Watch Me Burn Read online

  “I’m sorry. I’m not very hungry,” I said, pushing back from the table and taking my glass of wine into the living room. I heard a chair scoot and Travis’s footsteps as he followed. “Would you mind putting a log on the fire?” I asked as I curled up on the sofa.

  Travis shoved a chunk of oak into the beautifully carved soapstone masonry heater, frowning as soot smudged the cuff on his shirt.

  “I can wash that for you. If you try to brush it off, you’ll just make it worse.”

  “I can handle my own laundry,” came the terse reply as he eased into the leather recliner.

  “No problem.” Handling his laundry probably meant dropping it off at the dry cleaners.

  Travis’s eyes swept the room as though it were a crime scene, pausing for a couple of beats on Chance’s portrait. The two may not have been friends, but they had shared a deep respect for each other in spite of each man’s affinity for the other one’s wife. Go figure.

  “You haven’t even told me that you’re sorry about Kissme.”

  Travis sighed, looking like a tired balloon as he leaned back and unwound.

  “Yes, I did,” he said. “Just last night on the phone.”

  My face clenched, forgetting that Travis wasn’t a huge animal lover. More than companions, Kissme and Frito, the one-eyed Chihuahua my dad claimed was “part gopher,” had been grounding rods that helped me weather the storms of life. With Chance, the dogs had been like surrogate children—until Paige’s pregnancy gave birth to the notion of fatherhood in both Chance and Travis.

  Travis got up and crossed the room, sat next to me, and drew me close. He buried his nose in my hair and whispered, “Babe, I am sorry that you lost Kissme. I know how much you loved her. She was more than a good dog . . . she was your friend. It’s just . . . everything with Quincy. It still doesn’t seem real.”

  His fingers absently toyed with my hair. “Perry was my father-in-law, my friend . . . and mentor. And if losing custody of Quincy isn’t bad enough . . . now I feel like I’m losing you.”

  I don’t know . . .

  Travis drew back and studied me in much the same way he had examined the room. Then untangled his fingers from my hair and pulled back, shaking away the moment and flashing a steely smile as he drew his sword. “Except—you can’t lose what you don’t have. Right?” he thrust.

  I took the jab to heart but maintained my defense. “Travis, it’s only been four months.”

  “Not for me. For me, it’s been a year and four months.”

  I called a truce and burrowed into his shoulder. I didn’t want to fight. He was right, of courseif you ignored the fact that we had both been married, the difference being that he and Paige had been in the process of divorce, while Chance and I were still in the throes of accusations over his affair with Paige.

  “I have a job interview.” I dropped the bomb, and Travis tightened his hold.

  “A job interview?” He mulled this over. “What about our job? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  I took a slow sip of wine and rolled it around my tongue to let it mellow before swallowing.

  “Like you said, it’s been four months, and we haven’t a prayer that anyone will testify against ATF’s godfather. Perry’s like a crime lord on paid vacation instead of a felon behind bars. Eating caviar and wearing his Rolex instead of suffering baloney sandwiches and handcuffs.”

  I took another sip. “Seriously—how many more charges do they need? Murder, forgery, human trafficking—isn’t that enough? I can’t be an advocate without witnesses, and powerful men like Perry don’t have witnesses. Besides . . .” The word hung in suspended animation.

  “You were saying?”

  “I’m miserable. I hate living in the city. I am a fish flopping on a concrete sidewalk.”

  Neither Kissme nor I had adjusted. The city gave us both panic attacks, squeezing the life out of me as surely as a blade of spring grass creeping through a crack in the tired asphalt. Perhaps it had squeezed the life out of Kissme too.

  I could feel Travis’s eyes boring through the top of my head. “If you had moved in with me instead of living in that dingy apartment, you might have been a lot happier.”

  Perhaps. I can’t deny that Travis and Quincy, who had been in his care at the time, had been the main attraction for my decision to move. Helping Travis to garner witness support to testify against Perry had been secondary.

