The way he treated her partial arm was better than any list of words he could have spoken to tell her he still found her beautiful, desirable . . . whole, even though she was missing a part. And though it scared her to admit it, this time here, with him, had healed her, even though she had no more open wounds.
Acceptance was a balm to that raw place she had refused to acknowledge.
Closing her eyes against sudden tears, she held onto him. “Danny . . .”
“Yes?”
I love you. “Thank you,” she breathed.
He pulled back a little. “For staying the night? Are you kidding me, I wouldn’t leave you here by yourself to deal with this. And whenever I’m off shift, you’ll have me back.”
“I would like that.”
“Me, too.”
His staying over wasn’t even about her car window getting shot out. It was about so much more, a connection that had started the day she had walked into the 499 as a probie and looked up, way up, into the blue eyes of an Irish wild man. Sometime along the way, over the passage of days and weeks and months, he had become part of her life, part of her history.
She told herself that it was only through retrospection that things felt inevitable. She wasn’t sure she believed that in her heart.
As the sun rose higher, it seemed as though they had been destined all along for each other.
And because of that, she decided to stop fighting it, fighting him . . . fighting the outcome that seemed to, no matter the particulars or the place, always bring them together.
Sometimes strength rested not in resistance, but in the release of arms against a foe of one’s own creation.
Chapter 46
Later that morning, Tom was sitting back at his desk in the fishbowl, drumming his fingers on reports he was supposed to read and sign off on, when someone came into the stationhouse.
Getting to his feet, he motioned for them to come around, and when his sister opened the door, he was embarrassed that she might have seen him staring off into space.
“Didn’t know you were coming over.” He nodded to the vacant chair on the far side of things. “You need a seat?”
“Yes, thanks.”
As Anne got settled, he studied her. “So Mom called me yesterday. She said you two had talked.”
It wasn’t a surprise when her eyes locked on all his disorganized paperwork. “I . . . ah, I might have been really unfair about her. To her. I think she had to deal with some things that I was unaware of. I also think our father might have been a monster under all that I’m-a-hero shit, but you and I can argue about that at a different time.”
“I’m done arguing.” When she looked up sharply, he put a hand out. “That sounds defensive, it isn’t. I am literally, for myself, tired of arguing with everybody.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my brother.”
“You know, I could say the same thing about you with Mom.”
“So we’ve both been taken over by aliens. Good to know—do we need new driver’s licenses.”
Tom smiled a little. “Yeah. Maybe we do. So what’s up? You need something?”
“Yeah, I want to talk to you about Charles Ripkin.”
Leaning back in his old wooden chair, he crossed his leg, ankle to knee. “Don’t know the guy, really.”
“When he talked to you about this building”—she motioned around his fishbowl and all the bright-and-shiny beyond it—“was he . . . did you ever feel like he was trying to buy us off? The fire department, I mean.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Whatever happened at his house with his daughter? Maybe those fires down at the warehouses?”
“No.” Tom crossed his arms and told himself now was the time to stick to his new leaf. Namaste and all that shit. “What are you insinuating? That I took a bribe or something? What for, we didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I agree. I’ve read all of our incident reports. I just . . . a man like that doesn’t do anything for a purpose that doesn’t advance his self-interests, right? I mean, his reputation is what it is for a reason. He’s ruthless and shady, and I’ve done extensive searches on him. Do you realize that this firehouse is the only philanthropic thing he’s done?”
“That’s not possible. All rich guys give to shit. They get museum wings named after themselves, donate libraries and research centers.”
“Ripkin hasn’t. He gives to political candidates, but not nonprofits.”
Tom frowned. “What kind of politicians?”
“He’s a registered Republican, but he donates across the spectrum.”
“What about Mayor Mahoney. He give to her?”
“Yes. He’s topped out for this election.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s given Mahoney’s campaign up to the legal limit. I can show you the report if you’d like?”
“Nah. Not a surprise.” He shrugged, although whether that was to convince his sister or himself that he didn’t care, he wasn’t sure—and didn’t want to dwell on. “He’s in deep with her on this wharf thing. I had a meeting with her the other night, and she and her lackey Perry had just met with Ripkin Development. Doing that area over is one of her election imperatives—or whatever they call them.”
As Anne grew quiet, he sat forward. “What’s going on.”
“Just trying to figure this all out.”
“Define ‘this.’ And before you tell me to mind my own business, I’d like to point out that in your entire professional career, you’ve never come to my office about anything. You must be here for a reason.”
There was a period of silence, and then Anne looked him directly in the eye. “I think Ripkin tried to kill his own daughter and make it look like an accident. And he gave this building to our fire service and played the grateful parent to support the appearance that it was terrible accident and we were the heroes. I think my office did sloppy investigating due to short staffing and now we’re screwed. There’s no statute of limitations on arson in the Commonwealth, but all the physical evidence is gone. There’s nothing left to reexamine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went into our storage to get the evidence box and it was gone. There’s the written report online, and a few photographs, but the actual samples and evidence is gone.”
“Was there much in it?”
“I don’t know. Samples were noted, but I don’t know how thorough the listing is—and I checked with the NBPD. They don’t have anything on the case because our office didn’t rule it arson.”
“Who was the investigator on your end?”
“Bob Burlington.”
“Wait, didn’t he die?”
“In a boating accident eighteen months ago. And excuse me if I keep the air quotes to myself on that one. His body washed up on shore three days after he was seen heading out into the sound. They said he’d had a heart attack, but the sharks got ahold of him. Hard to know if he had any other pertinent injuries.”
“What does this have to do with you, Sister.”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m putting the pieces together.”
As her eyes swung back up to his, she shook her head. “Nothing? Why?”
“Remember when you used to sneak out of the house at night after Dad died? Mom would ask us at breakfast if we’d walked around after bedtime—and you’d have this exact same expression on your face.”
* * *
Even though Danny had only had twenty-four hours off, he was back at the 499, and for once, it seemed like it was going to be a slow day. Then again, it wasn’t freezing cold, so the space heaters hadn’t come out in force yet, and people were no longer doing crazy stuff from the summer heat. Also, not a full moon, so bonus.
After running a drill on breathing apparatuses, he was doing laundry in the bay and thinking they needed a probie. And not just because if they had more crew members, they’d be able to get back to a more normal schedule—
“Oh, shit. Here we go.” As Duff spoke up from the Nautilus machine, the guy pointed out to the street. “Moose not make the bed this morning?”