The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn
to jail. The blue in those eyes, so like his mother’s, prevented Reese from moving at all.
Faye’s son.
The boy that he’d thought would be his own. Already half grown up.
“I’ll leave you two, then,” Lila said, nodding at Reese as she ushered the boy in and then closed the door.
Reese and Lila had known each other since before Reese had taken the job as Santa Raquel’s fire chief. He’d had a meeting with her at the request of the city manager and chief of police. All public services, and most particularly rescue services, were available to provide any help the Stand might need.
While no members of Reese’s staff were on the High Risk team that coordinated social services, counselors, doctors and teachers in an effort to prevent domestic violence deaths, Reese was well aware of the team. He reported to them anytime anything suspicious came across his desk.
“Are you here to take me to jail?” The boy tilted his chin up, skinny arms crossed as he stood here in a striped polo shirt and brown baggy shorts. As if to say he didn’t care.
The way his lip trembled gave him away but Reese wasn’t going to let on to that. At least not yet.
Lila had asked him if he’d talk to the boy. Try to find out anything he could about what he’d burned, where he’d gotten the matches, why he’d set the fire.
So far, the boy was refusing to speak to anyone else.
“I don’t carry handcuffs,” Reese said now. He was the man here. Elliott was just a scared little kid.
And it sure as hell wasn’t the kid’s fault his mother had chosen another man. He pulled out a chair. Sat. Motioned for Elliott to do the same.
Without hesitation, the boy did so and tilted his chin up again. Like he was some kind of cool dude who wasn’t going to be intimidated.
Reese wasn’t sure what to do. Truth was, he had no plan at all. He was there as a favor to Lila.
Nothing more.
“Tell me about the fire.”
“I already told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“I did it.”
“Where?”
“In the trash can in the boys’ bathroom by where we do gym.”
“Why that bathroom?” As Reese started focusing on his purpose for being there, the questions came easier. He was an investigator. A damn good one.
Elliott shrugged. His clothes looked new, as did the leather sandal he was tapping rapidly on the commercial tile floor. “It was furthest from anybody.”
“So you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
He was there to get the kid to trust him. To talk. Nothing else.
“Uh-uh.”
“But you know fire’s dangerous.”
“’Course I know. My mom’s told me about a hundred times that...” He broke off.
“You broke your mother’s rules.”
Elliott’s chin came up again. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause she’s not always right. ’Cause she thinks she knows best but she doesn’t.”
Interesting.
But in terms of the investigation?
“So you think setting a fire in the boys’ bathroom trash can was right?”
“Sorta.”
“How can something ‘sorta’ be right?”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t promise not to. Not until I hear what you have to say.”
Elliott shook his head. “When we talk in there, no one can say what we say.”
Reese studied the boy, investigating a possible subject. He had to consider the fact that he knew, from Elliott’s mother as well as from Lila, that the boy was in a dangerous place. That the rest of his life could well depend on his time at the Stand.
Counseling sessions were confidential.
“Did your fire have something to do with something that happened during one of your group meetings with Sara?”
He had no idea if the kids knew they were in counseling, but he knew that Sara Havens was overseeing Elliott. Lila had told him that Sara was the one who’d recommended that Reese be allowed to speak alone with the boy. Because Elliott had reached out to him.
Elliott’s nod gave Reese a curious kind of confidence. He had this.
In spite of extenuating circumstances that would not be named.
“Sara didn’t tell you to start a fire.”
He shook his head.
“What did she say?”
Elliott stared at him.
“She told Lila to call me in to speak with you. I’m sure they told you that,” Reese said at the boy’s continued silence.
Elliott nodded.
“So she expects you to speak to me, which means you can say what you say in there.”
The boy’s brow furrowed. He puckered his lips. And then said, “Sometimes we write stuff. To get it out.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Elliott shrugged. He was patting the side of his leg over and over with the tips of his right fingers. “Bad stuff.”
“Okay.”
The boy sat there.
“So you wrote about starting a fire.”
Elliott’s gaze seemed to be seeking something from him as he once again shook his head.
“You wrote bad stuff.”
The boy nodded again.
“And?”
“A way to stop it from bugging you is to write it and then throw it away.”
Understanding dawned.
“But you didn’t throw yours away.”
Elliott shook his head.
“Why not?”
He shrugged.
“I’m not asking you what you wrote, Elliott, I’m asking why you didn’t just throw it away in the trash can. Why did you start a fire with it?” He was certain he was right about this part.
“Because I didn’t think just throwing it away where it still could be read would be good enough.”
A thought many mature adults had, as well. Adults who had the means to find access to a fire pit, a fireplace, a burn barrel...
“Where’d you get the matches?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a snitch.”
“Did someone steal them for you?”
“No.”
“Did someone else give you the idea to burn what you wrote?”
Another shrug. “Can I just go to jail now?”
The boy was not going to give up his source. Reese’s job was done here.
Except...
“Why did you call me?”
“So