“He gets off on it.” She smiled, and it felt a little sinister. “I’m glad you turned down the beer. I’d bet money he knows you’re on call.”
Irish’s eyes lit with surprise—then settled into something like challenge. “Oh. So he’s like that.”
“Yeah. Keep up with the sir stuff. He’ll eat it up.”
Irish sobered. “Too much?”
“Nah.” She paused. “Do you really want to be a fire marshal? Or were you just kissing ass?”
“Oh, that’s real. My dad is a detective in Chicago. I think he always expected me to follow in his footsteps, but I wanted to make my own way.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes I feel like there should be something more, you know? It’s a career path to look at.”
“You’re a good firefighter,” she said.
His eyes met hers again, and she blushed. “But don’t let it go to your head,” she added.
“I won’t.”
“You want to do something else?”
“I don’t know.” He looked back at the picture. “Maybe.”
“My dad took a lot of crap when he made the decision to switch. It’s a lot of work, and you’ve got your foot in both departments. Not quite a cop, and not quite a fireman either.”
“He took a lot of crap?” His voice dropped.
She glanced at the kitchen doorway. Her parents were still having a heated conversation, but she couldn’t make out anything but whispers. What on earth was up with them?
Irish was waiting for an answer, so Hannah looked back at him. “Yeah. He was in line to be chief, and he turned it down. He’d been a great fireman, but there was a massive fire and some people died during his shift. He couldn’t get them all out in time. After that, he didn’t want to walk into another active scene. The guys in his crew thought he got afraid. They thought he was running from his job.”
Her father spoke from the doorway. “What do you think?”
Hannah straightened so quickly that she bumped the table and made the water slosh. “Dad. Sorry.”
“What do you think?” he said again. His tone was even—not irritated, yet not warm either. Just level. Patient. His investigator voice.
Hannah hated that voice.
She looked back at him. “I guess it’s going to have to remain a mystery.”
“Your mother asked if you could get the rolls and put them in a basket.”
She hated this voice, too. This was his dismissal voice.
Hannah was tempted to curtsey and mock him. Luckily, this wasn’t high school. Besides, she had an audience.
She looked at Irish before she made her way back to the kitchen, and gave him one last warning. “Remember what I said. He’s great at this job, too.”
Then she brushed past her father without even looking at him.
CHAPTER 11
The Roadhouse Bar and Grill sat along Magothy Beach Road, a few blocks off the water and surrounded by an acre of trees. Beige paint peeled away from the siding in numerous places, and a few fake palm trees swayed in the November wind.
Michael had never been here, but it was obviously popular, given the packed parking lot. He found a spot for the truck at the back of the restaurant, between the back door and the Dumpster.
When he killed the engine, he just sat there.
He had half a mind to drive back to Adam’s apartment, to tell his brothers that “the guy” never showed to talk about a landscaping job that didn’t exist. Then he’d help himself to a few slices of pizza—if there was any left, given the way they’d attacked the boxes when the delivery guy showed up. They could break out a deck of cards and pretend their lives weren’t skirting the edge of disaster.
And then the real guy who was threatening them would burn down the whole place.
Michael got out of the truck.
The gravel of the parking lot offered no information. No threat of danger, no hint of a problem.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.
How will I know you?
You’ll know me when you see me.
Did that mean his mysterious texter wasn’t here yet, but he’d arrive in a way that was unmistakable? Or that Michael would recognize him on sight?
He’d worried all afternoon that this was another way to lure him away from his brothers—but what choice did he have? He sure as hell wasn’t going to bring them with him. And whoever set this meeting had implied that Michael could bring anyone he wanted—including the police.
Was that an extension of trust? Or a finely laid trap?
Maybe he should have involved the police. Hannah’s father was still waiting to talk to him. Michael pulled the fire marshal’s card out of his jeans pocket—now washed, though soot still stained the seams—and considered dialing.
Then he remembered the photo of Hannah and James on the school steps.