  A wistful sigh rose on fragile wings as I closed my eyes to produce a black screen that spooled an instant replay of my last trip into the heart of the city: the blasting horn from the car that sped around me with middle fingers jutting from not one but both front windows, repeatedly gesturing skyward. My fault. I could never adjust to ten lanes of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic aggressively swarming across the Bay Bridge on the morning commute, as hordes of people invade the city like an advancing army.

  “I understand you better than you understand yourself,” Travis mused.

  “Oh really?” The warm embrace cooled under my arching brows.

  “Yes, I do,” he stated as a matter of fact. “You hate change. In fact . . . I’ll bet you’re incapable of change.”

  “I am not!”

  “Yes, you are. And, I am going to prove it.”

  “Oh?. And how do you intend to do that?” My tone grew insolent. “No matter what you do, I’m not going to shack up with you while my husband is still . . . still . . . you know.”

  Travis’s eyes softened from hunter green to meadow green. “Returning to the Earth?” he suggested.

  My back stiffened and bottom lip crept forward like the queen on a chessboard moving out to meet her opposition. “This is my home, and I am very sorry I hurt you, but I am applying for a job with Mental Health.” My head rose a playful inch or two. “And I happen to be quite capable of change . . . whether I like it or not.”

  “Oh really?” Travis smiled, sinking deeper into the recliner even as he threw the proverbial gauntlet. “We’ll see,” he said. His voice dropped to a slow whisper in my ear. “We shall see.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I didn’t know a lot about the work of Mental Health, but I had an extensive knowledge of crisis, and I had grown up among crazies. I figured Psychiatric Emergency Services—PES—should feel like home.

  The buildings lay long and low, rust-colored, reminding me of a train wreck that might have plowed its way through the iron-rich face of Table Mountain in the background. The complex snaked along the backside of the county buildings, a good deal below the reigning courthouse and my old office up on the hill. Its saving grace was the towering hedgerow of Italian cedars that hid the hospital like a secret stuffed in the bottom of a laundry basket.

  The drive to my interview had been comforting and solitary. Travis had spent the morning with his nose buried in a newspaper and searching online for heaven knows what before jumping up excitedly and wishing me “good luck” as he headed out on some mysterious venture.

  The parking lot was quiet, and I was early. I ran my tongue across the edge of a fingernail because I was fresh out of pens that I usually gnaw on. Trying to break the habit, I removed my thumb and chewed on my lip instead. I wished I’d called Danielle, my old friend and associate from Mental Health. Close friends call her Dano, and she had often helped me with my work at the district attorney’s office. I could have used some interview pointers, but guilt held me tighter than the seat belt across my shoulders. Dano had been my counselor after Chance died and before I had lost my job with the DA. Then I had left for Oakland without any explanation, just dropped off the radar. In the process, I had left behind a treasure. Too late now. I glanced at my watch and headed indoors.

  “Sunny McLane? Right this way.”

  It had been a long time since I last applied for a job, but not all that long since I had interviewed others. Head high. Deep breath. Squared shoulders. I wondered if I looked as nervous as I felt.

  We passed through the waiting room with its stale air and shabby, wor
n furniture, frayed at the edges and low-budget, mirroring most of the people who would occupy them. I pondered whether the people shaped the design or the design had shaped the people. Would our clients be deterred by white carpet, plush high-back chairs, and large windows that streamed sunlight, like a high-end private insurance doctor’s office?

  The soles of my shoes squeaked like an old chair rocking across the tail of a rat as we trekked down the polished tile hallway to the meeting room.

  The wooden door opened to one long table with people seated behind it in three chairs: one fake smile, one professional smile, and one genuine glow. The panel rose to greet me with Genuine Glow hastening to speak first.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. McLane.” She extended her hand. “My name is Danielle Kitch. I am a therapist.”

  Professional Smile retained her Middle Eastern mask while arching a manicured, disapproving eyebrow toward Danielle, who had apparently spoken out of turn. She turned to me.

