I take several deep breaths and fold in on myself, pretending to focus on my shoes. If I look like the sad, scared little victim of a crazed stalker, then the cops and firefighters that surround me won’t notice as I slowly make my way toward the street and around the corner where everybody disappeared to.
So I make my way slowly, carefully reading the memorials and signs along the walls of the garage. I note that Smokey, aka Satan, is hiding out behind a red tool chest. His eyes dart around nervously, and he’s got his tail tucked underneath him. He and I may not have a good relationship, but I feel for him and fight off the urge to scoop him into my arms. If I can’t make myself feel less scared, maybe I could make him feel a little better. But I have a more important objective—find out where everybody darted off to and why.
I make it to the edge of the garage and slip under the caution tape. Luke Hayes, one of the house’s lieutenants and Jameson’s cousin, points at me and shouts, “Stop her!” He’s on the sidewalk behind me, and at his call, about ten uniforms focus in on me. All it takes is a single step from the closest beat cop for me to take off running.
Less than twenty feet away, at the other end of the garage, is Royal. She’s standing at the edge of a group crowded around something at the front door of the firehouse. I slip in next to her and shove my way beside Jameson. He pulls me back instantly and lifts me in the air as one of his hands covers my face. He’s not smooth enough, though, and I pull his hand down so I can see.
On the step to the front door sits a plastic-encased bouquet of colorful daisies with a stuffed FDNY bear next to them. Around the bouquet are four candles and four badges. Capriotti, who is wearing latex gloves, lifts one of the badges and inspects it, tilting it into the fading sun for a better glimpse.
“It’s not department issued,” he says. “It’s plastic. Looks like it was bought at a costume shop.”
“It was custom ordered,” Jack says gravely. He wipes his mouth with his hand, and his eyes fall on his younger siblings. “That’s my badge number.”
When Capriotti turns the badge to face the crowd, Jameson twists his torso and tucks my head into the crook of his neck in an effort to limit my visibility.
“Let me see it,” I whisper into his neck. Reluctantly, he removes his hand but doesn’t put me down. I cuddle into him further, refusing to let go. The cheap plastic gold Maltese Cross has HAYES printed on the top, with Jack’s badge number—8—printed in the center, and FD on the left and NY on the right. In red paint, scrawled over the printed plastic, is the word PRIDE.
“Pride? What the fuck does that even mean?” Jack asks. Capriotti snaps his fingers and gestures to a beat cop who produces a few more sets of gloves. The beat cop hands the gloves out to Hennessey, Jack, and Royal, who each pull them on and then bend to pick up the remaining badges.
“Don’t breathe on them, don’t drag your gloved hand across them, don’t drop them. Don’t do anything to fuck my investigation. You fire goons have approximately one minute before I call my boys in to take over. This is what we boys in blue like to call a professional courtesy.”
“We got it, Capriotti,” Royal says with a huff. “We’re not a bunch of idiots, ya know.”
“These are all of our badge numbers, Jay,” Hennessey says with a scowl. I lean in and spy Hennessey holding out a fake badge with Jameson’s number—14—on it and the word ACEDIA in red paint.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Jameson says. He tightens his grip on me and rubs small circles on my back with his thumb.
“Mine has gluttony written on it,” Royal says quietly with her brows pulled together.
Hennessey looks over to Jack, who shows Hennessey’s badge with LUST written on it in red.
“Looks like it’s not her family with the secrets,” Capriotti says, his eyes on me. They slide to Jameson as he finishes. “It’s yours.”
Chapter 19
Melanie
Jameson nods from across the room and raises his bottle of beer in the air by way of hello. I wasn’t gone long, and not even really gone. I just ducked out with Claire long enough to tell her about me and Jameson. And the cake. I need to hide that stupid cake.
I smile at him and give him a small wave. My thumb gets stuck in my hair and pulls my head to the side, totally embarrassing me. This is supposed to be Jameson’s and my “coming out” party. Yeah, it doubles as a “get the hell out of the city” get-together, but I bought a cake that I had specially decorated with our names and cute little hearts on it. It seemed like a great idea when I ordered it, but now I’m a little embarrassed for anyone to see it. Maybe I can stow it away in my room, and we can eat it later—just the two of us—where nobody else has to see how lame I am.