Page 45 of Fear of Flames
“I don’t know…”
Chapter
Twenty-One
“Your real name,” Michelle said. “What do other people call you?”
“Arrow.”
She leaned against the crook between the window and door and stared. Based on Fletch’s expression and body language, she’d guess he was telling her the truth. “Why Arrow? Are you like the male version of Katniss from Hunger Games?”
“I shoot straight.” He turned toward her and winked. “I hit my target.”
“Come on, there’s more to the story.”
“You’re the one who makes up stories,” Fletch said. “Why do you think people call me Arrow?”
“Because that’s the name you’ve given them, or they’ve heard others use it, and you never corrected them because you do whatever it is you do. You don’t want to get close to anyone enough to tell them your real name.”
“And here I thought you had a pre-law degree not psychology.”
“I took psychology classes. I think the workings of the human brain are fascinating.”
Fletch turned down the radio as they followed the red ribbon of taillights. “Tell me about your childhood.”
Looking down, she picked at the frayed material of her blue jeans. There was nothing wrong with Michelle’s childhood memories. It was that she wasn’t sure if she could talk about them without breaking down at the loss of her father. Instead, she decided to give a short answer. “It was normal and boring.” She looked up. “What about yours?”
“Not normal nor boring. So, I can’t relate.” He turned briefly, his eyes meeting hers. “You can give a long-winded answer to a question about the color of the sky, but your childhood gets five words. Did you ever want siblings?”
“I had an older sister. Her name was Sarah.”
Fletch’s lips pressed together. “Denny never mentioned her.”
“He wouldn’t. Sarah passed away before I was born. I didn’t know anything about her until I was in high school. She was only four years old.”
“What happened?”
“Mom said it was a tragedy. Dad said it was an accident.” Michelle sighed. “Sarah was the only topic my parents wouldn’t discuss.” She lifted her cheeks. “It’s funny. When I was little, my mom said I had an imaginary friend, and I called her Sarah. She asked me how I came up with that name, and I apparently shrugged. I honestly don’t remember any of that.”
“Maybe you overheard your parents talking.”
“Maybe. It’s hard to understand what a child thinks. I’d forgotten about my imaginary friend until I learned about the real Sarah. It’s one of those memories that seems real and at the same time you can’t quite reach. It’s fuzzy.” She turned toward Fletch. “How about you, siblings?”
“One brother. My story isn’t as tragic. We lost touch in the foster system. He was a year younger than me. He got adopted. I didn’t.”
The winter night felt suddenly cooler.
“What happened to your parents?” Michelle asked.
“From the records I’ve found, no name was listed for the man who helped make me. The woman who birthed me wanted her heroin or other drugs more than she wanted to be our mother. It’s like you said, I can’t remember the specifics. I don’t even have memories of what she looked like. I’ve seen her picture, but when I do, it’s like looking at a stranger.”
Michelle reached over to his arm. “You weren’t kidding when you said your childhood wasn’t normal or boring. I’m sorry.”
Fletch pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Don’t be. I learned from a young age who I could trust. That lesson made me the man I am today.”
“A man who would save someone he barely knew.”
Fletch looked Michelle’s direction and quirked his lips. “I knew who I was saving.” He relaxed his shoulders. “You’re not officially safe yet.”
