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But it’s five minutes until the end of the show, and I haven’t heard a single word of dialogue, not with the thoughts running like wild jackrabbits inside my head. Last season ended on a cliffhanger, and I’m as in the dark now as I was then.
“Finn?” Billi says during a commercial break, I suspect not for the first time, and my gaze snaps across the sofa to meet the concerned expression in her eyes. “You okay over there? You seem awfully quiet tonight. Not that you’re a talkative person—I have no idea how you are, actually. But in my inexperienced estimation of human behavior—specifically yours—you’re quiet. You didn’t even laugh at the bit with the ice cream, and that part was so cute. Oh gosh, maybe I’m the one who should stop talking.” She stands up to grab more coffee, and I sneak a glance at her backside, which earns a cough and a wink from Mr. Bailey when he catches me looking. The old man doesn’t try to hide his open admiration for all things Billi, a fact that seems to both exasperate and amuse her. You can get away with a lot of things when you’re considered a human antique. I straighten in my seat on the sofa and face the small television screen.
“Please don’t stop talking on my account,” I say by way of apology. The woman is just being friendly, and there’s nothing I hate more than squashing a good mood. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
She sits down across from me in a wooden swivel chair she dragged from behind the front desk. “Anything to do with the reason you’re here?”
It’s an innocent question that invites a hundred others. Why am I here? More specifically, why isn’t Baby Boy Hardwick? And while we’re dotting I’s and crossing T’s, who the hell is Baby Boy Hardwick in the first place?
“Somewhat…” I say, letting the word trail away.
The show starts up again, and together we watch the final scene. When credits begin to roll, Billi stands to turn off the television. It’s an old console with a turn dial, the kind we used to have when I was growing up before remote controls were invented. Most might consider it outdated, but everything old becomes new again eventually. So will this.
“Want to tell us what’s on your mind?” She sits back down and tucks a leg under her thigh as she leans forward. “Maybe that will help.”
“Yes, maybe we can help,” Mr. Bailey adds in an obvious attempt to keep the night going. Can’t say I blame him. The thought of heading back to my room and that box of secrets invites all sorts of dread.
I’m not sure telling two complete strangers about my career’s ins and outs will help, but what do I have to lose? Only an hour ago, I thought I was the miracle child of two otherwise infertile parents, so I’m hardly the expert on anything, including my own life.
So, I start with the basics. “I’m a reporter with theHouston Chronicle, here to cover the thirtieth anniversary of the hospital fire.”
“Fire,” Mr. Bailey sarcastically huffs under his breath, effectively piquing my interest. Billi shoots him an exasperated look, and the questions already crammed inside my head multiply.
“It was afire, Mr. Bailey. A tragic one, but an unavoidable accident.”
The man plants his hands on his knees and leans forward. “You weren’t around then, young lady. And I’m telling you it was no accident. Ask around, and you’ll see.”
What?My gaze shifts between them, the reporter in me coming to life.
“I have asked plenty of people.”
“Your daddy ain’t plenty of people,” he fires back. “He would say anything to keep himself elected.”
“Keep my father out of it. Those are the rules, and you know it.”
I inch forward, waiting for the ball to drop. The rapid-fire exchange is like watching an Olympic Ping-Pong match, back and forth, up and down, with surprising intensity. Who knew Ping Pong—or verbal sparring between an attractive young woman and a wrinkled old man—could be this interesting? There seems to be more between Billi and Mr. Bailey than just customer and seller. Something that smells a lot like history.
Mr. Bailey leans back against the couch, the fire dying to a slow simmer. “Fine, no talk about your dad. But I have my thoughts, and you have yours, and no one ever said they had to be the same.”
“Agreed.” She sighs, followed by a tense silence that stretches so long I’m convinced the conversation is over. So much for their offer to help. Just when I make to stand and leave, I feel her gaze on me again. “Sorry for that. I didn’t mean to derail the conversation that way. Is there anything you want to ask usthat we agree about?” She gives Mr. Bailey a conciliatory look. “About the anniversary, I mean. We might not have the answers you’re looking for, but we can try.”
Mr. Bailey nods. “We’re probably your best option. I doubt anyone else will talk to you.”
I frown. “Now that you mention it, I made a few calls before I left Houston. But the moment I gave people my name and the reason for my call, every last one of them hung up on me.”
Mr. Bailey huffs. “Course they did. There’s an unspoken rule in this town: no one talks about the fire. The bad thing is that many people who might remember it are long gone by now.”
“Dead?” I ask.
Mr. Bailey shrugs. “Dead or moved away. Only a few of us recall it, but I guarantee you’ll hit a roadblock everywhere you turn.”
I assumed from experience that all the hang-ups would turn into in-person conversations; many people hate the depersonalization of phone calls. Now defeat settles on my shoulders and makes them heavy. Nothing like crashing into a wall before you even start the car. “Why wouldn’t they talk? It seems like a memorial would prompt a desire to commemorate those who lost their lives.”
“You would think,” Mr. Bailey gives a shrug that communicates a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Unless, of course, they’re afraid to say the wrong thing. Something that might expose what really happened.”
What really happened? There’s more to the story than just a fire?
“Mr. Bailey,” Billie scowls out a warning.
