Sacrifice
Page 70

She blinked. James wasn’t old enough for her to humiliate him, but she was more cautious than other parents. She’d seen too many injured children to be otherwise. She never let anyone other than her parents drive him around. Michael and his brothers were the first non-family members she’d ever let babysit. When James was invited for a play date, one of the first questions she asked the other parent was whether they had a gun in their home and how it was secured.
Irish was right. She knew too much.
Was that her father’s issue too? Did he know too much?
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” said Irish.
All of a sudden, she didn’t want to finish. She’d always felt a little self-righteous about this part, but now, in this new light, she felt more foolish.
She traced a line in the wood of the table. “During my junior year, a friend’s brother was going to a frat party. He invited her. She invited me.” She shrugged a little. “It was your typical college party. Lots of guys, lots of music, lots of alcohol. I snuck out of my room and we went. I was so ready to break free of all those expectations that I just completely let loose. I met some guy, one thing led to another, and . . . well, you know.”
“I can connect the dots.”
“The party got out of control, and someone must have called the cops. I don’t even know what happened to the guy, but he must have gotten away.”
“And you didn’t.”
She gave him a look. “No. I didn’t. And you can guess who was waiting for me when his underage, drunk daughter was dragged into the police station.”
Irish gave a low whistle. “I bet that was a good time.”
She scowled. “It sucked. It was humiliating. I would rather have been thrown in jail. I sure as hell didn’t give my dad all the details of what had happened. And what sucked more was that I didn’t give the guy another thought until I peed on a stick six weeks later and came up with two pink lines. By that point, I didn’t even remember his name. My friend’s brother didn’t know who he was. It was this one-time random hookup.”
“So you think your dad has been blaming you for all this time.”
“Yeah!”
He spun his coffee mug on the table again. “You don’t think maybe you’ve been blaming yourself?”
“Okay, Dr. Freud—”
“I’m serious, Blondie.” He smiled. “Hannah.” He glanced up at her. “I didn’t even know you had a kid until I showed up at your house. It’s not like you tell everyone about him.”
She had good reason for that. She was sick of being judged by everyone. “You have no idea what it’s like, Irish.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I’m sure it was hard as hell being a mother at seventeen.” He hesitated. “But you’re not seventeen anymore.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me to grow up?”
“No. I’m telling you that you already have grown up.” He paused. “It’s okay to act like it. You don’t need anyone’s approval.”
Wow.
She blushed. “Thanks, Irish.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m glad you joined the station.”
He made a frustrated noise. “You’re one of the only ones.”
She remembered the comments she’d overheard. “Are you still getting crap from the other guys?”
“We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m sure I’ll still be getting crap in twenty years.” He paused. “It’s not bad. I’ve heard worse. It just makes it hard to cover some guy’s ass when you know what he thinks of you.”
“Are you going to say something?”
“I’m going to keep doing my job as well as I can.”
“But that’s not right, Irish.”
“I spend a lot of time thinking about right and wrong,” he said. His eyes were very serious. “Sometimes it’s worth losing a few battles to win the war.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Not maybe. I—” He stopped short and frowned, looking past her. “Look. Is that local?”
She looked at the television, which was still muted. The reporter was in a box at the upper left, but the majority of the screen showed an aerial shot of a large home on an even larger plot of land.
Or what used to be a large home. Because the building on the screen had been destroyed. Fires blazed in four areas that she could see. Smoke streamed from the structure, which was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances.
Her eyes locked on the closed captioning flashing across the bottom of the screen.
. . . in Annapolis. First responders have yet to identify any survivors. Local sources estimate that twelve to fourteen teens may be in residence at the group home at any given time—
Her heart stopped. What had Michael said?
There’s a part of me that’s relieved that my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.
This couldn’t be a coincidence. Couldn’t be.
The guy who sent those texts is dead. But I don’t think he’s working alone.
Shit. She fished her phone out of her pocket and dialed with trembling fingers.
“What’s wrong?” said Irish. “Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah,” she said.
She didn’t expect Michael to answer, so she almost dropped the phone when he did.