I clench my fists, my arms shaking with the desire to lash out at this impossibly frustrating woman. I want a fight.
But I can’t do it.
Not to his mother. For all her innumerable faults, Blaze loves her. And I can’t solve this problem his way — not like I did in David Archibald’s office — I can only solve this my way: with the truth.
“Do you want to know the truth about your son? Do you want to know what really happened that cost him his job and sent him to prison?”
“I know what happened. I’ve carried that shame for years.”
I shake my head. Force a spiteful smile. “You don’t. He told me the truth.”
“What are you talking about?”
Forgive me, Blaze. I know you wanted to keep this from your mother, but it’s time the truth came out.
“He didn’t hurt those people.”
She wavers. Blinks. Shock surfaces and, through the angry mirrors of her soul, I see the conflict rage — the urgent desire to believe me, to believe her son is a better man, and the warring desire to give in to her entrenched beliefs that her son is nothing more than a no-good, violent criminal.
“Yes, he did.”
“He didn’t. His friend did. His friend is the one who got drunk and started that fight. But this friend had a wife and kid, and Declan didn’t want that family to suffer. So, you know what he did? He went out, and he broke up the fight and, when the police came, he took the blame himself. All so his friend could keep his job and support his family.”
“You’re lying.”
I snort. The sheer repugnant defiance in her eyes — the desire to hold on to her beliefs about her son — causes rage to boil within me. I will hit her with the whole truth, and it will shatter all of that ugliness inside her.
Because fuck her for being such a horrid bitch.
My voice quivers with anger as I loom over her and my tongue races ahead of my thoughts, caring only to reach that delicious moment when Eleanor Dunne admits she’s been wrong about her son.
“Why would I lie? You know your son. He’s got the biggest heart in the world — that’s why he’s still helping you, despite all the things you’ve said to him. But he doesn’t always think things through. He saw his friend get into trouble, so he did the best thing he could think of. That’s his way. He doesn’t care what he has to do — whether it’s robbing a bank or breaking in to my boss's house — it doesn’t matter what consequences fall on his shoulders; his are so big, he’d rather carry all the weight in the world than see any harm happen to those he loves.”
Eleanor goes silent. For a moment, my heart soars.
Then her eyes narrow.
My heart constricts.
“What was that you said?”
My tongue got too far ahead of my mind, and now I just might pay the price.
“I said that your son loves you.”
She turns, takes one step down the stairs, then another. As hobbled as I am, the thought flashes through my mind of pushing her; I know where she’s going; I know what she’s going to do.
“Eleanor, please. Stop. You don’t want to do this.”
Maybe there’s still a chance I can change her mind.
At the bottom of the stairs, she does. Just for a second. Just long enough to cast a disdainful glance in my direction.
“You know, you almost had me. I believe you about Declan and him taking the blame for his friend. That doesn’t surprise me at all. I’m also not surprised to hear that he’s off to break into your boss’s house. What should also fail to surprise you, Tiffany, is that I am going to call the police. My son’s an adult; he’s made his decisions, and now he can suffer the consequences.”
“I won’t let you,” I say, and I start down the stairs toward her.
But she’s a lot faster than I am. And by the time I reach the base of the stairs, she’s already in the kitchen, with a kitchen knife in one hand and her phone in the other.
She glares at me, brandishing the knife right at me.
I hear the muffled voice of someone coming over her phone.
Hello, this is 9-11, what is your emergency?
Eleanor clears her throat.
“Hello, I’d like to report a burglary in progress.”
Chapter Twenty
Blaze
Anna’s place isn’t hard to find; there’s only one rich neighborhood in town and, soon enough, I’m skulking around the backside of her two-story blinding-white McMansion, peering through windows, looking for signs of what kind of home security system she’s got. It doesn’t take long before I spy the control panel — a plain white console built into the wall just off her front door; it’s a basic model, the kind that sends a signal through the phone lines, and it’s a snap to circle the home until I locate the phone cable and cut it in two with my knife.
In just a few minutes, I’m standing in her kitchen, looking back out into her backyard through a busted window. Pausing only long enough to steal a beer from her fridge, I head upstairs.
This is too fucking easy. Or I’m just that fucking good.
I case the upstairs, peering in through her bedroom door — ignoring the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and the big red vibrator on her nightstand — and then moving down the hallway, past her bathroom, past her second bedroom, until I find her home office. Jackpot.
The office is a mess. Self-help and