  “My name is Doctor Shireen Neshat, and I am the Director of Mental Health. And this”— she gestured without making eye contact at the large, portly man with a fake smile beneath his white mustache as though brushing away an annoying object—“is Doctor Alfred Cox, our staff psychiatrist.” She paused long enough to slip him a sly cat smirk. “Who is sitting in today for our psychologist, Doctor Garrett West.”

  Dr. Alfred Cox’s stature was similar to that of my old XXXL friend, Duncan; large, but not tough, more like a Hostess delivery truck than a tank. And while the doctor may have resembled Duncan on the surface, something about him felt very different.

  The doctor’s handshake was as warm and genuine as the living dead. Apparently, he felt that sitting on a panel of interviewers for a crisis worker was beneath his status. Returning my attention to Ms. Neshat, I notice that the professional smile plastered across her face had twitched up at the corners. Perhaps in response to Lord Alfred’s discomfort at sitting on the panel. Or maybe something else.

  “Please sit down.” She gestured to the empty chair, commonly known as the hot seat that faced the table.

  The director maintained her supercilious air as she fired the first volley. “Ms. McLane—”

  “Mrs.”

  “Excuse me?” She raised her voice as if the correction were inexcusable.

  “Mrs. McLane.” I doubled down.

  The director pulled in her chin and did a slow blink. “Mrs. McLane.” Her voice dropped about twenty degrees as she fiddled with the copy of my resume on the table before her. She looked like a Persian cat with cream on her jowls. “Can you give me the definition of Code §5150 in lay terms?”

  “Yes ma’am. Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institutions Code allows a law enforcement officer or a mental health clinician to detain a person against their will for up to seventy-two hours for observation and evaluation to determine if that person is a danger to themselves or others or is unable to meet their basic needs. They may or may not be under arrest with criminal charges, but they can be detained regardless.”

  Dano’s smile reached her ears as she took a turn. “Mrs. McLane, would you please tell us about the nature of your previous job with the district attorney’s office?” To which I responded with lengthy information regarding direct and indirect services for victims of domestic violence and rape, having served as expert witness in court on abuse and sexual assault cases, and that I had provided public outreach, participated in council and committee work, etc.

  “That’s wonderful,” said Dano. “Thank you, Mrs. McLane.”

  The psychiatrist, who was so full of himself that I doubted he could touch his toes, was next. He cleared his throat with a “harumph,” and adjusted his glasses just enough to peer down his nose. “Mrs. McLane,” he said with an imperious tone, “did you enjoy your job as a victim advocate while working for the district attorney’s office?”

  “I loved my job,” I answered without hesitating. “My job gave purpose and meaning to my life.” I sat tall in the chair and met his gaze. “There is nothing more rewarding than having the opportunity to help motivate and inspire victims of abuse to make positive life choices.”

  Dr. Cox looked indulgent. “But you do realize that this job does not include providing either inspiration or motivation . . . correct?”

  What a jerk. I blinked back my thoughts and said what the doctor wanted to hear. “Yes sir. Absolutely.”

  Round two opened with the director, Nurse Ratchet, smirking as she chambered her kill shot. “Mrs. McLane,” she said, putting heavy emphasis on the word Mrs. and then pausing to catch her breath as if the extra letter in my title had sapped her strength. “You say that you enjoyed your job with the district attorney’s office, but isn’t it true that you were fired for having killed four people?”

  Okay, it wasn’t as if I didn’t know this was coming. “Yes and no,” I said. “Yes, I did kill four people while protecting children who had been abducted for the purposes of sex trafficking, and no, I was not fired from my job. I resigned.”

  “Did you enjoy killing those people?”

  Silence all around.

  Not nearly as satisfying as firing a few rounds in your direction would be. “No, ma’am. I get more pleasure from helping people than killing them.”

  A hard chuckle escaped Doctor Highbrow.

  Dano came to the rescue. “I’m sure Ms. Neshat was not literally suggesting that killing someone would make you happy. Perhaps you could give us a little more information about that unfortunate event.”

