Page 8 of Burning Embers

“Yeah, I think so.” To me, Jake explains, “Ethan’s one of my buddies.”

“Oh.”

Really, what else is there to say to that?

“I’m going to be in the car!” Lissa screeches, and then she races out of the bedroom, her brown hair trailing behind her.

“Lissa! We’re not leaving for another half hour!” Hale calls, but it’s too late for Hurricane Lissa.

She has come, demolished everything in sight, and then retreated without a backwards glance.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jake murmurs to Hale. When Hale nods in approval, Jake turns to me, smiles, and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “See you in a bit.”

And then he’s gone.

Amanda clears her throat uncomfortably from where she still stands in the doorway. She moves a hand down her pencil skirt before glancing at Hale.

“I still have a few things I need to discuss with you in private, Hale,” she says.

Hale nods. “Yes, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Amanda hesitates, her eyes flicking towards me, before she nods once and strides away in the direction Lissa and Jake went.

Leaving me alone…with Hale.

The older man blows out a weary breath and runs his fingers through his hair, salt-colored strands seasoning the dark locks. He studies me with keen, all-seeing eyes, though he doesn’t say anything. I have the distinct feeling I’m a tiny butterfly pinnedbetween two glass slides, just waiting for him to analyze beneath a microscope.

“You’ve had a tough life, kiddo,” Hale begins softly. “I can’t even imagine the things you’ve been through.”

Indignation heats my cheeks.

I’m not stupid. I know that Hale and his husband would’ve had access to my case file, but I suppose a part of me hoped that he hadn’t read it. Or if he had, he wouldn’t bring it up. I don’t want my life to be a carnival show for the town folks to laugh at and mock. I’m not saying Hale would make light of all I’ve been through, but…

Pinpricks of ice race up and down my arms. I’m suddenly freezing, though I’m not sure if that’s from the roaring air conditioner unit above me or my own trepidation.

“But I can’t have you carrying a weapon in my house,” Hale continues, his eyes shining with both regret and resolve. He jerks his chin towards my jacket sleeve, where I have the blade hidden away in a tiny sheath I created. “I trust you, kiddo. I do. But what if you had cut Jake’s throat in your panic? Or stabbed at Lissa when she grabbed you? I want you to feel safe, but I have to think about my other charges as well.”

I want to argue with him, mount a protest, scream and yell at the unfairness of it all.

If I wanted Jake or Lissa to be dead, they’d be dead.

I know my skills with a knife.

However, I can see things from Hale’s point of view, too. All he wants to do is protect his foster children. And who am I to argue with that? Hale has been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, and yes, that could change at the drop of a hat, but I don’t believe it will. He seems to radiate sincerity and compassion the same way my last foster dad reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol.

Biting down on the thousands of protests I want to make, I reach inside my sleeve and grab the tiny knife. It feels as if I’m giving up a part of myself—one of my limbs—but I know I have to give in.

Hale must see the struggle in my eyes, because his own significantly soften, a feat I didn’t think was possible.

“You’re safe here, Izzy. I promise. I know it’ll take time for you to believe that.” He grabs the blade from me. “You’re safe.”

I don’t know if I necessarily believe him—how could I, when I just met him an hour ago?—but it feels as if a heavy weight lifts from my shoulders the second the blade leaves my hand.

But what Hale doesn’t know is that I don’t need a knife to be a lethal weapon.

I can be that all on my own.

Four