeremy’s hands fly up. “Whoa. Hold on. I was a kid. And George said he’d be back soon and would check on her. I was starting to freak out and went to Dad.”

  Terrific. Simon again.

  “Dad told me he'd take care of it and I was never to do anything like that again. That afternoon the fire broke out. I swear to you, that's all I know. When the fire broke out, I tried the steps. The smoke was too thick. I couldn’t…”

  His voice is rough, the jagged end of a freshly sawed board, and he draws a hard breath before dropping his head into his hands. As a mother, my instinct is to go to him, to take my grown son—biological or not—into my arms and tell him everything would be all right. That it would all work out. Somehow, I can't move.

  My son let a woman die.

  I swing my head to Phillip still standing at the mantel, his gaze locked on his brother. I know that look. He’s about to pop off. It’ll include name-calling and ear-shattering volume. That, I can’t handle right now.

  I force myself to stand. “Phillip, we should go.”

  "Mother?" This from Jeremy, who lowers his hands and peers up at me.

  His eyes are rimmed with moisture, his cheeks sagging. Skilled liar or not, if this is an act, it’s a good one. He’s devastated, I’m sure. Whether that devastation is born from the guilt of letting a woman die or simply getting caught, I can’t be sure.

  And that makes me sad.

  Before he can speak, I hold up my hand. "You disappoint me, Jeremy. All these years, you and your father kept this from me. How many more lies are there?"

  "Mother, it's not what you think. Phil, help me out here. Please."

  I head to the door, determined not to speak. I glance back at Phillip, now striding past his brother with Rae in tow. "Can't do it, Jer,” he says. “On this one, I’m with Mom."