Page 13 of Into the Fire

He couldn’t process what was happening in real time, not until she plowed into him, hammering at his chest with her fists, clawing at his face. “Get out! Right now! Get out of my house!”

He wrangled her arms as best he could. Michelle was shouting. The kitchen door swung open, and a stream of people poured through, both boys, all four uncles, a slew of cousins, his grandmother, the chef and the cleaning lady, and an assortment of well-heeled neighbors clutching plastic hors d’oeuvre plates.

Jill was twisting in Max’s grip now, cursing and sobbing, and he let her go and stepped back. Before she could launch herself at him again, Michelle wrapped her up from behind. “Stop it, Mom! Calm down. Max didn’t do anything. Just calm down.”

Jill finally stopped struggling. She shook her daughter off, snatched up her notepad, and strode out of sight down the rear hall.

All eyes shifted to Max. In the rear of the pack, he caught sight of his father, his rugged face flushed. He seemed to be caught off guard as much as Max was.

Max felt a familiar gravity pulling him toward a familiar hope—that his dad might step up and say something in his defense.

But Terry just looked ashamed. In his pained expression, Max saw a reflection of his own original sin. That he’d come into the world a disappointment and would be one so long as his father was alive to lay eyes on him. That had it not been for Max, his mother would be around, laughing and pretty, warming every room.

That he wasn’t worth the terrible cost that had been paid to create him.

Max was unable to find what words should come next. And unable to look away from his father. At last Terry broke off eye contact.

“Omigod,” Michelle said, cutting in on the muddle of Max’s thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”

His left cheek burned even over the heat that had risen beneath his face. He touched his fingertips to the spot, and they came away red. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

His grandmother edged forward. Dementia had made her fragmented and erratic, though she’d been none too pleasant before. She jabbed a crooked finger at him, her mottled face twisted. “It should’ve been you.”

The words arrowed straight through him—clean entry, clean exit—leaving him winded. Once again his stare found his father, but Terry just took another swig of beer and looked away. Pouches had risen beneath his eyes, where emotion gathered for his dad and where it stopped.

Michelle said, “Fuck you, Grandma.”

A few gasps. The ring of keen silence. The boys glanced at each other, suppressing grins. Only Grandma looked unfazed, picking at the edge of an empanada on her plate.

“It’s okay, Michelle,” Max said. “Show Nona respect.”

Terry squeezed Ross’s and Terel’s necks, steering them toward the kitchen. “C’mon, boys. You don’t need to see this.”

The door flapped, and then silence reasserted itself once more.

One of the neighbors cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should go.”

Max nodded. As he turned for the door, the envelope crinkled in his pocket. Feeling it dig into his thigh, he hesitated.

The others were already drifting back into the kitchen, but he called after Michelle. “Do you mind if I just clean this up a little before I go?” He touched his cheek.

“Of course, Uncle Max.” She pointed to the hall opposite the one her mom had vanished down. “Third door on the left.”

He started up the tile corridor for the powder room, glancing through the open doorways on either side as he passed. Guest room. Library. And then—as he vaguely remembered—Grant’s office.

He ducked in, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet, and scanned the oak furnishings. A laptop was open on the leather blotter, family photos bouncing around on a screen saver. Max nudged the mouse pad, and the desktop came up.

He hovered the cursor over Contacts and clicked.

The “A” surnames sprang up first, important city officials and heads of industry, personal numbers and addresses listed alongside their work info. In the Notes section, Grant or his assistant had even typed in the names of spouses and children.

Holding his breath, Max scrolled down the alphabet, searching for Lorraine Lennox. Sure enough, there was her card, featuring the phone number at the Los Angeles Times he’d been calling. Her office address was listed and there—bingo—a cell number and home address as well.

Max had hoped for as much. That given whatever explosive information was at stake, Grant and Lennox had worked out unofficial channels of communication.

The sound of movement deep in the house straightened Max’s spine. Several sets of footsteps tapped into the foyer, voices carrying up the hall.

Max jotted down Lennox’s info on a pad featuring the Merriweather Accountancy logo, tore off the sheet, and crossed to the doorway. Peering out, he saw Michelle edge into view, seeing the neighbors out. Her gaze swept in his direction, and he jerked back out of sight.