Page 12 of Into the Fire

Even so, she was right. Max knew that Grant would never bring anything explosive near his home, and it seemed the Terror had surmised the same.

“Yes, he did.” Max took in a breath. “So you think it was a work thing?”

“Of course it was work-related.” She snatched up a notepad, scribbled something else on her to-do list, and tossed it back onto the glass coffee table.

“Why didn’t he go to the cops?”

At this she gave a nasty little laugh. “The cops. Right. You’d think they’d be some help. I mean, you’d imagine that they could swing in and … and … But it’s amazing how helpless we actually are. When there’s a real threat? The police are useless. Can you imagine, what with who Grant was in the community? Think of everything he did over the years for their investigations, for their cases. But he said they only offered the usual bureaucratic nonsense. Fill out a report. A cruiser by the house twice a night.” She rubbed her eyes hard, smearing the lids in circles. “It’s not like I expected them to whisk him off into witness protection, but something. And then this. Jesus God. I mean, they said it was a professional hit. A professional hit. On Grant. Our Grant. And they don’t know.… They still don’t know anything.”

She sobbed quietly for a time.

Dread had taken up residence in Max’s belly, lead-heavy and dense. If the cops weren’t willing to help Grant Merriweather, what recourse would he have?

He took an awkward step toward her. “Jill, listen, is there anything I can do?”

Stifling a sob, she snatched up the notepad again. “There’s really not. I mean, who’s gonna know who to put on the guest list? And how many passed plates at the reception? And which suit … which suit of his…”

She dipped her face again into her tissue-wielding fist, her chin wrinkled above her knuckles, freckles pronounced on her blanched face. From the kitchen Max heard one of the high-schoolers—Terel or Ross—crack a joke and then the sound of muffled laughter. He wondered who else was in there.

He put his hand in his pocket, felt his fingertips brush against the folded DO NOT OPEN envelope. “Jill, I need to know if Grant … um, if he might have left any instructions for me.”

She froze, her features hardening. When she looked up, her eyes held such intense disdain that he flinched. “You mean like in a will?”

“No,” Max said. “No, that’s not what I mean at all.”

But she kept on. “As in, did he leave you anything? Not a good time to ask for money, Maxwell. I mean, the body’s not even cold.”

He wilted. “How could you think I’d…?”

“Because everyone is, Max. You should see them crawling out of the woodwork already.”

“I understand,” he said. “But I’m not.”

Michelle rushed forward. “Mom,” she said. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

But Jill ignored her, her glare boring through Max. “Then what are you asking for, Max? Why would Grant leave instructions for you?” And then, abruptly, her brow furled and she snapped to her feet. “Wait a minute. Is this something you got him into?”

“What?”

“Of course, that’s why you’re here. You needed his help, dragged him into something shady. You were always the fuckup, Max. What did you do?”

“No, Jill. Listen—” His voice had risen. Realizing he was arguing with a woman who’d been widowed for less than twenty-four hours, he clamped his mouth shut.

But she drove toward him, her face a mask of aggression. “How dare you. How dare you come here.”

Frustration rushed through his blood, congealing into anger. His next words were just taking shape when he caught sight of Michelle. She was standing behind her mother, eyes welling, the flanges of her nostrils red. Her sweater had come unclasped in the front, swaying open, revealing a soft gray T-shirt rounded over her belly. Her words came back to Max: Given everything, I know I’m super emotional.

She saw him notice her pregnant bulge, gave a soft smile, and clipped her sweater again over it.

“So tell me, Max,” Jill sneered. “Tell me the real story of why you’re here.”

He heard Grant’s voice, edged with worry: My wife’s not exactly a safe distance removed from me. Or my family. The thing with you is, no one will ever know. I mean, no one would ever think of you.

The minute Grant handed Max that envelope, he’d put a target on his head. And now Max had to choose whether he wanted to put Jill into the crosshairs with him. He looked at Michelle, still verging on tears, the slope of her stomach. He thought about the boys in the other room. This well-built house and all the life in it, such a contrast with his run-down apartment. There was so much more to wreck here.

“Forget it,” Max said. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Sorry.”

She studied him a moment, her features slack with disgust. Then she tensed.