  And I did. I told the panel how Travis and I had trailed a kidnapper to a mansion in the desert that held eight children captive for the purposes of pornography and sex trafficking. When members of a motorcycle gang arrived to transport the children, a shootout ensued, and I shot and killed four people to protect the children. An investigation followed, and no charges were filed against me.

  Dr. Cox’s expression transformed as I shared my story, from snooty and bored to attentive wide-eyed respect. He asked a few questions about the name of the motorcycle club and the caliber of gun that I had used. He appeared to be impressed.

  Dano spoke as if to remind the panel. “You come highly recommended by District Attorney Jack Savage.”

  Dano’s remark left me speculating. Did Jack feel guilty for forcing me to resign? Had he put political pressure on the director, a woman who seems to resent a simple correction, to hire me? Or is Dr. Neshat anxious about the fact that I had taken lives? I forced a smile beneath pinched brows but didn’t respond.

  Queen of her universe, Director of Mental Health, closed with the traditional final question: “I think we’d all like to hear your vision for this job. Where do you see yourself five years from now?”

  Behind your desk, with your job, making your salary. I rolled my eyes thoughtfully with my finger pressed against my lip. The nail slipped briefly between my teeth before I caught myself and yanked it out to make way for the flow of B.S. “I would like to fully embrace this season of my life and enjoy and excel in all things required of this position.”

  The director raised her brows dismissively. “Do you have any more questions for Mrs. McLane?” she asked the other panel members, even as her body language dared them to reply.

  And with that, the interview . . . er . . . interrogation was over. I left, puzzling over what I might have done to piss off Ms. Neshat. You’d think that I had shot one of her relatives.

  “For me?” My face lit up and quickly dimmed with suspicion.

  On the kitchen table sat a plain brown box the size of a plastic crate, topped with a large yellow bow. Travis stood behind the package, his green eyes twinkling, looking like a mischievous schoolboy.

  “Not that I don’t trust you, but what is it?”

  “Go ahead—it’s for you. Open it.” His dimples deepened, and then he frowned. “No—don’t! Don’t shake the box!”

  I smiled, tipping the box and shaking it harder. Something heavy bounced around inside.

&nbsp
; “I wouldn’t do—” Travis began as I lifted the lid.

  PFFFFFFFFT!

  The box detonated like an explosion in a fireworks factory, hissing and shrieking as something that resembled a Brillo pad sent me flying backward, raking and shredding my flesh as I hit the floor with a cry that split the air.

  “What the . . . ?” I cried out, flushing with anger as I picked myself up from the floor.

  “God, Sunny.” Travis had rushed to offer me a hand up. “I’m sorry.” He scowled as he helped pull me to my feet. “I told you not to shake the box.”

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded, furious as I assessed my wounds.

  “A kitten . . . for you.”

  The scouring pad flew past, bouncing off the wall and over an end table, knocking over a lamp before disappearing down the hall.

  “A cat? I hate cats!” Never more than now! “Jeez, what were you thinking?”

  “It’s just a kitten. Here, let me look at your scratches. They don’t look too bad.”

  “I can take care of myself.” He was right, I didn’t see trails of blood running down my body, only a needlepoint pattern of scratches on the back of my arms and some burning on my chin. Humiliation stung worse than the scratches.

  “I thought you liked animals,” said Travis. “You were so upset about losing your dog.” His mouth twisted to one side. “I was just trying to help.”

  Travis didn’t get it.

  “I hate cats,” I growled between clenched teeth.

  “But this cat is different. It’s a feral cat. All natural and woodsy, just the sort of thing you like.”

  “You brought home a feral cat?” I rolled my eyes. “That explains everything,” I said from the bathroom as I dabbed antiseptic on my scratches. “Next time just bring home a werewolf or one of those face-eating monkeys.”

  Something yowled from behind the shower curtain, and I turned in horror to see a shadow clawing its way up the plastic liner, leaving more rents than Norman Bates.

  “Travissssssss . . . do something! Shoot it!”