Page 62 of Playing With Fire

Bella’s cropped hair was a startling shade of red, but it was the tattoo of multi-colored roses entwined with a large snake on her neck and upper shoulders that captured his attention. Her eyes flicked around the room as she spoke, and Ricky surmised that she was the parent of two boys who were perhaps a year apart in age. Their natural tight black curls had been buzzed to their scalps, and their blue eyes were striking against their dusky skin.

“Good to see that old fool Leroy Browning has finally brought in someone with a lick of sense,” said Bella in a vaguely Scottish accent. “Though from what I read online this morning, you’ll be on the next bus to Rochester. For my money, I wouldn’t believe a word Bonnie Browning says.”

Ricky gulped, unsure how to respond to this brutal but accurate assessment. “Well,” he began, searching for diplomacy, “the most important thing is that the Chief and I are working together to find and stop the firebug.”

“Quit stirring up trouble Bella.” A middle-aged man with a thin pinched face, no hair, and a smile of surprising charm joined the group. “Elliot Burns.”

A small girl chose that moment to cannon into Ricky’s legs. She looked up. Her round face creased in dismay. “Come here,” said Elliot, lifting her into his arms. “Wrong legs, sweetheart. Say hi to Ricky. This is Zobia.”

Ricky’s eyes widened a fraction. The now beaming child had the characteristic flattened face and up-tilted eyelids of Down syndrome.

“Hey,” said Ricky uncertainly. He tapped the child gently on her nose, and she giggled. He relaxed. “Hi Zobia. That’s a pretty name.”

Without warning, the little girl launched herself straight at Ricky. He caught her just in time, which set off another fit of giggles.

Elliot smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, I should have warned you. When Zobia likes someone, she wants to hug them there and then.”

“That’s fine,” said Ricky, cradling the warm weight of the child against him. She smelled of talc and milk and cookies. Her hands reached out to cup his face as though studying him. Then she leaned forward and kissed his chin.

“No boundaries,” said Elliot wryly. “These kids radiate love.”

“Unusual name.” Ricky pursed his lips and made loud kissing sounds at Zobia, which his new best friend found hilarious.

Elliot reached forward and stroked the small back gently. “I named her. I’m a single parent, by the way. Anyways, her mom hadn’t given her a name—in fact she wouldn’t touch the baby after the doctor told her she had Down syndrome. And so I got a call, late one night, to ask if I could foster this little mite while the mom thought about what she wanted to do.”

Ricky knew that he needed to get the session going, but he was rooted to the spot. And the small head now tucked into his neck made him want to never let go. He kissed her hair, and she snuggled deeper.

Elliot’s eyes shone with emotion. “I’ve been an emergency foster parent with the county for years. So I took the baby, cause I was all set up with the cot and the bottles and the equipment, and she stayed. And she stayed. And she stayed. And then the social worker asked me if I was interested in adopting. I think the woman expected me to say no, because not everyone will consider a child with a disability. And this sweet girl has a heart defect, which is a common, life-limiting issue with these kids.”

He smiled. “But I was already in love. And I called her Zobia, which means ‘blessed’.”

Hearing her name, Zobia raised her head and performed the same leap towards her father, who easily caught her.

Hattie was suddenly alongside. “I don’t want to hurry you Ricky, but most kids have a very small window of civilized behavior before it all goes south...”

Ricky took a deep breath. “Thanks. I’m ready when you are.”

Five minutes later, the parents were sitting either on the floor or in the old armchairs in the hall and the children were (mostly) engrossed in a storybook with Hattie in the book corner.

“Morning,” said Ricky briskly. “Thanks for giving up your valuable time. Now, does anyone know the three ingredients that a fire must have to burn...?”

***

Jodi stalked behind the counter of The Temple Mountain Monitor. She dumped her bag, rested her hip against her desk, folded her arms, and glared.

“Yo,” said Dougie weakly. “Problem?”

Jodi hissed. “Please do not ‘yo’ me. To my knowledge, you were born here in Temple Mountain and have no cultural or ethnic links with hip-hop.”

Dougie put up his hands in mock surrender. May Perrot, a retired teacher who handled the accounts, hid a smile.

“And yes, Dougie. We have a problem. The problem is you published a story without my go-ahead. And now the shit is hitting the fan.”

Dougie leaned back, unconsciously mirroring Jodi’s folded arm stance.

“I really, honestly thought that you wanted me to go live. You said it was news-breaking. I remember. And I stopped playing Back 4 Blood, even though I was on the verge of getting my next card power and the other Cleaners were like, whoa, Dougie, you can’t leave now!”

“Tough call Dougie,” said May mildly. “I love a good zombie splatter.”

---