Beneath These Scars (Beneath #4)(52)

As I was finishing with the Red Cross, I realized I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. My car was still in the shop, I owned nothing but the contents of my purse and the clothes on my back, and all I wanted was a shower and not to cry in front of these perfect strangers. I’d been holding it in ever since the man in the alley had set me aside to answer the questions of one of the fireman. Based on my answers, it seemed that either arson or an accidental gas leak was the most likely culprit.

The thought of arson brought my mind right back to Jay and my blood ran cold.

Did he want me dead? Probably. But this wasn’t his MO.

Jay would prefer to watch the life drain out of me with his own two eyes rather than let a fire do it for him. He’d want to make me hurt. To make me suffer. I knew that much about him, and I doubted he’d found Jesus in prison.

I stepped out of the church where the volunteers had brought me—it seemed that this was standard procedure because it was too distracting to answer all of their questions while sitting in view of the remains of what used to be your home—and I looked both directions down the street. I had forty-seven dollars in my wallet, my credit cards, and the Red Cross debit card that I could use once they activated it in a few hours. It wasn’t the money that scared me right now, although they were surely right. It was going to be expensive to replace everything I had. Thank the Lord for renter’s insurance.

I was only a block from a CVS and a twenty-four-hour gym, where I was pretty sure I knew the manager. Either way, after hearing about my hellish morning, I couldn’t believe someone would refuse to let me use a shower.

After checking out of CVS with the basics, I pulled my phone from my purse. It was off. I turned it on to find I had a dozen missed calls from Lucas Titan, ten from Jerome, another six from Elle, and four from Charlie.

I swallowed. Apparently everyone had heard about the fire. The calls that surprised me the most were those from Titan’s household. Why did he bother? He’d thrown me out last night. Surely that had been a period on the end of whatever the hell we’d been doing, even if I still wasn’t exactly sure what had made him react the way he had other than his general * tendencies. But last night it had seemed like more. I’d jabbed one of his buttons and he’d reacted.

So the question was now, who did I call first? I owed them all a call, but I was too damn exhausted to tell this story over and over again. And especially to admit that I thought maybe my newly paroled ex-husband might have just tried to kill me. Fun times.

I stared at my phone, my brain working in sluggish circles, until the screen came to life again.

Jerome. What the hell?

I picked up the call. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God, dear, we’ve been worried sick about you ever since Detective Hennessy called to tell us about your house, but he couldn’t tell us where you were.”

Hennessy. The man seemed to pop up everywhere. Did NOLA’s finest not have enough to do other than spread the word about my house burning down?

“I’m okay, Jerome. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I wasn’t about to explain that I was physically, mentally and emotionally drained, and it wasn’t even ten a.m. but I felt like I could sleep for a week. Except I’d probably be sleeping with one eye open because who knew what would happen to the next place I slept.

Would I ever sleep easy again? Maybe in a decade.

“Okay. Good. Very good. I need to hang up now, because I need to tell Mr. Titan that you’re answering your phone. And please, if you would, answer his call.”

“Wha—”

“’Bye, dear.” And Jerome hung up.

Within twenty seconds, it lit up again with Titan’s name and number. Did I really want to answer it?

My brain was moving too slowly to execute sophisticated reasoning right now. Screw it. I answered.

“Hey.”

“Where the hell are you?” Titan demanded.

“I’m about to grab a shower, not that it’s any of your business.” Apparently I still had some sass left in me. It hadn’t been completely knocked out by the blast.

“Tell me where you are, and don’t move. I’m coming to get you.”

“Seriously?”

“Don’t push me.”

I told him where I was. I might have had sass, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. Besides, his shower was nicer than the gym’s. I still needed clothes, though. I had some extra stock at Dirty Dog that was in my size that I could buy, but that wouldn’t hold me for long. It seemed so stupid, but now that I knew there was no loss of life, it seemed less ridiculous to mourn the loss of my stuff. Mostly vintage, one of a kind, and irreplaceable.

I swallowed back a lump in my throat.

Well, if buying Dirty Dog didn’t work out, I’d still be able to put my unique skills to work rebuilding my wardrobe. But if I didn’t have Dirty Dog and I had to work at some other job, would I have to dress . . . less like me? The thought horrified me like no other. It was crazy that something so small and inconsequential could set me off, but tears spilled over my lids as a devastating sense of loss swamped me. I sat on the stoop next to CVS as I clutched my purse and let them fall.

Just a few minutes of self-pity, and I’d pick myself up and move on.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and the tears fell faster and harder. It’s all gone. My home. My place. My stuff.