Page 150 of Into the Fire

“Okay.” Max bobbed his head. “Okay.” He tugged open his door.

“Write your own story,” Evan said. “Or someone else’ll write it for you.”

Max looked down at his shoes and smiled shyly. “I like that.”

“And one more thing,” Evan said. “Pick your damn head up.”

The past twelve hours had been among the most exhausting of Max’s life. He’d been interrogated by rotating sets of detectives, DAs, and even briefly by the district attorney, until he’d literally fallen asleep in the chair. But he hadn’t cracked and he hadn’t slipped up. The past week—and his time with the Nowhere Man—had introduced him to a new part of himself.

He drove straight from the police station to a 7-Eleven, where he bought a disposable razor and shaved in the restroom. After he splashed cold water on his face, he stared at himself in the rust-spotted mirror. It took a moment, like an image slowly pulling into focus, but he recognized himself again.

Next stop was the big Spanish-style house in Beverly Hills, the site of the Merriweather clan’s Taco Tuesdays. News of Grant’s corruption had leaked to Jill already—he’d gleaned as much from his time at the station—and he felt a need to show his face. He wanted them to know what Golden Boy Grant had done to him and what Max had gone through to protect them all. He pictured Grant with his overpriced suit and that easy, swallowed-the-canary grin. C’mon, Mighty Max. For once in your life, maybe step up, shoulder some responsibility.

A member of the staff let Max in, and he found the family in the kitchen, the trays of carne asada and al pastor sitting untouched. Jill’s face was pink from sobbing, the rest of the family fanned out around her in support or deference.

All eyes shifted to him.

He felt an overpowering urge to do what he always did—to slink away and nurse his self-loathing. But this time he didn’t. He stood his ground.

For a moment he didn’t know which way it would go.

The chef came in wielding a tray of corn tortillas and read the mood of the kitchen. “Maybe this isn’t the best time, sir,” he said to Max.

Jill wiped at her eyes. The family was silent. And then Max’s father found his feet. “It’s not the best time,” he said. “Which is why we should all be together.”

He pulled out an empty chair for his son, and Max blinked at it.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I can’t stay. I just finished at the police station.”

Jill rose, crumpling a tissue in her hand, her swollen face heavy with remorse.

The words were right there at the back of his throat, a lifetime of resentment and vitriol fired with newfound righteousness. He was ready to unleash, to set her straight.

But instead he heard himself say, “I’m so sorry, Jill. I wish it wasn’t true.”

She collapsed into him, sobbing against his chest. And he held her.

Michelle came in from the backyard with a plate of food and hugged them both from the side. Then she took Max’s hand and moved to press it to her stomach. He hesitated.

And then let her.

The baby bumped against his palm. A charge moved through him intense enough to bring moisture to his eyes. Wonder, yes. And grief for the baby he’d lost, as sharp as a fresh wound. But he noticed one feeling that was outshining them all.

Joy.

He kissed Michelle’s forehead. And then he left.

The drive to South Pasadena took the better part of an hour.

The cottage peeked out from behind the ivy-covered brick wall. Air crisp. The porch enveloped in the scent of roses.

His hand shook when he rang the bell.

But for a second time he stood firm.

Footsteps.

And then she was there.