I could already smell the gas coming from the stove. “You weren’t even in town when some of those fires were set,” I said, trying to distract her even though I had figured it out. “You were calling from a different area code.”
“Dumb bitch. I was calling from the cell phone I got in West Virginia. I never left Atlanta.”
I suddenly leaned over the sink, pretending to heave. “Please turn off the gas!” I cried. “It’s making me sick.” If someone was outside I wanted them to know that my kitchen was filling with toxic fumes.
Mandy pulled out an old butane lighter, and fear ripped through my heart. “Come here,” she said, her voice deadly calm.
I hesitated. She pointed the gun at me. I stepped forward, and, without warning, the window over my sink shattered. Startled, Mandy fired the pistol at me, and I felt the bullet graze my shoulder. Mike lunged at her, snatching Mandy’s attention for a second. She aimed the gun at Mike, and I screamed. Carter swung his fists around and hit Mandy in the temple. She sank to her knees, dropping the pistol. The lighter skidded across the floor. Carter dived toward the pistol as Mandy crawled toward the lighter. Her hand was within an inch of it; I only had a heartbeat to kick it out of her grasp. I was too late. She picked it up, flipped open the top, and smiled.
Then Carter fired the pistol. Her face registered shock and bewilderment. I kicked, and my foot hit her wrist. The lighter flew from her hands, and I fell on it, fumbling to close the top. Carter turned off the gas.
The front door burst open, and I saw two policemen rush in; both of them had their weapons drawn. Mike went into a fit of barking.
“Put the gun on the floor!” one of the cops yelled. Carter did as he was told. “Both of you, face down on the floor, hands behind your back!” he yelled several times. “Now!”
Carter and I hit the floor. We were immediately cuffed and frisked for weapons. One of the officers checked the knobs on the stove, unlocked the kitchen door and threw it open, obviously to clear the fumes. The other officer checked a bleeding Mandy.
“I can explain,” I said.
The absolute last person I expected to see standing in front of my house was Bitsy Stout.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, rubbing my wrists where the handcuffs had been. A paramedic was treating my shoulder, and I winced as he cleaned the wound and covered it with a bandage. Another paramedic was examining Carter’s head. Mandy had already been taken away in an ambulance.
Bitsy didn’t quite meet my gaze. “I just saved your life,” she said. “Me and my pellet gun,” she added.
“You were the one outside my kitchen window? How did you know?”
“Your house was lit up, and I heard yelling. I ran home, dialed nine-one-one, and grabbed my gun.”
“Dammit!” one of the cops said. “I just stepped in dog shit.”
“I should be going,” Bitsy said.
I stared in disbelief. “You were putting dog poop in my front yard?” I asked her.
“I was returning it,” she said indignantly.
“My dog has not been pooping in your yard!” I shouted. “She can’t get out of the fence to poop in anybody’s yard.”
“Oh,” Bitsy said, seemingly embarrassed. “Well then, what’s important is to remember that I saved your life.” She hurried across the street.
One of the officers stepped up to me. “I just got word from the hospital. Your husband is in guarded condition. His injuries are not life threatening,” he said.
Tears of relief filled my eyes.
At the hospital, I was led to Jay’s room. A tube of oxygen had been inserted in his nose and an IV needle was taped to one hand. Both his head and chest were bandaged. Although someone obviously had tried to clean him up, his face was still streaked with soot.
A doctor stepped inside the room. “Mrs. Rush?”
I turned. He must’ve seen the panic in my eyes.
“Your husband is going to be okay. He was treated for smoke inhalation. He has a concussion, several cracked ribs, and a broken ankle. We’ve given him something for pain, so he’s probably going to sleep for a while.”
Fresh tears filled my eyes. “Do you know the condition of the other men?”
“They’re pretty banged up. One was airlifted to the burn center.”
My mother came into the room and gasped at the sight of my bloodstained sweater. I’d called her from the ambulance and briefed her. She blinked several times. “What in the H-E-L-L happened to you?” she demanded.
“It’s complicated, Mom,” I said.
Once I’ d been taken to another room and examined, Aunt Trixie and Arnie joined my mother and me. Arnie was in full makeup. He wore a three-piece suit that glittered. I told them what had occurred. “I have to be with Jay,” I said.
“You don’t want him to see you like that,” my mother said, motioning at my stained sweater. “And your face is a mess.”
“Help her out of her blouse,” Arnie said, as he slipped off his jacket and pulled off his tank top. He opened the small satchel he carried with him at all times. My mother wet a paper towel at the sink and wiped my face and neck.
By the time Arnie finished with me, I was wearing his tank top and makeup. I returned to Jay’s room, where I stood beside his bed for more than an hour before he opened his eyes. He gave me an odd look. “Have you been at a party?” he asked, his voice groggy.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I fell through a floor.”
“I heard.” I squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be okay, though.”
“What about the others?”
“They’re alive.”
“I need to tell you about Mandy. I’ve been looking into her past. I should have told you.”
I saw he was getting anxious. “You have to rest, Jay.”
“I got a call from her father on the way to the fire last night. He heard about the suspicious fires we were having. She’s still in Atlanta, but I don’t know where. She’s dangerous, Kate. She—”
“We already know.”
