chapter 20.

John and I talked over breakfast at Nancy's Diner, discussing what his plans were as far as his debt went. He thought that in the original agreement with Fletcher that he would have a couple of years to pay him back, had he known that Fletcher was going to demand the money back so soon than he would have never bothered asking him for any help. It just so happened that Fletcher's business was failing, and not because he wasn't getting customers – but because of his own dealings with loan sharks. Fletcher needed the best of the best, which meant that he spent a lot of money he didn't have in order to buy the equipment that he thought he needed, and in turn he found himself scrambling to make deadlines and pay back the unofficial loans that he had borrowed. John remarked about the fact that he had just talked to his uncle about his spending habits and how Fletcher had been showing off some new bulldozers that he had bought over the last few weeks, as well as brand new tools for most of the guys on his crew.

"And so he did this to you this morning – but why? You're his nephew, I don't understand how he could hurt you," I said, motioning to the darkening bruise on John's jaw. He looked worse for wear, but he nursed his sore face with a frozen bag of peas that our waitress offered after seeing the damage herself.

"Fletcher doesn't function like normal people on the best of days, and when he's under stress he tends to flake out pretty bad. I half expected this when he asked me to come meet him, and especially to ask to see me before most of his crew arrived, but I hoped differently," John replied, sipping at his coffee while trying to hide a wince that nearly escaped. He smiled through the pain, reaching over to place his warm hand over mine.

"I'm really sorry that I had to tell you all of this, but I didn't figure there was any way I could hide it from you without you getting the wrong impression," He paused as an emergency vehicle flew by with the sirens on full blast, waiting until the quiet of the diner set in again. "I took a hit to my pride this morning, but mostly I'm just frustrated that I thought I got myself out of one mess only to get into another. I completely understand if you don't want anything to do with me from here on out, it's a lot to take in."

I turned my hand palm up so that I could hold his tightly in my grasp, squeezing it for a moment. "I'm not concerned about that at all John, I'm more concerned with the way that he threatened you. It's not your fault that he owes other people money, he should have thought about that before lending you anything. You shouldn't have to pay the price for his mistakes," I reassured.

I couldn't help but wonder if Fletcher was the one who was going to be responsible for John's death in June, which made sense because that's when Fletcher wanted the money by. But what sort of uncle would do something so terrible to his own family? It didn't add up yet, at least I had a lead to look into. Somehow I needed to figure out who would kill John and why, though it seemed like Fletcher had a valid motive. I hoped I was wrong for both John and Fletcher's sake.

We sat quietly as we finished our breakfast, barely taking notice of the emergency vehicles that were speeding by the restaurant with their sirens blaring loudly. I wouldn't have thought anything of it until I heard the bell above the door chime, finishing the last sip of my coffee as I glanced up out of curiousity. There, walking in the door, was Mahala as she gripped a purple porcelain mug in her hand, using her free hand to gently dip a tea bag in and out of the steaming hot water. I watched her carefully as she took a seat at the counter, remarking how strange it was that I had a purple mug just like that at home. John followed my gaze to Mahala, perking an eyebrow.

"Someone you know?" He questioned, freeing his hand from his own coffee cup.

I shook my head as I turned my attention away from her, listening to the wait staff tell her that she couldn't bring outside drinks into the establishment but Mahala simply ignored them. They continued to ask her to leave her drink outside of the restaurant, but she shrugged them off with every word they said to her. Not once did she turn to look in my direction, almost as if she hadn't noticed that I was even there.

John cleared his throat, taking his hand from mine so that he could fish some money out of his wallet to set on the table for our waitress. "Did you really mean to kiss me last night, or was that just the alcohol?" He asked, his voice in a hush as he tried his best to hide the smile that was prying at his lips.

I focused my attention on him, watching the slight upturn of his lips as he rearranged the contents of his wallet. "While I have to admit that the alcohol definitely contributed to my courage, I can safely assure you that I did it because, yes, I really wanted to."

His deep brown eyes peered into mine in a way that simply said thank goodness, while he chuckled softly to himself. "Would you mind if I was the one to kiss you this time?" He questioned, leaning his elbows against the side of the table, almost as if he was hoping to lean across the table to kiss me.

I placed my hand gently over my heart, "I would be honoured, John Shop."

He did manage to lean over the table, avoiding the plates, mugs, and cutlery that were scattered on top, placing one hand beneath my chin as he carefully allowed his lips to press against my own. Our kiss last night had been fiery and passionate – at least that's how I remembered it – but this time he was careful and steady, as if he didn't want to take a second for granted. I smiled between each tender kiss, finally pulling away when I heard the bell ring again as someone entered the restaurant. I hadn't been one for public displays of affection in the past, but I wanted to believe with John things could be different – that I didn't have to be on guard all of the time and perhaps I could finally learn to enjoy each moment without getting too comfortable.

