“I took a cheek swab while Nate was sleeping. I sent it off to an out-of-state lab. The results were definitive. There’s no way Clarke could be Nate’s father.”
Joan rose and walked to the porch railing overlooking the moonlit mountains and woods. “You’re worried Nate set the fire because he’s Elijah’s, aren’t you?”
Ann did not speak, folding her arms over her chest as she came to stand beside Joan. “I smelled his pajamas when he was showering. There was no hint of gasoline.”
She faced Ann. “If he’s as smart as you say, he could have set the jug out earlier. Easy to come back and light it.”
Ann’s face tightened with pain and worry. “Do you think he set it?”
“I don’t know,” Joan said. “He was so mesmerized by the flames.”
“You cannot tell Clarke or Gideon.” Ann’s eyes were pleading. “No one can know this.”
“I won’t say a word, but I want to talk to Nate.”
“Oh God, no. I don’t want you asking him any questions.”
“I can be subtle, Ann.” Joan now shifted to a professional tone she used with her bosses and the press.
“He’ll see you coming a mile away.”
“He’s smart, Ann. But he’s also ten. I might not be as bright as you two, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Either way, you and I have to figure out if he set it. If he did, that means he’s going to need some help.”
Tears welled in Ann’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “I thought the past was all behind us.”
“Believe me, it’s always been there.”
Joan spent most of the night on Ann’s couch, tugging at a short wool blanket, convincing herself the throw pillow was really comfortable, and staring at the vaulted ceiling braced by hand-hewn logs as she thought about Nate. Whether the boy set the fire, or Elijah, or God knows who else, they had started back up when she’d arrived in town.
She reached for her phone and checked the time. It was 5:50 a.m. Accepting that sleep was never going to happen, she capitulated and decided to take a shower.
She yanked out her one last clean shirt, the red Phillies shirt she had bought for Nate, and turned on the shower. Steam rose up in the room as she stared into the mirror at a soot stain slashing across her cheek and her eyes, red with fatigue. How had she gotten to this point in her life? Slowly, the mirror fogged up, and her image vanished. She stepped into the shower.
Joan ducked her head under the hot spray and let the heat work through her hair and wash away the ash and smoke. She planted both her hands on the shower wall, leaning in as the water beat against her tight shoulder blades.
She finally stepped out of the shower, dried off, and shrugged on her shirt and jeans. She combed out her short hair until it was reasonably presentable again.
Feeling a little more human, she went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. As the machine gurgled, the sound of footsteps had her turning to see Nate walk in. Without a word, he went to the cabinet and retrieved a box of Cheerios and then grabbed a half carton of milk from the refrigerator. He set both on the kitchen island before getting two bowls and two spoons. He filled one bowl with cereal, milk, and a couple of teaspoons of sugar.
“That second bowl for me?” Joan asked.
Scrambling on the barstool, he reached for his spoon. “Yes, but I don’t know how you like your cereal.”
She could not remember the last time she had eaten breakfast, but the boy was offering, and she could not afford to refuse. Mirroring his choice, she put sugar on her cereal and then a splash of milk.
“That’s not enough milk to cover all the cereal,” he said. “Your ratios are wrong.”
“Depends on your goal. I don’t like chasing my cereal in a sea of milk. I want it damp but immobile.”
He grinned as he lifted another milk-soaked spoon to his mouth and took a bite. “Logical.”
“Your mom still asleep?” Joan asked.
“Yeah. She’s sleeping in the other twin bed in my room. She looked tired, so I let her sleep.”
“Good plan. Your mom used to eat this exact brand of cereal in college every day without fail.”
“I do, too.”
“They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”