“Carter didn’t do it.”
“Everything is under control, Jay,” I said. “Mandy isn’t going to hurt anyone else.”
His questioning gaze met mine.
“It’s over for her,” I said.
Finally, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
I was sitting by the bed holding Jay’s hand when Carter peeked in. “How is he?” he whispered.
“He’s banged up, but it could have been worse. How about you?” I asked.
“I’ve got a lump on my head, but the X-ray was okay, so I’m good.” He motioned to my shoulder.
“Superficial wound,” I said, repeating what the doctor had told me.
“Mandy’s not doing so well,” he said. “The bullet went into her chest. She’s in surgery. I feel bad that I had to shoot her. I’ve never shot anyone before. I’ve never even held a gun.”
“It was either her or us,” I reminded him.
“She lied, Kate. The reason she knew where Jay’s birthmark was is because she climbed in the shower with him one night. Uninvited,” he added.
“I don’t need an explanation, Carter. Some things you just know in your heart.” I felt guilty for ever doubting Jay. I knew it was my own fault he didn’t share as much. He never knew if I was going to go off the deep end.
He looked down. “I didn’t know she was the one setting those fires. I never should have accused—”
“Stop it.”
He nodded. “I have to get home. My mother needs me.”
“We’ll talk soon,” I said.
My mom entered the room a few minutes later, carrying a cardboard cup. “I figured you could use some coffee,” she said, offering it to me.
“Thanks, Mom.” I sipped cautiously.
“I called Mona. She’s on her way.”
I wasn’t sure what Mona could do, but I liked knowing she’d be there. “Thank you.”
She looked at Jay, who
was still out. “He’s going to be okay, honey,” she said. “It’s going to take time for him to get back on his feet. He’s going to need someone to look after him.”
“I’ll take him home with me,” I said. “I may have to rent a hospital bed for downstairs.”
“Trixie, Arnell, and I will help you, of course.”
I almost smiled. It was too soon to start dreading it. “I know.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I insisted. I knew I could always fall apart later if I had to.
She left the room.
I sipped my coffee and gazed out the window where dawn had already announced a new day. Mona came and went. Sometime later, Jay stirred and opened his eyes, then looked straight at me. I saw the love.
I leaned over and very gently pressed my lips to his forehead. I felt his body relax as sleep and good drugs found him once more.
Keep reading for a special preview of Charlotte Hughes’s next novel,i
HANGING BY A THREAD
Coming soon from Jove Books!
“I don’t like the looks of this, Kate,” Mona said, her binoculars trained on the back parking lot of St. Francis Catholic Church, where people were pulling in and getting out of their vehicles. “They all look pissed off.”
Mona and I were parked across the street from the church. The neighborhood was low-income, and Mona’s Jaguar didn’t exactly blend. Mona was probably the only receptionist in Atlanta who owned a Jag, but her late husband had been filthy stinking rich.
“Of course they’re pissed off,” I said. “That’s why they’re in anger management. By the way, why do you keep binoculars in your car?”
“Don’t ask,” Mona said.
I shrugged. I didn’t really care one way or the other. I was busy dealing with a light case of anger myself. After spending six weeks caring for my firefighter ex-husband, who’d been injured by a nutso arsonist, we had planned to celebrate his full recovery that evening. A steak dinner at our favorite restaurant, followed by lots of hot sex at my place.
That is, until I’d gotten the call from a colleague I barely knew, asking me to cover the last meeting of her anger management group. A family emergency, a frantic Ruth Melvin had said when she called from her cell phone. She was at the Atlanta airport waiting to catch the next plane to Chicago. I was the third person she’d called. I was her last resort.
I had begrudgingly agreed to do it. I figured I could cut the meeting short and still meet Jay for dinner at eight o’clock. We could eat quickly and be home shortly after nine. There was still hope.
What I had not counted on was Mona Epps—my best friend, who also worked in my office for free—getting all paranoid on me. She had insisted on going with me.
I checked my wristwatch. “I need to get over there,” I said. “The meeting starts at six thirty.”
“I still don’t like it,” Mona said, handing me her binoculars. “What if they’re dangerous?”
“They’re not dangerous,” I said for the umpteenth time. “They’re angry. Most of the people I know are angry.”
Mona gave me a long, thoughtful look. “You know, I’m thinking this class might be just what you need. You’ve been angry for a long time.”
“I’ve been frustrated,” I said.
“No, Kate, you’ve been angry.”
“Okay, whatever. Let’s just go.”
She started the Jag and put it in gear. We pulled into the rear of the parking lot beside a pickup truck with a gun rack. Mona and I exchanged looks.
Ruth had told me to enter through a heavy wooden door at the back of the church. Mona followed me inside. We passed through a dining room with a dozen long tables. A blackboard announced an upcoming potluck dinner.
I found the stairs leading to the basement. “Be careful,” I warned Mona as we started down the tall, narrow flight. It was an old church—the stone walls were worn smooth, the steps badly scuffed. There was an earthy smell. We reached the basement. The paint on the concrete floor had long since faded.
