Page 117 of Fire Fight
ME
Yep. Just have to take care of something.
LITTLE PHOENIX
A case-related something?
ME
Mhm. I’ll fill you in when I’m home
Two hours later, the second the third shift lieutenant was through the door, I was racing for my truck, shouting a hasty goodbye to Tuck and the rest of the guys.
I didn’t bother to turn on the radio as I drove across town, knowing it would only add to the mess of thoughts already at full volume in my brain. My anxiousness had my fingers drumming on the steering wheel as I rolled down the path I’d taken countless times before.
When I stopped in front of the shitty house, more grey now than white thanks to years of neglect, I wondered if I was making a mistake. This place had been the sight of so many lost nights for me, and while I was over a decade past the boy I’d been, it would be too easy to trip and fall back into old habits.
I’d seen it happen too many times, and I worked too long and too hard, both in therapy and for years avoiding any sort of trigger, to go back.
There was no “recovered” for someone like me. You were either recovering—a lifelong process—or you were an addict. Knowing how thing the line between the two was put my confidence on shaky ground.
Still, it had to be done.
With a fortifying breath, I got out of the truck and approached the front door, deciding how I wanted to play it. I could go in guns blazing, or I could sit him down and try to talk some sense into Chris.
Ultimately, he made the decision for me.
No sooner had I reached the top step of his porch than did Chris appear in the doorway, a fucking knife in his hand, pricking the skin of my abdomen.
“The fuck you want, pig?”
God, I fucking hated this guy.
In a smooth move, thanks to years of training with Finn and West, who had taught me all kinds of shit they’d learned in the Rangers, I had the blade knocked out of his hand. Shoving him inside, I kicked the door closed behind me, then pressed him into the nearest wall with my arm barred across his windpipe.
“Where were you last night?”
“Here,” he choked out, slapping at my bicep to get me to lay off.
I did, but only enough that he could draw air slightly more comfortably. I couldn’t have him passing out before I got answers.
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“Tito was here.”
Fucking Tito. I should’ve known.
Tito, or Timothy Tost, was a washed up high school athlete who turned to drugs after an accident ended his football playing career. He was my age, had never left this county as far as I knew, and was as big a piece of shit as the man in front of me. Tito was considered Chris’s “muscle,” meaning he knocked around junkies on Chris’s behalf when they didn’t pay up.
Forearm still braced against Chris’s neck, I sent Lane a text, asking him to track down Tito to confirm. Not that I trusted these guys not to lie.
“You sure you two didn’t get doped up and go start a fire?”
Chris’s beady eyes narrowed. “The fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Residential fire last night,” I gritted out. “The family home of one of the Prom Night Arsonist’s victims. Happened right after the sheriff cut you loose. Seems convenient, doesn’t it?”
“It wasn’t me,” he gasped.
