Page 22 of The Fire We Crave

Smoke sits down next to me on the porch swing, so confident it will take both our weight. It creaks and groans beneath himbut doesn’t break. He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his cut, taps one out, and then offers it to me.

“Wasn’t really tired.” I turn up my nose. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Smoke smiles at that, before popping the end of the cigarette into his mouth.

“What’s funny?” I ask as he lights it and then takes a long draw.

“I was smoking outside your house once as I waited for Melody to do whatever she was doing. And you came out with your hands on your hips and yelled at me for polluting the atmosphere and for ruining my lungs so close to your bedroom window. You pointed up above the bakery to the tiniest open window. Glad to see you stuck to it.”

The mention of Melody slides the divide solidly back between us. “You don’t get to talk about her.” My words sound petulant.

“No?” He blows a stream of smoke into the air away from me. “Figure you might be the only person on earth who’dwantto talk with someone about her. You know, they say people die three times. When they die. When they’re buried. And the last time anyone speaks their name.”

“We don’t know she’s dead.”

Smoke nods. “This is true. But I play the odds. The chances of her being gone fourteen years and nobody finding her are really fucking slim.”

“Maybe if you’d been more honest up front when—you know what, never mind. There’s no point in us going through all this again.”

“You were thirteen when it happened, Quinn. I was nearly twenty-one. Have you never thought for a millisecond that you saw the whole thing through a young girl’s eyes and that what you thought you understood is wrong? What you think about me might be wrong?”

I push to stand at the same time he does. The swing wobbles. I do too. So does he. We collide into each other.

His hand grips my arm firmly; my chest brushes against his. I have to lean my head back to look up at him. His presence both unnerves and arouses, and I hate it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not talking about things isn’t healthy,” he says. He squeezes my bicep, then runs his hand down my arm.

“How was the fire?” I ask cruelly. And he drops my arm like I’m the one burning out of control.

I see the muscle twitch at the side of his jaw as he stubs the half-smoked cigarette out in an ashtray on the little table next to the swing. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it? I’ve been through the file on Melody’s disappearance with Sheriff Radcliffe a thousand times. I know every single detail. As an adult and sibling. Freedom of information goes a long way. There isn’t anything I’ve misunderstood.”

Smoke huffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. I hate that I notice how big and strong his biceps are, and how much I love the tattoos he has. “You’re assuming a police record is accurate? Bold choice, Quinn.”

“Fuck you.” I go to march past him, but he reaches for my hand and takes it.

“We need a reckoning, you and me.”

I look up at him, knowing that I can’t trust anything this man offers. “I’m going to bed,” I say.

“You said that once tonight.” His fingers circle my wrist. “But if you decide you want the truth, not the story you’ve been told, come find me.”

He looks down at where his finger and thumb overlap on my wrist, then back to my face as he lets go. “You stay. I’ll go. Good night, Quinn.”

Then, I’m left alone with my recklessly beating heart.

7

SMOKE

It’s a dream.

I know it.

Not because I’m in a fancy hotel room with Quinn.

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