Eight people—five men and three women—had arranged their chairs in a circle and were chatting amongst themselves. On the wall behind them was a large glass-framed painting of Jesus holding a lamb; overhead, a small light shone down on it.
The people stopped talking and gave Mona and me an odd look.
“Who are you?” an older man with a grizzled beard asked. His head was completely bald and as shiny as a new appliance.
I smiled at the group. “I’m Dr. Kate Holly,” I said. “Ruth Melvin had an emergency and asked me to take over for her. This is my assistant, Mona Epps.”
“What kind of emergency?” The question came from a middle-aged man in a business suit. “Is she okay?”
I thought it an odd question from somebody who was supposed to be pissed off at the world. “A family illness,” I said.
He got up and retrieved two chairs from a number of folded ones leaning against the wall. The group widened their circle as he unfolded them, making room for Mona and me. We thanked him and sat down.
“Just so you know, you’re late,” a male voice said. I turned toward him. He wore dark slacks and a blue work shirt with the name “Hal’s Tires” stitched above his left pocket.
“Shut up, Hal,” an elderly woman said, her voice reminding me of my aunt Lou, who smoked non-filtered cigarettes. Her voice was as rough as burlap. The woman had a walker within arm’s reach. A large handbag had been tied to the handrail with a scarf.
Mona and I placed our purses beneath our chairs. I glanced at the wall clock not far from the painting of Jesus. Six thirty-five. “Perhaps we could quickly go around the group and introduce ourselves,” I said. “If there is anything you’d like to share, feel free.”
Nobody moved. Dead silence. I watched the minute hand on the wall clock make a full rotation.
“You first,” one of the men said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You come in here expecting us to spill our guts,” he said. “Maybe you should tell us a little about yourself. I kinda get the impression you’re not too happy.”
“Shut up, Larry,” the elderly woman said.
Mona looked at me. “He’s right, Kate. This would be a perfect opportunity to unload all your pent-up hostility.”
I felt my jaw go slack. “I don’t feel hostile.”
Mona shrugged. “Okay, stay in denial.”
My face felt hot. I shot her a dark look. Mona had been watching Dr. Phil for years—she recorded all of his shows—and had become an armchair psychologist. She took careful notes, not only so she could advise my patients behind my back, but because she dreamed that one day I, too, would have a TV show.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and clasped my hands together in my lap. “Well, I admit I’ve been a little annoyed. My husband is a firefighter, and—” I was interrupted by applause from the group. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m very proud of him,” I added. I decided not to mention we were divorced, that it had sort of been an accident since I’d intended to stop the proceedings. Too complicated.
“Anyway, it’s very stressful at times because I know his job is dangerous. In fact, he was injured six weeks ago.” The group murmured a sound of sympathy. “I’m happy to say he has fully recovered.”
Mona raised her hand. “What Kate probably won’t tell you is how she took care of him on top of holding down a full-time job. It wasn’t easy for her.”
“Is that what made you angry?” a young woman asked.
I shook my head. “No, I was happy to do it. But I sort of hoped we would have more time together. I wasn’t counting on every fireman within a twenty-five-mile radius using my house—I mean our house—as an after-work meeting place. Believe me; I’ve picked up my share of beer cans and peanut hulls.”
Chuckles from the group. “I’m trying to work through my resentment,” I said, “by reminding myself how much my husband loves hi
s work. I’m sure it was hard on him, sitting home day after day. And it meant a lot to him that his buddies cared enough to visit so often. I know it didn’t mean he loved me less.”
Several heads nodded. Mona beamed.
I took a deep breath and was surprised how much better I felt. “But please,” I said. “I don’t want to hog the floor. Would someone else like to share?”
A woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late forties slid forward on her chair. She looked nervous. “My name is Sarah-Margaret,” she said, voice trembling. “I attend St. Francis, and I heard our church was offering this group. As I’ve shared with the others, I’m going through a divorce. Nobody in my family gets divorced,” she added, “on account of we’re all Catholic. But my husband—he’s Catholic, too—doesn’t seem to care that he’s committing a mortal sin by shacking up with some woman half his age. So, yes, I’ve been very angry.”
She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “But I finally realized that, like Ruth said, I’ve only been hurting myself.” She shrugged. “That’s all I have to say.”
“Thank you, Sarah-Margaret,” I said gently, giving her a warm smile. “Divorce is hard,” I added, since I’d been there. I looked at the man sitting next to her. He was casually but neatly dressed.
“I’m Ben.” He gave a small wave. “Also going through a divorce,” he said. He gave a rueful smile. “There seems to be a lot of it going around.”
It was Hal’s turn. “Hal Horton,” he said, and pointed to the patch over his pocket. “I own a tire company. Some of my customers can be a real pain in the ass. As long as everything is going well and my customers like their service, I don’t hear anything. Most of them don’t bother to say thank you, know what I mean? But if somebody is unhappy, they rake me over the coals. I had it out with the last guy who complained.”
“He broke the man’s nose,” the bearded guy said.
Hal frowned at him. “I was getting to that part, okay? How about you mind your own friggin’ business and let me tell my story?”
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