"What a morning," A deep voice announced as he sat down at the counter, pulling my attention away from John. "First the kids trashed the bridge and now a fire – I'm sure the police are having a hay day."

I noticed the uncomfortable distance between Mahala and the waitress, who still kept her glaring eyes on her as if Mahala was going to attack like a wild animal at any moment. "A house fire? Where 'bouts? Not on Lilac, right? 'Cause my boy is home alone right now," The waitress, Molly Ackamore, responded with a slight tone of panic in her voice.

The man, a local farmer named Bill, shook his head as he took the cup of coffee from Molly that she was about to over pour. "Nowhere near, it's out by the golf course – Brolock, I think," Bill responded.

I immediately perked up – that was my street. "Sorry, did you just say Brolock?" I interrupted, turning myself in my seat so that I could get a better look at Bill.

He nodded. "That's where I saw the firetrucks headed, didn't look like too much smoke from what I could see. They've got the street blocked off, so you won't be able to get a peek."

I jumped up from the table as John quickly followed behind, getting into his truck as we sped back to my house. As Bill had said, the street was blocked off by emergency vehicles and there was a gray plummet of smoke drifting into the sky. I hopped out of John's truck and dashed past the vehicles, only to be stopped by a police officer nearby. He shoved his hands out in front of me, bringing me to a skidding stop.

"Whoa there, this is an active zone, it's not safe for you to be wandering around," Officer McConnell said, one of the senior officers in Harrow Hall. "I'll need you to step back beyond the emergency vehicles, ma'am."

I pointed past McConnell to my house which had a steady stream of smoke coming from the back half. "That's my house!" I exclaimed.

McConnell looked over his shoulder before turning his attention back to me. "Oh, you're Phil Marksman's kid?"

"Yes, I am. Does my dad know about this? Where is he – is he inside?" The questions slipped one after another, feeling John step up beside me as he reassuringly pulled me away from McConnell.

"The house was empty, and from what I just heard it looks like they got the worst of the fire out," McConnell replied, stopping to listen to his radio before turning his attention back to me. "Your dad was notified just a few minutes ago, he should be here any second. But you won't be able to go in the house for awhile yet, they've gotta make sure the fire is out."

"Can I speak to the fire chief?" I asked.

McConnell looked over his shoulder once more, waving towards the nearest fireman who wasn't involved with spraying down the house. I took notice of the fact that the front window had been smashed out, my heart sinking as I thought of how expensive the repairs would be. McConnell exchanged a few words with the fireman before he went over to find someone else, bringing over the chief of the fire department, Andrew Goldstein. He had already discarded his heavy yellow fireproof jacket, wearing the bottom half that was supported by suspenders while he gently dabbed away at the sweat that was glistening on his forehead.

"You're Phil's girl?" Andrew questioned, despite the fact that I had met him numerous times before. I found it odd how many of the people in my own hometown didn't know who I was, and yet knew fully well who my dad was.

I nodded, anxiously awaiting the news. "Were you the last one in the house today?" Andrew asked, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket.

"I think I was, unless dad came home. What happened?"

"Did you happen to leave a kettle on the stove before you left? It looks like that's where the source of the fire started," Andrew said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I still have a few more things to run over, but it definitely looks to be the cause. It seems the kettle overheated and that something nearby fell onto the element and sparked the flame. Damage is minimal considering what it could have been, but the kitchen will need to be entirely gutted. Smoke damage is a bit rough downstairs and in the bathroom right above the kitchen, but nothing a few weeks of open windows and a good scrub won't solve."

"The kitchen has to be gutted?" I said, gulping back the idea of how much this was all going to cost. "The damage is that bad?"

"It could have been a lot worse. You're very lucky that your neighbour, Frank, was home to see the smoke coming out of the windows, otherwise there might not be any house left," Andrew explained, scanning over to see a very red faced Frank Moon standing by an ambulance as they put an oxygen mask on him. "He's a bit shaken up, has a terrible case of COPD so the smoke didn't do him any favours."

All of this was hard to believe – especially that the house dad had raised me in could very well be a flaming hole in the ground right now had it not been for Frank. But most of all – I hadn't touched the stove today, let alone the kettle. I didn't have time between waking up and calling John, and dad had left long before I was awake. I almost missed the connections as I continued to picture the damage inside the house, watching the smoke pillow into the soft blue sky, until suddenly the pieces snapped together.