Consumed (Firefighters #1)(87)

As she got out, she looked up at the second floor. Her parents’ room had been on the right, hers on the left, her brother’s in the rear. In the middle, there was the bathroom she and Tom had shared. Downstairs, there was the bay that anchored the living room and then the kitchen and the family room opened to the porch and the backyard.

The bushes were all clipped precisely. The walkway was free of weeds. The lawn was trimmed like it was a rug.

Going up to the front door, she propped the storm door open with her hip and fiddled with her key chain, her fingers sifting through to find the right one. It had seemed odd to have the key with her, especially as it was a symbol of everything that had been lost: Her father no longer the hero she had thought he was, her mother a weak person she couldn’t understand.

God, it still smelled the same. Her mom loved scented candles, the sweeter and more flowery the better, and as a result, the house was like a Yankee Candle store, all cloying gardenias and lilies.

She was going to be smelling the stuff for like an hour after she left.

“Tom?” She closed the door. “Where are you?”

The living room was not arranged the same, the furniture she was familiar with having been moved around into different corners and straightaways. The drapes had been changed, too. Now they were peach. Rug was new as well.

Guess Nancy Janice couldn’t stand her own decorating and had to shift her things around.

“Tom?”

When there was a soft answer, she went through into the kitchen and expected an addition to have been blown out the back or something. Nope. Decorator lust had not inspired a reformation to the dated, pickled pine cabinets or the white-Stormtrooper appliances.

Didn’t her mother know everything was gray and stainless now?

Then again, the house was a blue only her mom seemed to appreciate, so fads, based on the opinions of others, might not hold much weight. Anne had never bothered to ask how it all worked, and she wasn’t about to start now.

The door to the back porch was slightly ajar, but she checked out the damage to the family room’s flat roof first. The tree had been removed; there was fresh Sheetrock on the ceiling, and a new window set into a freshly mounted, unpainted jamb.

Nice work, and she wondered who over at the 617 had done it. Probably Vic. He was the carpenter of the bunch.

There would be no charge for the labor. The NBFD took care of the widows and orphans of fallen firefighters. It was part of the pension system. Her mom never had to call in plumbers, roofers, electricians, or woodworkers; someone was always ready to help from the extended blue family.

Stepping out, she found her brother sitting in a lawn chair by the grill, his hands linked in his lap, his knees out to the sides, his eyes trained on the square of mowed grass yet not focused. His NBFD T-shirt had flecks of sawdust on it—so did his navy blue work pants. And his boots were smudged with drying mud.

Behind him, the outside of the house showed where the repair had been made, the bald wood and feathered-in siding like a scar in mid-healing.

“Guess you did the reno.”

As she spoke, he jerked as if she’d surprised him. But he didn’t look over. “Yeah.”

Frowning, she went over and sat in the chair next to him. For no reason, she noted that the pair, along with the lounger and the two little tables, were going to have to be taken in for the winter. The grill would go in the garage. The swing across the way would stay.

Just as it had always been, the rotation of the outdoor furniture tracking the seasons. Measuring the years. Fading over time until their utility was lost and they required replacing.

Like people, she decided, the old generations passing as new ones were born, the cycle repeating.

She looked at her brother. His icy blue eyes scared her. So did his stillness. “Tell me. Is Mom sick? Are you?”

“What?” He finally glanced at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You need to talk to me. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Do you find me . . .” He cleared his throat. “Am I hard to deal with? You know, about . . . anything.”

Anne’s brows shot up, and she momentarily blanked. Of all the things she had ever expected him to say, that was not it.

Not even close.





chapter




40



As Tom put the question out there, he knew Anne’s answer by the way she straightened and stared at him like she’d temporarily forgotten the English language. And then there was a silence that suggested she was trying to find an appropriate way to answer.

Treading carefully.

Which was reply enough, wasn’t it.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered.

God, he was tired, and not just because he hadn’t slept since Mayor Mahoney had tuned up her size-whatever stiletto and kicked him in the can. He was exhausted on a molecular level.

“Where is this coming from, Tom?”

“Just wondering you, know you. Just . . . thinking.”

As the silence stretched out, he waited. Sister never shied away from conflict.

“You can be a challenge,” she said after a while. “You’ve got your own way of doing things and that tends to supersede everything and everyone else around you.”

“I’ve got to keep people safe. There are lives in danger every day on the job, and if I don’t make sure things are done correctly—”