I screamed, but the sound never left my throat.
The flames surged, collapsing inward, swallowing him whole. When they receded, there was nothing left.
I woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in sweat, the ghost of heat still searing my skin.
Coltrane's saxophone played softly in the background, the record needle reaching its end, clicking over and over.
And on the shelf,The Oxford Companion to Crime and Mystery Writinghad shifted again.
Farther forward than before.
Chapter thirteen
Marcus
Ikilled the engine outside the house that had sheltered four rowdy boys through two decades of storms, both meteorological and emotional. The facade hadn't changed—brick and cedar rising against the cloudy spring sky, carrying its age with the same stubborn grace as the woman who ruled within.
Dark ivy crept up the eastern wall, the same vines Dad had threatened to tear down but never had. Now, the plants reached past my old bedroom window. Nature was slowly reclaiming our family fortress.
The porch light shone warm and golden across steps worn smooth by thousands of footfalls—work boots, running shoes, and little league cleats. The swing Dad had hung the summer before I started high school creaked its familiar rhythm, the chains rusted but strong.
I tensed slightly as I watched James take it all in. His researcher's eyes noted every detail—the ancient rake propped by the door, mismatched boots scattered across the porch, andthe hand-painted welcome sign Matthew had made in third grade that no one had the heart to take down.
Beneath his professional observation, his anxiety registered in subtle ways. His fingers drummed once against his thigh, and then I saw the barely-there tightening at the corners of his eyes.
"Too late to run, Doc." I aimed to lighten the moment because bringing him to the place that laid the foundation for who I'd become mattered.
"I'm not running. I'm only questioning my life choices." He reached across the car's console and wove his fingers with mine for a moment, followed by a soft smile.
"Smart man." I squeezed once before letting go. "Ma's got sauce simmering, and if we don't go inside soon, she'll come out here and drag us to the dining room herself. She's done it before."
A rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes drifted through the screened kitchen window. It was Ma's sauce—the recipe she'd brought from her grandmother's kitchen in Naples and regularly used to coax stories from tight-lipped teenage sons and new dates. It also worked as a salve to heal broken hearts.
James's shoulder brushed mine as we climbed the steps, the contact grounding us both. For a heartbeat, I saw Dad there—stretched out on the porch swing after a long shift, beer in hand, always ready to listen when one of his boys needed to talk.
"Ready?" I asked, my hand on the screen door's handle. The ancient spring creaked in protest.
James squared his shoulders. "As I'll ever be."
I guided him inside with a light touch at the small of his back. The door banged shut behind us with the same slam that had earned my brothers and me a thousand maternal warnings.
The kitchen's warmth embraced us. Three pots dominated the massive Garland range—the steel behemoth Dad had salvaged from a restaurant remodel.
Ma rolled her eyes and said, "Dio mio, what am I going to do with all these burners?" right before she proceeded to use every inch of the range for the next two decades of family feasts.
Steam rose in fragrant clouds from a pot of wine-braised short ribs. My mother moved through her domain with the fluid efficiency that came from ruling the space for three decades. She didn't acknowledge our entrance. She was too focused on her wooden spoon's steady rhythm through what smelled like her signature marinara.
She'd twisted her silver hair into its usual crown, secured with the rosewood chopsticks Michael had brought back from his last deployment. Her sauce-stained apron declaring "Kiss the Cook" had been Miles's idea of a joke last Mother's Day.
"You look like hell," she said without turning, and I caught the subtle strengthening of her accent—the little tell that meant she was worried. The spoon never broke its hypnotic pattern, moving through the sauce.
"Nice to see you too, Ma." I crossed the kitchen to kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar mixture of Italian spices and the rose-scented hand cream she'd worn since before I could remember. Up close, the tightness in her shoulders meant she'd probably spent the afternoon stress-cleaning while pretending not to watch the clock.
When she finally turned, her dark eyes focused squarely on James. She instantly evaluated everything about him: the precise knot of his tie, how he held himself under scrutiny, and even the shine on his shoes.
"And you must be the profiler." The wooden spoon pointed at him like a judge's gavel, dripping marinara onto the freshly mopped floor.
James, bless him, stepped forward with perfect composure. "James Reynolds. Thank you for having me." He extended hishand, and I saw a brief moment of surprise in Ma's expression. Most of my previous dates had waited for her to approach them.
