Karen Rose
Count to Ten
© 2007
To Martin, for the twenty-five best years of my life. I love you.
To Cristy Carrington, for your beautiful poetry and
seeing emotion in my characters that even I didn't
see. I had a rock. You made it beautiful.
To the sisters of my heart who know me and love me anyway. I love you all right back.
Acknowledgments
Marc Conterato for all his medical know-how.
Cristy Carrington for showing me the secrets of enjoying poetry and for her gift of the poems "Us" and " casper."
Danny Agan, for answering all my detective questions.
Cindy Chavez, for answering my questions on foster care.
RJ Martin for introducing me to his firehouse and Jana Martin for introducing me to RJ.
My fellow members of the Tampa Area Romance Authors for support on everything from police funerals to sororities. You all are wonderful.
Julie Bouse, for sharing the story of her own family. Best of success to you, sweetie.
Any mistakes are my own.
Prologue
Springdale, Indiana
Thursday, November 23, 11:45 p.m.
Ale stared at the flames with grim satisfaction. The house was burning.
He thought he heard their screams. Help me. Oh God, help me. He hoped he heard their screams, that it wasn't only his imagination. He hoped they were in the most excruciating pain.
They were trapped inside. No neighbors around for miles to call for help. He could take out his cell. Call the police The fire department. One side of his mouth lifted. But why? They were finally getting what they deserved. Finally. That it should be at his own hand was… fair.
He didn't remember setting the fire, but he knew he must have done so. Without taking his eyes from the burning house, he lifted his hands to his nose. Sniffed at the leather gloves he wore. He could smell the gasoline on his hands.
Yes, he had done this thing. And he was fiercely, intensely glad he had.
He didn't remember driving here. But of course he must have. He recognized the house, although he had never lived there. Had he lived there, things would have been different.
Had he lived there, Shane would have remained untouched. Shane might still be alive and the deep seething hatred he'd buried for so long might never have existed.
But he hadn't lived there. Shane had been alone, a lamb among wolves. And by the time he'd gotten out and come back, his brother was no longer a happy boy. By the time he'd come back, Shane walked with his head down, shame and fear in his eyes.
Because they'd hurt him. The rage bubbled and popped. In this very house where Shane should have been safe, in the very house that now burned like hell itself, they'd hurt Shane so that he'd never been the same again.
Shane was dead. And now they nun, just as he had. 11 was… fair.
That his hatred and rage would bubble to the surface from time to time was inevitable, he supposed. It had been a part of him for nearly as long as he could remember. But the reason for his rage… that reason he'd hidden from everyone. Including himself. He'd denied it for so long, retold the story so well… Even he'd had trouble remembering the truth. There were whole stretches of time that even he forgot. That he made himself forget. Because it had been too painful to remember.
But he remembered now. Eveiy single person who raised their hands to hurt them. Every single person who should have protected them and didn't. Every single person who looked the other way.
It was because of the boy. The boy that reminded him of Shane. The boy who looked up to him for help. For protection. Tonight, the boy had looked up to him in fear and shame. It took him back too many years. It took him back to a time he hated to remember. When he was… weak. Pathetic. Useless.
He narrowed his eyes as the flames licked the walls of the wooden house that was burning like dry kindling. He wasn't weak or pathetic or useless any longer. Now, he took what he wanted and damned the consequences.
His good sense started to creep in around the anger as it always did.
Sometimes, unfortunately, the consequences damned him. Especially when the anger took over as it had tonight. Tonight wasn't the first time he'd stood back, looking at something he'd done, barely remembering the deed itself. It was the first fire…
He swallowed hard. It was the first fire in a long time. But he'd done other things. Necessary things. Things that would get him sent to prison if he got caught. Real prison this time, not juvenile detention which was bad enough, but manageable if a person had enough brains.
Tonight he'd killed. And he didn't regret it. Not a bit. But he was lucky. This house was far away from any neighbors, any prying eyes. What if it had been a normal neighborhood in the city? What if he'd been seen? He asked himself this same question every time. What if he got caught?
One day the rage that bubbled inside him was going to get him into more trouble than he could manage on his own. It ruled him. Made him vulnerable. He gritted his teeth. And being vulnerable was the one thing he would never let happen again.
Suddenly the answer seemed so very clear. The rage had to go.
So the source of the rage had to go. Which meant all the people who'd hurt them, looked the other way, they all needed to go. Standing here, watching the flames, the memory of each one of those people came back. He could see faces. Hear names. Feel hate.
He tilted his head as the roof crashed in, sending sparks flying skyward like a million mini-flares. He'd made one hell of a fireworks show.
It would be hard to top a display like that. But of course he would. He didn't do anything halfway. Whatever he did, he'd need to do well. For Shane. And for himself. Then he could finally close the book on this part of his life and move on.
That last shower of sparks might be enough to summon the local fire department. He'd better get while the getting was good. He got in his car and turned back toward the city, a smile bending his lips. The beginnings of a plan were forming in his mind.
It would be one hell of a show. And when the final curtain fell, Shane could finally rest in peace. And I'll finally be free.
Chapter One
Chicago
Saturday, November 25, 11:45 P.M.
A branch slapped the window and Caitün Burnette's jaw clenched. "It's just the wind," she muttered. "Don't be such a baby." Still, the howling outside was unsettling, and being alone in the Doughertys' creaky old house wasn't helping. She dropped her eyes back to the statistics book that was responsible for her being alone on a Saturday night. The party at TriEpsilon would have been a hell of a lot more fun than this. Noisier, too. Which was why she was here, studying the most boring subject in the quiet of a boring old house instead of trying to study with a party going on all around her room.
Her stat professor had scheduled an exam for Monday morning. If she failed it, she'd fail for the semester. If she failed one more class, her father would take away her car, sell it, and use the money to take her mother to the Bahamas.
Caitün ground her teeth. She'd show him. She'd pass that damn test if it killed her. And if she didn't, she had nearly enough money in savings to buy the damn car herself or maybe even a better one. The money the Doughertys were paying her to take care of their cat was chintzy, but enough to put her over the top and-
A different noise had her chin jerking up, her eyes narrowing. What the hell? It came from downstairs. It sounded like… a chair scraping against the hardwood floor.
Call the police. She had her hand on the phone, but she drew a breath and made herself calm down. It's probably just the cat. She'd look pretty stupid calling the police about a twenty-pound, overly-pampered Persian. Plus, she really wasn't supposed to be here right now. Mrs. Dougherty had been clear about that. She was not to "stay over." She was not to "have parties." She was not to "use the phone." She was to feed the cat and change the litter box, period.