And looking at the concrete below the portico, she understood why she’d come second. “That’ll work.”
“Slide off the roof. I’ll help lower you.”
Without arguing, she turned over, eased herself off the edge, wincing as the gutter grated over the myriad of bloody cuts she’d gotten from the bomb. Holt flattened out, holding her wrists until she was completely off the roof. “You have a few feet of drop. I’m letting go now.”
She fell the last few feet to the sidewalk beside the portico and gave a soft grunt of pain. Then was on her feet. “I’m ready.” No tears, no hysterics.
“Fuck, I love you,” he said.
She gave a tiny laugh. “Such language. There are children present.”
How could she make him smile at a time like this? Holt rose and called up to the window. “Help the girl out, guys. Hang onto her wrists until I tell you to let go.”
The lights were gone. The second floor was dark with smoke billowing out and upward. The children must be half-blinded. But Timothy kept it together and guided his sister’s feet out the window. He and Carson held her wrists as she slid downward.
Britney made panicking sounds as Holt reached up and grabbed her legs.
A siren sounded. About fucking time.
“Let go now,” he directed, and the boys—one on each wrist—released. The girl slid down against him. Securing her, he turned, knelt, and lowered her over the edge of the portico to Josie in one smooth movement.
“Got her,” Josie called.
“Carson. Out. Same way.”
Carson did it on his own, while Timothy kept a hand on his wrist…just in case.
When Carson landed in his arms, Holt gave him a hard hug. “You kept your head better than a lot of adults. I’m very proud of you,” he whispered, before handing him down to Josie. He noticed the little girl clinging to Josie’s waist even as Carson was hugging his mother from the front.
One more. “I’m ready, Timothy. You know how to do it. Don’t let go until I tell you.”
The kid was already squirming out the window. He hung by his hands until Holt had a good grip. At least this one was tall. “Got you. Let go.”
He pulled the trembling boy into his arms and held him a minute.
Sirens wailed as a fire engine hauled ass down the street and into the driveway. Lights flashed, reflecting off the building. “Let’s get you down, or we’ll both get wet.”
The kid managed a small laugh.
When Holt lowered him to Josie, she staggered at his weight, and her leg almost buckled. Her arm, side, and thigh were covered in blood.
He needed to get her to an ER.
Holt slid off the portico, landed beside her, and tucked an arm around her waist. Britney wouldn’t release her, and Timothy attached himself to his sister’s side. Holt put an arm around Carson, and as a group, they headed down the driveway.
Josie could feel the young girl shaking. Actually, Josie was, too. Holt’s arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. Sweat was cold on her face, back, and neck. Her entire right side was a mass of burning pain and hot trickling blood.
Didn’t matter. Her son was safe. The other two children were safe. She leaned her head for a second against Holt’s hard upper arm and felt him kiss the top of her head. Holt was safe.
Oh, God, what a nightmare. Why, oh why, was Carson here?
Shouting to each other, the firefighters were running to the building with long hoses.
A short muscular firefighter ran up to Holt. “Is anyone else in the house?”
The children flinched at the loud voice, and Josie tucked the girl closer to her side.
“Timothy”—Holt motioned to Everett’s boy—“said it was only him and his sister.”
Timothy nodded. “Our parents are at a party. Only my sister and me were home.”
“Good. That’s good.” The firefighter glanced at the upstairs window, then at Josie and Holt. “We saw you getting them out—nice job.” And then he blinked. “Well, fuck me, it’s Holt. Aren’t you out of your territory?”
“Yeah. I’ll need to talk with you—and the police. This was arson. I can ID the perp, but I need to get Josie to the ER.”
“I’m fine.” Josie pulled in a breath. “If you need to stay, we can get a taxi and head home.”
“Baby, you’re going to need stitches for some of those cuts.”
Carson made a pained sound, and his eyes filled with tears.
Holt pulled him closer. “Josie, you’re going to the ER.” His gaze was level, his voice soft…and he wasn’t giving her a choice.
