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He found the floor’s waiting room empty and sat in one of its hard plastic chairs. Celia had been right. Helping someone else would be a much-needed distraction.
Chapter 5
Jamialreadyregrettedherdecision to reach out. She should have been able to handle the situation on her own. Even though the doctor had recommended she stay in the hospital, the returned pressure on her chest told her to get out. The nurse hadn’t been happy when she’d asked to be released.
The medication would make it too easy for Andrew. When she’d first agreed to the visits to his house, it was after she’d been prescribed the anxiety pills. The pills had worked. She’d felt little anxiety, but she often wondered if she should have, instead of that unending numbness.
Something blocked the light filtering into the room from the hallway. For a moment, she thought she was too late. Andrew must have returned.
Only the man looked nothing like Andrew. Andrew wouldn’t have been caught wearing something as simple as jeans and a T-shirt. The way the shirt stretched over his biceps showed that there was muscle in his chest and arms, muscle that Andrew had never had.
When he stepped inside the room, his expression was no longer hidden in shadow, and she saw that his face looked hard. The chiseled jaw, a previously broken nose, and the dark shadow that hinted at the man needing a shave soon all added up into something different than she’d expected. At first she thought he had short, black hair, but it wasn’t short; it was pulled back in some sort of bun.
His eyes were brown, like Celia’s and the doctor’s, only not the soft kind. No, his brown was darker, studying her in return. There was something there, something she couldn’t place. They weren’t calculating, not like Andrew’s had always been, but as if he was seeing all of her at once.
This couldn’t be the man Celia had talked about with such affection. He was too masculine and didn’t look gentle at all. Only Jami couldn’t imagine who else it could be. “You must be Celia’s Malcolm,” she said, the words coming out soft and sure, not the riot of uncertainty she felt inside. “I’m Jami.”
“Yes. Jami.” Those eyes of his still held something. Recognition, maybe. It made sense that Celia had told him her name.
Jami looked down, made anxious by the way her name sounded coming from this man. It sent a shiver through her, which was confusing. She couldn’t be afraid of someone who was a genuine hero, if Celia were to be believed, and it wasn’t fear she was feeling; she would recognize that. She folded her arms around herself. Whatever the feeling was mixed with the steady thrum of anxiety that was telling her to leave.
“You’re looking a little worse for wear, Jami.” He approached the bed, his strides sure, confident. The hand he rested over her foot, hot even through the sheet, held the gentleness she’d been expecting. “How can I help?”
Jami forced her eyes to meet his. Staring into them, another tentacle of what might have been memory slid through her, and she frowned, her words locking in her throat.
Someone rapped on the doorframe. Jami took in the put-together look, and the visible badge, and the thread of hope she’d been clinging to died.
“Ms. Reece?” the police officer asked. “I’m Detective Borden. Your doctor made some inquiries, and I’m here to take your statement.”
“My father?” she asked. “Kevin Reece?”
The detective studied her expression. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Reece is deceased. There was a fire at his home. One we’re investigating.”
Jami’s arms tightened around herself. The words didn’t come as a shock. She hadn’t wanted to believe Andrew, but he’d never lied to her before. There’d been no reason to.
“Borden,” Malcolm said with a nod in the man’s direction.
The detective nodded back. “Hey, Griffin. Surprised to see you here, though that might explain a few things.” The detective’s eyes softened when they shifted back to her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Reece.”
She shook her head, but she wasn’t sure what she was denying. Not that he was gone. Maybe that it was a loss. Kevin Reece had been gone for a long time.
“If you feel up to it, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” The detective’s gaze slid over her, lingering on her temple and the scrape along her visible hand. “But I can wait. It looks like you need rest.”
“I didn’t mean to leave him alone.” Jami hated the way the words sounded. She hadn’t left him alone, she told herself, but the guilt still added weight to her chest. She’d been unconscious when her father died. What else could she have done?
“Was your father not fit to be left alone?” the detective asked, taking out a notepad. “Could he have been the one that started the fire?”
“I should have been there.” Jami’s brows drew together as she remembered why she had been on the stairs. “He asked me for breakfast. He was hungry, but he’d never try to cook for himself. My mother always fixed it for him before the accident.” And Jami had been cooking for him ever since. “It’s not like I left matches around. I’m not sure how it could have happened.” Her father had never started a fire before. That was why she’d struggled to believe Andrew, even though he tended to tell her the truth.
“What if you just walk me through what you remember?” the detective suggested.
Malcolm remained quiet, moving back against the wall.
“It’s not much. My father was aggravated when he woke up. It was earlier than usual, but he was hungry, and angry about it.” Jami looked away. “Frustration is often a side effect of his mental state. Or was.” Every day, she had tried her best to make things easier on him, and every day she had been so anxious since she usually failed. They had both lived in misery. Trying to wrap her mind around that being over wasn’t possible. Not yet.
“He was mentally ill?” Detective Borden asked.
“Ever since a car accident a long time ago.” Her parents had been tired, picking her and her sister up from the dance, so Jami had offered to drive so they both could rest on the way home. Instead, she’d ruined everything.
