Page 72 of The Fire

“No charge,” Hen said, waving a hand.

“But—”

“Nobuts. Don’t you have a date to get to?”

I blinked. “You heard that?”

Henry’s smile turned canny. “Leg’s for shit, but my hearing’s as good as ever.”

“Terrific.” I rolled my eyes and grabbed my paint cans from the counter.

“You got rollers and whatnot?” Theo asked.

“Yeah. Plenty.”

“Guess I’ll see you at Macarena’s birthday party, then, huh?” Theo’s eyes danced.

“Probably,” I admitted. “I’m kind of intrigued.”

“One thing about O’Leary, it never gets boring,” Theo said.

“Damn straight.” Hen nodded with satisfaction. “And that’s the way we like it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I shook my head and walked out, letting the door jingle closed behind me. I swung the paint into the back of Jamie’s truck just as the door to the bakery opened and Dennis Rodman, my nemesis, walked out.

As villains went, he was pretty lame—middle aged, medium height, medium build, with thinning black hair cut ruthlessly short and gelled into place, and a baggy suit and tie that stuck out in O’Leary like a neon sign flashing “Outsider!”—but he had these tiny, intense, brown X-ray eyes, and when he looked directly at me, it gave me an unpleasant little shiver.

He lifted a single eyebrow at me and nodded once, then turned to walk down the street toward the ruins of the bar. He lifted a hand in goodbye to someone inside the bakery, and I saw Gideon Mason from the fire station lift his chin in acknowledgement from his table by the window. As soon as Dennis moved down the street, though, Gideon visibly shook himself, like he got Dennis’s creep-factor too.

I stood by the truck for a second, studying Gideon. He was older—maybe eight or ten years older than me—with close-cropped gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude. I’d spoken to him maybe a handful of times, and never about anything serious until the night of the fire. We were absolutelynotfriends, and he was the opposite of approachable. But I was dying to know if he’d talked to Dennis Rodman and, if so, what they’d discussed. I might be too chickenshit to push things with Jamie, but there was no reason I couldn’t make inquiries about the fire… right?

I ran a hand through my hair to tidy it, then walked into the bakery, which was empty except for Cal and Gideon.

“Afternoon, Caelan,” I said, fixing a bright smile to my face. “Large coffee, please. Extra cream, extra sugar.”

Cal wiped his hands on a dish cloth hanging from his shoulder and peered over the counter with narrowed eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Parker?”

I rolled my eyes. “Just the coffee. Keep the sass.”

“There he is,” Cal said approvingly. He moved to make my coffee, and I looked around the bakery, letting my eyes light on Gideon like I was just noticing him there.

I lifted a hand in greeting and Gideon frowned, which wasn’t wholly unexpected, considering I didn’t think we’d had more than a half dozen conversations ever, but he nodded anyway.

I grabbed my coffee from Cal without paying—he knew I was good for it—and made my way to Gideon’s table.

“Hi,” I said, resurrecting my grin. “How’s it going?”

“Parker,” Gideon allowed. “I’m doing fine. You?”

“Great. Yeah.” I took a sip of coffee. “Super.”

“Good to hear.” Gideon glanced back down at his table, where a book of crossword puzzles sat open beside a half-eaten muffin and a half-empty cup of coffee. He picked up his pencil and tapped it against his book a few times, and I could practicallyhearhim internally debating about whether he could just ignore me, but he’d lived in O’Leary long enough that good manners won out.

He threw the pencil down on top of the book and gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Wanna sit down?”

“Oh! Sure!” I said, like I hadn’t been angling for exactly this. I pulled out the chair and sat. “You know, I was just thinking how funny it is that you and I don’t hang out more, Gideon!”