Blue Smoke

back had it started? How long had he been gearing himself up to make personal contact with her?
    A cold chill squeezed her heart, had her stopping. She could feel the blood draining out of her face even before she turned and ran down the stairs.
    Her hands shook as she grabbed the notes she’d brought home from Bo’s kitchen. The notes of her conversation with the arsonist.
    Just think abt it, she’d written in the bastard shorthand she used during interviews. thk abt all the men you let fk you rgt bk to the 1st.
    “The first,” she murmured, and sank slowly to the floor. “Josh. Oh, Mother of God. Josh.”

24
    At five minutes to eight, Reena banged on Bo’s front door and kept banging until he answered.
    His eyes were heavy, his hair pancaked on one side of his head, spiked on the other. He wore nothing but a pair of blue boxers and a sleepy scowl.
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “Sure, sure, come on in,” he muttered when she breezed right by him. “Have a seat. Want some breakfast? I’m here to serve.”
    “I’m sorry I had to wake you, and I know you had a bad night, but this is important.”
    He jerked a shoulder, cursed when his injured arm objected to the movement. Then he turned his back on her and shuffled toward his kitchen.
    He got a can of Coke from the fridge, popped it. Guzzled it where he stood.
    “I also know you’re irritated with me,” she continued. She heard her tone—prim as her first-grade teacher’s—and wasn’t entirely displeased. “But this isn’t the time to be childish.”
    His bleary eyes narrowed over the can. He flicked up his middle finger. “That,” he told her, “was childish.”
    “You want to fight, I’ll pencil you in for later. This is official, and I need you to pay attention.”

    He dropped into a chair, gave her a careless, get-on-with-it wave.
    She could see the resentment, the fatigue and, she noted, some pain lurking in his eyes. But coddling wasn’t on the agenda.
    “I have reason to believe the connection I have with the arsonist goes back much further than we initially thought.”
    He downed more Coke. “So?”
    “I’m pursuing the theory based on some of the conversations I’ve had with him, including the one early this morning.”
    His hand tightened on the can enough to leave impressions. “So, he gave you a wake-up call and you decided to spread the wealth and get me out of bed.”
    “Bo.”
    “Fuck it.” He said it wearily, without heat, as he pushed himself out of the chair and went to a cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Motrin, poured a few in his palm, tossed them into his mouth like candy.
    “It’s hurting.”
    He gave her a steely stare as he washed down pills with Coke. “No, I just like Motrin and Classic Coke. Breakfast of frigging champions.”
    Something sank in her stomach. “You really are angry with me.”
    “I’m angry with you, with men and women, small children and all manner of flora and fauna on the planet Earth, possibly in the universe, where I believe other life exists, because I got about five minutes’ sleep and my entire body hurts like a mother.”
    She’d noted the bruises, in addition to the bandaged arm. Bruises, scrapes, nicks—she’d found a number on herself as well. His were worse, no doubt. His were worse because he’d taken the brunt to shield her.
    She’d intended to be quick, brisk, give him the gist without going into detail. Now, looking at his sulky eyes, his bed hair, his poor battered body, she changed her mind.
    Even her strict first-grade teacher had kissed it better when she scraped her knee on the playground.
    “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get you something to eat, an ice pack. That knee’s pretty banged up.”
    “I’m not hungry. There’s a bag of frozen peas in there.”

    Having suffered through her share of sprains and bruises, she understood what the peas were for. Retrieving them from the freezer, she walked over to lay them over his knee herself.
    “I’m sorry you were hurt. I’m sorry about your truck. I’m even sorry I swiped at you for telling my father something I wasn’t ready to tell him myself.”
    She sat, propped her elbows on the table, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Bo, I’m so damn sorry.”
    “Don’t do that. If you cry you’re going to ruin a perfectly good mad.”
    “I’m not going to cry.” But it was a nasty internal war to keep her word. “It’s bad to worse, Bo. And you’re in this because of