Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“Seven,” Jeremy said, with a weariness Jean felt in his bones.
Jeremy fiddled with the alarm clock before setting backup alarms on his phone, then kicked out of his shorts and tossed his shirt after it. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Jean studied his slack face for only a moment before rolling over.
He was almost asleep when his phone beeped on a message from Renee: “Coach just told us about the fire. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you?”
She returned the same easy lie: “Yes.”
Jean turned his phone off, stuffed it under his pillow, and willed himself to get what little rest he could.
-
Most of the morning and early afternoon was a series of miserable conversations. First was a call to Jean’s psychiatrist, who accepted and rescheduled his appointment to the following morning. Jean had that handled before they left the hotel, and the Trojans went home via Exposition Park so Jeremy could collect his car. They were nearly to the Gold Court when Jeremy finally heard from Kevin, but their worried exchange was almost immediately interrupted by Jeremy’s family. Jeremy passed his car keys to Laila so he could deal with the call.
“Hi, Mom,” Jeremy said as he climbed into the passenger seat. Jean wasn’t sure what she said, but Jeremy’s expression shuttered almost immediately. “Yes, I should have called, we just—” He paused to listen before offering up a tired, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. We’ve just been dealing with this since we left Utah. Yes, Utah, the state. We had a game last night.”
Jean glanced across the backseat at Cat. Cat didn’t need him to ask but curled her lip in scorn and said, “He’s only been playing for fourteen years, you can’t expect his own mother to know how an Exy season works.” Jeremy grimaced at her over his shoulder as he pushed his door open again, but Cat didn’t wait for him to get out. She raised her voice and called, “We won, Mrs. Wilshire! It was a great game!”
Jeremy slammed the door behind him and walked away. Laila flicked Cat an irritated look before getting out as well, and Cat subsided with a fierce scowl. Laila waited by the hood of the car for a few moments as Jeremy paced, then sighed so heavily Jean saw her shoulders sag. She moved toward him, snagging his sleeve to haul him to a stop, and gestured between them. From this angle Jean couldn’t see her expression, but the tight look that crossed Jeremy’s face wasn’t promising. Laila was insistent, and finally Jeremy relinquished his phone to her. Laila took over the conversation with Jeremy’s mother.
Jean glanced over his shoulder at Cat and said, “A Dermott is better than a Wilshire. Yes?” At the blank look she sent him, he clarified, “Rank. She implied as much when Bryson visited. She said the police would never side with him over her. But his grandfather is a senator. Who is hers?”
“It’s not her grandfather,” Cat said, “and technically, it’s not even her father. He’s an FSO—a foreign service officer,” she explained when Jean shook his head. “If you square ‘em up against each other on their own, then yeah, dear ol’ granddad Wilshire is going to win every time, but Laila’s dad has much better friends. One in every alphabet,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers, “CIA, NSA, DHS...”
She glanced over to make sure Jean was following. “Pretty sure he’s the only reason Jeremy’s allowed to stay with us over summer breaks. Better to be friends with Hugh Dermott than enemies, and all that. Here we go.” She sat back in her seat, and Jean followed her gaze to see Laila dragging Jeremy back to the car. Laila didn’t get in until Jeremy was settled, and she turned them toward the ruins of her house without a word.
A no-nonsense representative from the insurance company stopped by the house only minutes after their arrival to take pictures and statements. Laila turned over the list of items they’d lost in the fire, and he added it to their growing file. They walked the length of the house with him, and from him Jean heard more details of the video.
The arsonists had all been wearing dark hoodies, with the strings pulled tight to hide as much of their faces as possible. They didn’t slow to ring the doorbell but went straight for the bay window: first to put a rock through it, then to throw in spare gas cans they’d brought. The third had apparently lit a sopping USC t-shirt on fire before tossing it in to get the blaze going, and they’d taken off as quickly as they’d come. The man flipped back and forth through his notes before finishing with,
“Security company called the fire department as soon as the alarms went off. You’re lucky Station 15 is so close; they were able to get over here in under six minutes. But,” he said, with a slow look around the house, “there wasn’t much that could be done at that point. Looks like there were heavy renovations done when it changed ownership?”