The firefighter nodded. “Listen to Holt, ma’am.” His gaze swept over the burning building, then narrowed on Holt. The black smudges on his clothing. “Tell me you didn’t charge in there, gearless, like a probie.”
“Yep.” Holt ruffled Carson’s hair. “My boy here charged in to save the girl. She froze halfway down the stairs—and would’ve been caught in the flashover.”
Hearing the pride in Holt’s voice, Josie almost smiled until she remembered that blast of sound and heat from the living room. Britney would have died—the fire truck wouldn’t have arrived in time.
“And my woman went in after Carson,” Holt continued. “You sure wouldn’t have stood outside sucking your thumb if they were yours, Smitty.”
“No, probably not.” After a second, Smitty frowned at Carson. “Don’t do that again.” Then he grinned at Holt. “Gotta say, they got guts.”
“I know,” Holt said under his breath and squeezed Josie’s waist. The pride in his voice made her eyes mist.
* * * * *
Josie wasn’t sure how much time had passed as the E.R. nurses and doctor cleaned and stitched her up.
Earlier in the ER waiting room, Holt’d said she’d probably been cut by a bottle of gas exploding. His jaw had gone tight as he added that if she hadn’t been turned half away from it, the glass could have hit her face and neck. Carson had burst into tears. With a wince, Holt had held him and told Josie, “Sorry,” in a mutter. Angry at her injuries, he’d obviously forgotten Carson was listening.
Her right side and arm had a ton of small cuts as well as long slices where bigger glass fragments had carved through skin and flesh. By the time glass had been tweezered from every cut, and everything washed and stitched, glued, or bandaged, her whole side felt as if a thousand bees were stinging her. Thankfully, Holt kept workout clothes in his vehicle so she had his loose gray sweatpants and T-shirt to wear.
Following the nurse out of the cubicle, she found Holt in the waiting room with the children—all three of them. After hearing their parents were on the way back, the Lanning children had asked to wait with Holt.
Sitting in a corner chair, Holt looked like a hen with chicks. Britney had pulled her chair as close as possible to Holt and was nestled against him. Carson had done the same on the other side. Timothy was next to his sister and holding her hand. Obviously feeling safe with Holt, all three were half-asleep.
Earlier, Holt had mentioned maybe having a child. He’d make an awesome father—and, she smiled, Carson would make a wonderful big brother.
Carson looked up and saw her. “Mom!” He dashed over, skidding to a stop a second before he ran into her. “Are you okay? Are—”
Laughing, she pulled him into a hug and ignored the pain. “I’ll be sore for a couple of days, but I’m fine.”
He gave a huge sigh of relief.
She echoed it. Her son was alive and unharmed. But he sure had some explaining to do. She held him tighter…and felt him wince in pain.
What?
Releasing him, she stepped back and got a good look at him in the bright light. He had a black eye, a cut across his cheek, raw scraped knees. And his ribs were obviously sore. She touched his face. “Carson, what happened? With the fire? To you?”
“Brandon wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t stop. I tried, Mom. I tried to stop him. But he’s bigger—and fights better.”
“Fights?” Anger flared within her. Brandon.
Then Holt was there in front of her, the other two children beside him. Britney ran over to snuggle against Josie’s side.
Holt put a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “No worries, Josie. He’s been putting ice on that black eye while we waited for you.”
She caught the subtext. This wasn’t the time or place to have a proper mommy meltdown.
“Timothy!”
At the woman’s cry, Timothy turned, and relief filled his expression. “Mama!”
Coming in the ER door was a short, trim brunette around forty years old. Her expression frantic, she ran across the room.
Timothy met her with an audible thump and was buried in her arms. Her legs obviously failing, she went down on one knee, and Britney hit her a second later. All three were crying.
Josie pulled Carson close. When her independent boy actually clung to her, she felt like weeping, too. With an arm around him, she asked Holt, “What happens now?”
“Now we talk to the police. Probably the arson investigator.” Holt scrubbed his face. “Brace yourselves. It’ll be a long night.”
