Chapter Forty
Parker
The stench of smoke follows me from my front door to the bathroom. It clings to every stitch of clothing, coats my hair, and has probably worked its way into my boots.
I strip, carefully peel the bandage off my thigh, and tug the hair tie from my braid.
The hot water washes away the soot, but not the memory of watching Eliot suit up and walk into a building still smoking from half a dozen places.
From every blown-out window to the missing roof tiles to the back wall of the building where the firefighters cut through a metal roll-up door to knock down the final flames.
I know he’s fine. He was a firefighter for more than ten years, and he’s worked arson cases for the past seven. Getting burned at the Aldrich scene was a one-off.
It doesn’t stop me from worrying.
I’m lathering my hair for the second time when I realize what a goddamn hypocrite I’m being.
I walked into that alley this afternoon madder than a whole mess of hornets, and it didn’t even occur to me that I’m asking a man to date me knowing full well it’s my job to put myself between criminals and the public.
“I might not be as fit as you are, but I ain’t dead.”
Well, shit. He isn’t wrong.
I wrench the faucet harder than I need to, and a spark of pain runs from my palm halfway up my arm.
Leave-in conditioner, eye cream, moisturizer, a ridiculously expensive anti-aging cream Emi turned me onto, and enough body lotion to drown a small child, and I change into a pair of yoga pants and Eliot’s t-shirt I can’t convince myself to give back.
My evening routine usually takes fifteen minutes, but tonight, I stretch it out to almost thirty. Because once I’m on the couch with a bowl of carne guisada, I have to text Eliot and apologize.
I ladle some of the leftover carne guisada into a pot, then set it to reheat on the stove. Mom would haunt me from the afterlife if I even thought about putting it in the microwave.
Sitting at the counter, I work the exercises Karen—the physical therapist who helped Grace after her first craniotomy—gave me to strengthen my fingers.
“Fifteen minutes every other day, Parker. At the minimum.”
It’s a good thing I’m not spending every day at Grace and AJ’s anymore. Karen would chew me up and spit me out if she learned I barely manage one session a week.
When my fifteen minutes are up, I fold the exercise band carefully, slide it into my junk drawer, and pour the stew into a bowl.
The couch is more comfortable than my kitchen chair, and I need the comfort of noise from the television so I don’t keep kicking myself for what I said to Eliot.
Channel Ten is already running a story on the fire, but the reporter can’t pronounce Rutherford Lane to save her life.
“Emi ain’t that sloppy,” I mutter to no one.
None of today’s canvassing gave us anything—yet. A car repair place across the street from the empty single-story building might have security camera footage that shows the alley, but the only guy who can access the software won’t be available until tomorrow morning.
I flip through channels until I find an episode of This Old House. With any luck, Eliot’s watching the same one. Even if he isn’t, this gives me something to text him that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to step on a landmine.
After a couple of spoonfuls, I set the bowl on the coffee table and pick up my phone.
They’re gutting a 1920s Craftsman. This could be very good or very bad.
In the time it takes Eliot to reply, the contractors have pulled up a layer of carpet so old, it would give Nate’s Impala a run for its money.
I’m barely giving the television a lick of attention.
Each minute between my message and those three dots dancing at the bottom of my phone screen feels like an hour. Or more.
Covering up hardwood with shag carpeting in that color should be a crime.
I’m almost giddy with relief as my aching thumbs work the tiny keyboard.
I missed where this place was. If it’s in Texas, I can arrest whoever did it.
Those sound like Texas accents to you, Parker? When was the last time you had a hearing test? They’re somewhere in Vermont.
Not every Texan has an accent, you know.
Are they seriously arguing about saving the plaster? If they try to install drywall, they’re gonna lose the crown molding.
You have strong opinions for someone with nothing but a feed store calendar on his wall.
It takes another ten minutes to tape the drop cloths in place, debate light fixtures, and bring in half a dozen sheets of drywall…
and Eliot hasn’t replied. What’s left of my stew has gone cold, so I dump the remains into the compost bin, listening for the subtle vibration of my phone the whole time.
“This is ridiculous. We’re two grown-ass adults who should be able to have a damn conversation.”
Rather than send him another text message, I tap Dial.
“Parker? What’s wrong?” Eliot asks after the second ring. He sounds out of breath. And a little panicked.
“Does something have to be wrong for me to call you? We’re…dating. We are dating, right?”
Shit. I didn’t misread…everything, did I?
“Of course, we’re datin’. But you told me you hated talkin’ on the phone.” He’s calmer now, his breathing slow and regular. But his voice still holds the same weary edge it did at the fire scene.
“I do. But I said somethin’ earlier I ain’t proud of, and it’s been eating at me.
I didn’t want to apologize over text.” I sink down onto the arm of the couch, phone pressed to my ear.
“You were a firefighter. And while you might not be able to do that job anymore, checking out that alley was a low-risk move, and I snapped at you for it.”
He sighs, and the sound mirrors how I feel.
“You did. But I gave as good as I got. Somethin’ about that scene got to me.” His voice is quieter now. Almost…sad.
“Got to you how?”
I can still hear him breathing, which is the only way I know the call hasn’t dropped.
“Eliot? Talk to me.” After a beat, I add, “I’m not trying to fix anything. Just…listen.”
He sighs again. I can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, tugging on the messy strands as he tries to find the right words. Or works up to telling me it’s none of my damn business.
“Not tonight, Parker. I gotta sit with it. Come over tomorrow. After work. I…I’m gonna need to see your face after.”
With every word, he sounds less and less sure of himself, and I’m more and more worried. “We stay in the room, remember? You can fight your own demons, Eliot. I won’t try to do it for you. But—”
Nate leans forward, finally writing something down. “That equipment return. You keep security footage from the lobby?”
“There’s a camera by the front desk.” Carol’s still looking at the fob. “I don’t know how long we keep it, though.”
“We’re going to need that fob,” I say. “Along with the envelope and anything that can corroborate the time on that return—sign-in log, security footage, whatever exists.”
“Of course.” She’s already tucking Roger’s personal items back into the envelope, and passes it to me. “You take all of this, and I’ll see what else I can get you. Might be a couple of days, but I won’t leave you hangin’.”
That pulls a hort laugh out of him, though it’s a little rough around the edges. “Oh, they will. That’s a given.”