Full Force Fatherhood. Tyler Snell Anne
was perplexed. “Who needs to talk to me?”
“Kelli Crane.”
Mark’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Why?” he asked. “And when did she call?”
“I’m not sure why—I didn’t ask and she didn’t offer the information up—but she called a few hours ago.” Nikki waved the bartender over. “All she said was that she found something you might be able to help her with.”
“I—I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Mark said more to himself than his former boss.
“Then you might want to call her back.” She smiled and handed her credit card over to clear out her tab. It sobered Mark.
“I find it hard to believe that you happened to take a message for me on the same day you just happened to run into me at a bar. Did you come here to give this to me?”
Her smile grew wide. “Let’s just say, I’m hitting two birds with one stone.” She gave the man a pat on the shoulder. “It was good to see you, Mark. I hope everything works out.”
“Thanks, Nik. You, too.”
Mark stared down at the number after she’d gone. It was amazing how ten digits could affect him so profoundly. He quickly looked around the bar, as if the patrons could hear his internal struggle. No one paid him any mind. He slipped the card into his jacket.
Less than an hour later, Mark was sitting in his apartment, staring at his phone. There was nothing to be afraid of about calling Kelli. She had, after all, wanted to talk to him. But Mark couldn’t get past the why of it all. Why call? Why now?
“Only one way to find out,” he announced to the empty room.
Mark dialed the number before realizing how late it was. He didn’t know her child’s name but knew she lived with Kelli. The last thing he needed was another reason for Kelli to be upset with him. Waking up her toddler was something he wanted to avoid if possible. He hung up on the third ring, deciding to call her the next day.
Again, he wondered why she wanted to talk to him.
Mark waited around for a few more minutes before deciding to take a shower. It was quick and refreshing, a great contrast to a not-so-great day. His new mood stuck as he got to his phone and saw he had a voice mail.
The number matched the one Nikki had given him. He put the message on speaker and listened as Kelli Crane’s voice echoed off the walls.
“Mark Tranton? Hi, this is Kelli Crane. There’s something I really need to talk to you about. Can we meet? Let me know.” She paused. Mark almost ended the recording before she said one last thing.
“I don’t think Victor’s death was an accident.”
* * *
THE NEXT WORKDAY was a washout, just as Mark had thought it would be. Thanks to a heavy rain in the middle of the night before, his construction site and crew were put on hold. That could have been a time to relax for Mark—they’d been working long hours before the storm came in—but he still wouldn’t entertain the idea of a vacation. He was the kind of man who not only appreciated hard work but also craved it. When that work stopped, for whatever reason, he was left with a world of thought he’d rather not visit. So instead of lounging around—or, heaven forbid, sleeping in—Mark changed into his sweats and hit the gym.
The workout room was sectioned off in the corner of the bottom floor of his apartment complex, which gave the place a solitude that Mark liked. Or maybe it was the feeling of improvement that working out brought him. Either way, it was a ritual he could do anywhere, whenever he wanted. He didn’t need permission. He didn’t need advice.
Whether or not he was a bodyguard didn’t matter.
“I don’t think Victor’s death was an accident.”
Mark brought his fist back from the speed bag. Kelli Crane’s admission had all but stopped him from breathing. Not because it was out of left field. No, because it was strange to hear his theory come out of the widow’s mouth.
A theory that had been thrown aside by everyone he’d cared about and thought cared about him. Even Nikki had tried to talk him out of it until she’d been blue in the face. She was trying to protect him from himself, she’d said. But all she’d done was shown him that at the end of the day maybe she didn’t believe in him as much as he’d once thought.
His fist connected with the bag again. He could feel the teeth of the past sinking back into him, and he had two options. Try to pry them off or ignore them until he couldn’t feel their sting.
The second option had treated him well the past year. He snorted, knowing that was a lie.
Mark went through his boxing routine, trying to drown out his thoughts, but each time his skin connected with the bag, he seemed to fall deeper down the hole. The image of the mystery culprit—not the nineteen-year-old firebug—flashed across his mind.
“Whoa, what did the bag ever do to you?” Mark spun around to find his neighbor Craig go for the weights. He was grinning, but his smile fell when he saw Mark’s face. “Everything okay?”
Mark realized his breathing had become rapid, his heart beating fast. His shirt clung to his chest, sweat keeping it flat against his torso. A dull ache in his hands began to register.
“Just blowing off some steam,” he said, changing his harsh tone to one that could pass as conversational. It worked well enough.
“You already have steam? The sun just came up!” Craig laughed. “Must be about a woman.”
Mark shrugged. “You could say that.”
They talked about the weather and their jobs for a while before doing their own things. Mark’s hands finally begged him to give it a rest, so he said bye to Craig and huffed back to his third-floor apartment.
It wasn’t a big space—a studio with a box of a balcony—but Mark didn’t need much. The only mementos he truly treasured were the pictures that hung on the walls. His parents and younger sister, Beth; friends from his hometown in Florida; and even one that had been taken the day Orion had officially opened. That one, though, he didn’t really look at anymore. The rest of his valuables consisted of his home media center and laptop—both of which he had seldom used since starting his construction job. A homey place it was not, but it sufficed.
Mark walked to the glass door that led to the balcony and looked out. It was a cloudy seventy degrees and was expected to get chilly. A cold front was supposedly blowing in that night, but he wasn’t about to put stock in anything the forecast projected. In his ten years of Dallas living, he had learned that if you didn’t like the weather in Texas, you should just wait an hour. It often changed.
The quiet of his apartment crept around him the longer he stood there. He hadn’t called Kelli back, and he didn’t know if he would. After Victor had died—and in the year that followed—he had almost gone crazy following his gut, trying to find the figure in the dark who had started the fire. Even after Darwin McGregor admitted that it had been him.
Determination had turned into obsession. Walls went up around him as each of his friends tried to tell him it was his guilt that fueled the pursuit. Nothing more and nothing less. Then, on the one-year anniversary of the fire, he had decided it was time to let it go.
This was the first time, however, that Kelli had ever mentioned it.
He eyed his phone on the coffee table. Didn’t he owe it to her to at least hear her out?
The weatherman might not have been completely wrong. As Mark stepped out of his taxi, he wondered if he should have brought his jacket. His long sleeves might not cut it if the temperature dropped even further.
It was just after dinner, and he