“What the hell happened?” The shout of anger came from…Everett. Older, hair graying, beefier, but Everett.
Josie flinched, and so did Carson.
Everett stalked across the waiting room, two men trailing behind him.
Shoulders hunched, Timothy stepped away from his mother. “Dad.”
“You started a fire, didn’t you? Because I grounded your ass, you started a fucking fire.”
Timothy cringed. “No. A boy started a fire. We heard glass break and saw him. He ran around the house throwing stuff inside and then all of a sudden everything was on fire and—”
“You liar. What were you brats doing? My house is burning.”
Even as Josie pulled in a breath to defend the boy, Holt asked, “Are you the one who left a child locked in his room with no way to get out?”
Everett took a step back at the sheer fury in Holt’s voice.
The children’s mother gasped and stared at Everett…who flushed a dark red.
“Yeah, you were. By the way,” Holt said with a glance at the other two men. “Timothy is telling the truth. Neither of your children set the fire.”
Everett glared at Holt before his gaze moved to Josie. His eyes widened. “You? Here?”
“Yes, Everett. There was a boy who—”
Seeing Carson, he darkened with fury. “You… Damn you, you burned my house, didn’t you?” He took a step forward, hands clenched. “You’re not my fucking son, you little bastard. I have a son. You’re—”
“That’s enough,” Holt snapped, his hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Carson didn’t start the fire. He tried to stop the—”
Everett turned to Josie, and his rage was chilling. “You’ll pay, you bitch. Pay for my house, for the trauma. I’m going to sue you until every dime you make comes to me.”
“Doubtful,” Holt said in a measured tone. “But a lawsuit will be an excellent way to open up a paternity suit and expose the bastard who committed statutory rape, got a sixteen-year-old girl pregnant, and dumped her without a backward look. You owe years of child support for your son here.”
The blood drained from Everett’s face, and he took a step back.
“Son?” Catching on faster than his sister, Timothy stared at his father, then Carson. “You’re my brother?”
Carson’s mouth dropped open. “I…I guess.”
“No. No, he’s not,” Everett yelled. “She’s a lying—”
“The boy looks like Britney.” Everett’s wife rose to her feet, arms still around her daughter. The woman’s voice turned hard. “A sixteen-year-old, Everett?”
“Of course not, Pamela. She’s lying. I would never—”
“You would.” Pamela pulled her children closer and took a step away from her husband. Her face tightened. With betrayal. With disgust.
“Pamela, listen…”
“No, not any longer. I’ve tried to ignore your flings, but…to prey on a child?” The woman drew herself up straight. “And after grounding Timothy, you locked him in his room? With us gone? He was supposed to watch over Britney, and he was locked in his room? What kind of a father does that?”
She didn’t wait for his answer. “No kind of a father. And you’re no kind of a husband either.” Arms around her children, she walked out the door.
Everett slowly turned to Josie, his anger so visible, she took a step back. “You—”
Without a word, Holt moved between them, pushing her behind his back.
The feeling of being protected was…indescribable, but she couldn’t let him take on her problems. “Holt, no,” she whispered.
One of the two men accompanying Everett heard her, and his eyes narrowed. “Holt? Yeah, I recognize you. Filled in for one of ours a couple of years ago.”
“Yeah, Captain.” Holt pulled Carson securely between him and Josie. “Carson here didn’t start the fire. He tried to stop it. He can tell you what happened.”
“Good. We’ll need to—” The captain’s cell phone rang, and he held up a finger to wait as he took the call. His brows drew together. “Hell, seriously? I’ll be right there.”
Scowling, he said, “Wind’s picked up. Neighboring houses are at risk—we need to evacuate. I need to get back.”
Josie’s heart sank. More houses. This was a nightmare for everyone.
“Holt, ma’am, the police and arson investigation will take point on the interviews.” The captain motioned to the other man who’d come in with him. “This is Detective Simonsen.”
After nodding to Holt, the captain strode quickly out the hospital exit.
