But that wasn’t what they’d really fought about in the end.
My heart nearly tumbles out of my chest when she looks up at me with her eyes gleaming bright and wet, tears streaming down her face, her expression so pink and miserable.
“He knows,” she says, gulping the words. “He…he knows who did it. And he won’t fucking tell me because he says I might get hurt.”
I can’t breathe.
How?
“I don’t understand.” I grip her hands, squeezing them warmly, silently begging her with the touch to focus on me when this is critical. “How does he know? How did he find out? Is it a friend of his?”
“That thing Dad had,” she mumbles, sniffing and lowering her eyes. “The wrist flamethrower or whatever…Clark’s the one who gave it to the guy. He made him do it. He made Clark be quiet, and he said…he said if Clark tells anyone, he’ll kill them, then kill his Uncle Rog, then kill him.”
Then she bursts out sobbing again, and I gather her close, murmuring softly, offering her the only comfort I can.
God.
I feel like crying myself.
Clark’s innocent.
But I can’t possibly believe Blake’s own brother would kill someone, either.
There’s something deeper going on here than a family feud turned ugly.
And I don’t know what to do to help.
Or if I even can.
* * *
Andrea cries on me for almost half an hour, but at first I can’t coax her back home.
So I talk her into having a late lunch and something hot to warm her up. We’re already at the diner so no use in wasting the opportunity.
After two cups of hot cocoa and a breakfast platter piled high with pancakes—which, frankly, is the best lunch—she reluctantly agrees to go back with me and talk to Blake.
It’s the only way to protect Clark.
Get him where the arsonist won’t find him.
And once Clark’s under adult supervision, once he’s protected, once he’s cleared his head, then maybe he’ll give up a name and put an end to this madness.
“I don’t think it’s Uncle Holt,” Andrea says woefully. “I know Dad thinks that, but…I never saw one thing out of place when I stayed with him. And I told Clark I’m staying with Uncle Holt, he would’ve freaked if that’s who made the threat.” Her lower lip thrusts out. “Ugh, I don’t understand. Why won’t he tell me? He says he cares, but if he did, why doesn’t he trust me?”
“He cares about you,” I assure her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “He does. Or else he wouldn’t be holding back to protect you. His heart’s in the right place, even if he’s going about it wrong.”
I pull my hand back as the waitress returns with my credit card and the receipt. I quickly sign off on the bill.
“C’mon,” I say. “Let’s go home. Mr. Hissyfit’s been missing you.”
* * *
I was wrong.
Mr. Hissyfit isn’t lonely.
He’s pissed off.
And I don’t blame him, when Andrea and I pull up outside the door and see it.
Someone’s broken in.
I realize something’s off the second I park. The front door is open, swinging loosely on its hinges, and the lock’s busted out, splintered wood in jagged little spears against the frame.
A sick, nervous feeling curdles my stomach.
“Stay here,” I murmur. “Stay in the car, keep the engine running. Doors locked.”
Andrea just gives me a wide-eyed, frightened look and nods.
I creep out of the car, moving stealthily up the steps, skipping around the one porch board I know creaks every time and edging over the threshold.
Only to nearly jump out of my skin at the loud smacking sound inside the house. It takes me a slow motion second to peer into the living room.
Mr. Hissyfit darts his head hard at the glass of his heated enclosure, banging against it with a little bonk, his teeth bared, a loud hiss erupting over the room.
“Peace?” Andrea’s voice echoes behind me from the open window, panicked and sharp. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I croak, barely getting the word out, pressing my hand over my chest and my racing heart, then calling over my shoulder, “Nothing, honey. Stay in the car while I finish looking around.”
Not that I even know where to start.
Jesus. It looks like the entire house was trashed.
The sofa and easy chairs are turned over, the glass coffee table in shards, the shelves are tipped, books scattered everywhere. The cushions have even been cut open, stuffing erupting out in big white puffs, the rug slashed into ribbons, the coat rack cracked in half and stabbed like a wooden spear into the underside of the overturned sofa. The huge HD TV is broken in half, like someone body-slammed it over their knee.
Holy crap.
Someone clearly had rage issues, and they took them out here.
The only thing that hasn’t been touched is Mr. Hissyfit’s aquarium.
Good thing, too.
As cold as it is in here, I think whoever did this has been gone for a bit.