Falsely Accused. Shirlee McCoy
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the house, feet pounding the packed earth and soft grass. She’d planned to pull up the shrubs that were edging too close to the siding this week. The Realtor Abigail had hired had suggested it.
Now her only concern was keeping the old house from burning to the ground.
“Wren!” Radley yelled, grabbing her good arm and dragging her backward. “Go back to the car. I’ll handle this.”
“In what world would that ever happen?” she replied, her voice tauter and sharper than she’d intended.
“In my perfect world,” he muttered, letting go of her arm and running around the back of the house with her.
He knew she wouldn’t back down, and he wasn’t going to waste time trying to convince her to. That was one of Radley’s strengths. He knew how to take charge and how to concede leadership to someone else if necessary.
“In my perfect world, there wouldn’t be smoke billowing out from the back of my foster mother’s house,” she replied, sprinting up the porch stairs.
The back door was cracked open, the threshold singed black.
She slammed her good hand against the door, and it flew open, banging into the wall behind it. If Abigail had been there, she’d have chastised Wren. She wasn’t, and neither was Ryan. The closest thing to a kid brother she’d ever had, he’d been living with Abigail after divorcing his wife of five years. Darla had moved to Boston after the divorce was final, and Ryan hadn’t been able to afford the house they’d bought together. The property had gone into foreclosure.
Wren knew that had been a blow to his ego.
He’d prided himself on doing better than his biological family had, of making his way in a world that wasn’t always fair or equitable. He’d been almost too prideful about his accomplishments, something she’d never had the heart to tell him. He was Ryan—bighearted and bigheaded.
Now he was gone.
She crossed the threshold, barreling into the kitchen.
A room that had always been Abigail’s favorite, it had once had fifties vintage charm that permeated all Wren’s best memories. Now it was a disaster, water flooding the floor, smoke billowing up from curtains that were smoldering.
“You have a sprinkler system here?” Radley asked, stepping into the kitchen behind her, his gaze darting from one corner of the room to the other. She knew he wasn’t looking for a sprinkler system. He was looking for danger.
“No,” she responded, toeing an old green garden hose that was snaking through the kitchen and into the dining room. “Someone turned on the garden hose.”
“To put out the fire?”
“I can’t think of any other reason.” She inhaled, the harsh scent of smoke stinging her nose. “I think I smell gasoline.”
“I was thinking the same. Someone set the fire, and then tried to put it out?” Radley grabbed the hose and tugged it back into the room, turning the nozzle to shut off the water that had still been flowing out of it.
“That wouldn’t make any sense.”
“Does any of this?” he asked, following her as she moved cautiously into the dining room.
Unlike the kitchen, it had no deep char marks on the walls. She was so busy noting the condition of the room that she almost didn’t see the man splayed out on the sopping area rug near the table. His face was turned away, his hair wet, his clothes soaked. Her heart jumped.
“Titus?” she murmured, rushing to his side, every thought of the hose, the water and the fire gone. Even now, even after so many years apart, she would have known him anywhere.
Seeing him like this—unconscious and vulnerable—tore at her heart.
She touched his neck, feeling for a pulse and praying she would find one. She’d already lost Ryan. She didn’t want to lose Titus, too.
His eyes flew open. Not green or blue. A shade of teal that reminded her of the sky at dusk.
“Wren?” He snagged her hand.
“What happened?” she replied. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Is this our perp?” Radley asked, his hand hovering near the holster that was nearly hidden by his suit jacket.
“This is Titus. A friend of mine,” she responded.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not the perp,” Radley pointed out reasonably.
“I’m not,” Titus bit out, his eyes blazing. “Your perps are gone.” He got to his feet, Wren’s hand still in his.
She could have pulled away.
She probably should have.
Their friendship had ended years ago.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day she’d told him she’d seen his wife with another man. She had thought she was being true to their friendship, honoring the honest and caring relationship they had.
He hadn’t taken it that way.
He’d called her jealous and petty, and had accused her of lying.
And she had stepped out of his life.
Just like that.
The hurt had felt like the worst kind of betrayal. That he hadn’t known her well enough to have discovered the truth about who she was and what she was capable of had nearly broken her heart.
She’d survived by walking away and cutting herself off from him the same way she cut herself off from anyone who didn’t respect her boundaries. She had learned plenty of hard lessons watching her mother, and she had vowed to never repeat the mistakes she’d witnessed. She wanted mutual kindness in her friendships, mutual care and respect and affection in all the relationships in her life.
Titus had once ticked all those boxes.
And, then, he hadn’t.
They were strangers now, and she had no business holding on to him as if they were more. But he looked unsteady, and she told herself she was offering him support he obviously needed. The truth was more complicated. It was about friendship and loyalty and years when they had been each other’s staunchest supporters. It was about time passing, about all the days and nights when she shouldn’t have been missing him but had.
It was about that same heart-jolting feeling she had always gotten when she’d stared into his eyes. It was about the kind of love that didn’t stop because of hurt feelings and broken trusts. Not romantic love. Real and deep and abiding friendship.
“Perps? As in more than one?” Radley asked, inhaling deeply. “I smell gasoline in here, too.”
“Because two men were trying to burn the place down,” Titus said. “I walked in on them before they could get the blaze going enough.”
“Did you see them?” Wren asked, pulling her hand from his because she needed to—she was a professional, and he was the possible victim of a crime.
“Yes. One looked like a kid. Maybe late teens, early twenties. Skinny. The other was older. Heavier. I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too busy dodging the baseball bat he was swinging at my head.” He touched the back of his skull, pulling his hand away and looking at it as if he expected to see blood on his fingers.
“I take it you weren’t successful?” Wren probed the area he’d just touched and found an egg-sized lump. No broken skin. No blood. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a serious injury.
He winced away. “How’d you guess?”
“That huge bump on your head clued me in,” she replied. “Can you call an ambulance, Radley?”
“Sure.”
“That’s