Badge on his belt, the stocky detective had dark hair and a beefy red face. He looked them over with a cold, hard expression. “We’re going to the station.”
To the police station. Josie suppressed a shiver and nodded calmly. “Of course.”
Everett crossed his arms over his chest and he stared at her, then Carson, before turning to the detective. “Keith, make sure her lying bastard pays for what he’s done.”
Keith? They were friends?
When the police detective nodded, Josie felt her heart sink.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With his mom beside him, Carson waited for the detective to return.
The air in the ugly police station room was really cold, and he was sure that was why he couldn’t stop trembling. They’d probably been in this cold awful room for hours.
It didn’t even have any pictures or anything. The table was wood and old, and when Carson had given it a push, it hadn’t moved.
At least Mom was here; the detective had kicked Holt out. Carson wanted Holt, too. Because… He looked up at Mom. “Detective Simonsen didn’t believe me, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.” Mom’s mouth twisted sideways. “I’d guess he and Everett are friends.” Mom reached across the space between them and put her hand on his shoulder. “I believe you, honey. We’ll get this worked out.”
He could feel her fingers shaking. Mom was scared. Him, too, although his heart wasn’t pounding like when the house was on fire. This felt more like he’d never get warm again.
The detective came back in. His face was mean in a way that made Carson scrunch down in his chair. “The Lanning’s house is pretty much destroyed. That make you feel good, boy?”
“Does it make you feel good picking on an eleven-year-old child, detective?” Mom’s voice had the sharp edge that said she didn’t like the man.
The detective’s mouth twisted nasty-like, and he slapped the table, making Carson jump. “Since your mama can’t keep you from breaking the law, you’re gonna go to juvenile hall. It’s where we send the—
“The children who are actually convicted of crimes.” A really big guy walked into the room. He had an accent, like English only bouncier. He looked down at Detective Simonsen like the detective was a rat turd. “Carson hasn’t been convicte
d of anything. In fact, he went to considerable effort and pain to try to stop the arsonist.”
“Like you know anything about it, O’Keefe. The boy’s been harassing Everett Lanning and showed up on his doorstep. He’s admitted he was pissed off when Lanning told him to leave. What better way to get revenge than burning the house down?”
Holt quietly entered the room and walked around the table. He put his arm around Mom’s shoulder and squeezed Carson’s shoulder. His hand was warm and big, and Carson couldn’t keep from reaching up and curling his fingers around it.
“What the fuck is he doing in here?” The detective glared at Holt.
Carson tightened his grip.
“Detective, a warning: The recorder is active, and your language is inappropriate.” O’Keefe crossed his arms over his chest. “As to why Holt is in here? Any experienced interviewer would know a terrified child gives questionable answers. Since you were treating the boy’s mother as abusively as you were the boy, I brought in someone he’d feel safe with.”
Detective Simonsen looked as if he would choke. “You—you—”
“Yeah, me. As arson investigator—and this was arson—I’ll be interviewing the boy, which we might have done together if you hadn’t been a”—O’Keefe looked at Carson and winked—“an idiot. I suggest you talk with Yukio and Ryan. Ryan was there. If you check their phones, the timing and perpetrator are quite clear.”
O’Keefe opened the door and waited.
The detective didn’t move. “They’re friends of the kid’s. Of course, they’d back him up.”
“Lanning’s children aren’t, and they’re quite certain as to which boy was running around the house, throwing incendiary devices through the windows. They saw Carson tackle Brandon in an attempt to get him to stop.”
“I’ll see about that.” With a disbelieving growl, the detective stalked out of the room and slammed the door.
Mom jerked at the noise, and her thigh thumped the table leg. She made a pained sound.
Carson’s eyes filled with tears. She’d gotten all cut up because of him. Because he’d been stupid. “I’m s-sorry, Mom.”
“Oh, hey, honey…” Face soft, she rubbed his arm. “…it’s just tiny cuts. They’ll heal.”
Beneath the Scars Page 35
