Page 84 of Playing With Fire

“Strong as a horse, sharp as a tack, and tall as a giraffe”. Her long-dead father’s description popped into her mind. She made a face.

“Not exactly swooning material.”

She stared down the teary romantic who lurked inside like a guilty relic from a pre-feminist world. The princess bride who dreamed of white knights and happily-ever-after.

A few delicious palpitations. A sizzling kiss or two. Ricky Sharp didn’t owe her anything. No explanation, no detailed breakdown of his life and his plans. No glimpse into his heart.

“Quit whining. Toughen up.”

Jodi slapped concealer on the shadows under her eyes and added a dab of smoky blue to the inner corners of her eyes.

Orange, red, or pink lipstick?

Her mind circled back to the brief message Ricky had sent late on Sunday afternoon, long after they had parted company at Bean & Co, momentarily buoyed by the suggestion that the burned backpacks belonged to the twins—thus ruling them out as suspects.

According to Ricky, Chief Browning did not prevaricate.

(Browning’s actual words had been: Those dang troublemakers better show up Monday morning with their preacher foster parents and however many interfering social workers they need, at which time they would be charged with arson and taken into the care of New York State which is where they shoulda’ been in the first place. Or I will personally send someone to the church to haul their asses downtown.)

Orange lipstick, decided Jodi. Sophisticated, confident. Neither sweet nor sexy.

She reached for a pair of charcoal pants in a fine wool twill, her favorite teal mohair sweater, and then her red coat. Today was a day for stepping out in style, for reminding herself (and the world) that she was the Acting Editor of The Temple Mountain Monitor.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

Jodi recited the words first memorized as a child. Her fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain cleared.

She would check into the office first, set some tasks for Dougie, and catch up with May on urgent issues. On the way in she would call Hattie.

And then she would exercise her constitutional rights and head for the town hall. Granted, she was unlikely to be able to capture a photo of the boys in the back seat of a police car, but she sure wasn’t going to leave without alerting the world to their virtual arrest.

Ricky (here her heart gave a flutter, but she womanfully ignored it) had warned her that Leroy Browning would scream bloody murder if the Acting Editor of The Temple Mountain Monitor went anywhere near his office.

“Stuff that,” said Jodi out loud. “We are sounding out the trumpet that shall never call retreat...” she sang loudly.

She checked her reflection in the hall stand mirror. Her eyes, deftly enhanced with mascara, shadow (and that dab of concealer), were luminous against her skin. The severe ponytail enhanced the delicate structure of her face and the light orange sheen of her lips.

Cool, unruffled. There would be no awkward silences if she happened to see Ricky, no misty eyes betraying an accelerated heartbeat, and definitely no girlish blushes suggesting that she had ever imagined what he might look like under that mud-brown uniform.

Her phone buzzed. Ricky’s name popped up.

“Hi,” she said, glad it wasn’t Facetime and that he couldn’t see the goofy smile she quickly wiped off her face.

A second passed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“Bad news,” he said briefly. “Silas just called. The boys didn’t come down to breakfast this morning, and Hattie went up, thinking she’d have to rouse them out of bed. They already knew what was happening today.”

There was another silence. Jodi tried to swallow. Images kaleidoscoped through her mind. A long dark night. Two young boys.

“The beds hadn’t been slept in. Josh and Judah have run away.”

“Last night,” whispered Jodi. “Sweet Jesus.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Silas called the police, of course, as well as child protection and every other county and state body that has a stake in foster services.” Ricky let out a huff of frustration. “Apparently, the twins have done a runner before. But not since they were placed with Hattie and Silas.”

“But where...?” Jodi shook her head, trying to move past the fog of anxiety.

“Police are concentrating their efforts on New York City. Truckers might have picked them up at the underpass near the freeway. It’s a well-known spot for catching a ride. They’re focusing on the area where the boys used to live before they were removed.”

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