With roads still a little slick from the melted snow, it was a five-hour drive back to Dallas. Denise spent most of it thinking. Her mind bounced from one thought and memory to the next, like a pinball bouncing off bumpers and rolling down the drain, only to be flipped back into play. Dancing with Brutus on the tiny dance floor at Billie’s. Sitting at the kitchen table with her sister, eating pecan pie, while Stella said as long as Brutus hadn’t cheated or beaten her, he could be forgiven. The flex of Brutus’s ass muscles under her hands when he pounded into her. Drinking tepid cider at the shelter while Dusty told her Brutus was talking to Colonel Flowers. Brutus stretched out in her pink chair, suggesting she should reupholster it in a manly color. Her promising to buy a stepstool so she could more easily reach his lips for a kiss. Brutus’s voice lowered to an intimate whisper, suggesting they have some dessert. The calls Brutus had made, begging her to pick up the phone. Brutus accusing her of being a hypocrite.

He hadn’t called once in the past two weeks, ever since she’d told Dusty to tell him to stop calling her. Her breath caught. Had he finally given up? That thought drove an icepick of anxiety through her heart. She had been too stubborn to answer even one of his calls. Why had she been so stupid? Hypocrite was such an ugly word. Maybe she deserved it.

Her hand twitched toward her phone, sitting on the passenger seat. She wanted to call him now, but he could be working. Or … Her foot lifted off the gas as a horrible thought entered her head. He could have found someone else. Just like Dusty had. Oh, God.

The pinball started up at double speed, crashing through memories until she felt almost sick. To distract herself, she turned on the radio. Christmas carols blared, interspersed with chatty snippets of news. She was just passing Waxahachie when the news announcer came on.

“The day after Christmas is a big shopping day in Dallas, with stores offering steep discounts on holiday merchandise. But shoppers will not find the bargains they want in the West End today. A raging fire in the historic district threatens a dozen restaurants and businesses.”

Denise gasped and jabbed her finger on the volume button. If Brutus was working, he was probably there, in danger. Her knuckles turned bone white on the steering wheel.

“There are two reported deaths as of this broadcast, as well as dozens of injuries. An unknown number of people are trapped in the Pink Pussycat Lounge, which may be where the blaze started. When interviewed, Captain Stewart of Dallas Fire and Rescue said only that his teams are well trained and are doing everything they can to contain the fire. He had no comment on eyewitnesses’ statements that they heard an explosion.”

The Pink Pussycat? That was where Stella worked. Was she working today? Denise called her sister’s cell. No answer. This close to the metro area, traffic was getting heavier, but Denise sped up to reach Dallas as quickly as possible.

And then what? Join the ambulance chasers who were probably crowded around the West End, gaping at the fire?

Hell, yes. She would see for herself what was going on.

Not all the snow had melted in Dallas and traffic was heavy, so it took her nearly two agonizing hours to cover the remaining forty miles. She called Stella several times during the drive, and Brutus twice. No answer. Streets were jammed.  She parked in the first spot she found. Smoke and some sort of acrid chemical scent grew thicker the closer she got to the Pink Pussycat. Through the press of people, she glimpsed barricades and flashing lights from police cars.

She fought her way to the front of the crowd. Most of these people were tourists. She could tell by the way they dressed. One older gentleman had on a sweat-stained Stetson. Probably not a tourist, she decided.

“Excuse me,” she said, loudly enough to catch his attention. “What is going on? I know about the fire. But is it under control? My sister works in the area and she is not answering her phone.”

His weather seamed face looked concerned. “Why, I don’t know about the fire, miss. But I heard they’re taking the hurt people to the Methodist Hospital. Maybe you should check there.”

A brassy-haired lady with a northern accent broke in. “That’s right,” she shouted. “Methodist or Baylor is what I heard. Too many injured for just one hospital. That’s not all I heard, either. I was eating lunch in this nice little bistro when I heard this roar, like a jet taking off. Next thing I know, me and my hubby are rushed out of the restaurant by some guy in a blue uniform. I have no idea who he was, but there we were, not even done eating, on the street. Let me tell you, this has been terrible. Something exploded in some club. Not the kind of club I would ever go to, if you know what I mean.”

Denise gave her an automatic smile. “Thank you.” She turned to the older gentleman. “Thank you,” she said again, and hurried off.

When she had pushed her way to the back of the crowd, she called Methodist and asked if they had anyone there named Stella Johnson who had been at the fire in the West End. The woman on the phone explained, with what seemed to be strained patience, that they didn’t have names for all the injured at this point and she should call again in a few hours. Denise hung up and called Baylor only to get the same answer.

She couldn’t stay here. She was only another person and car jamming the streets. She drove to Methodist in hope that she would find out more information if nothing else.

When she arrived, it was so crowded she had to park at the edge of the back of the lot, behind the doors where ambulances arrived at the emergency doors. A Dallas Fire and Rescue ambulance idled a few yards away from the door. Denise’s heart did a funny little dip.

Two men in the blue Dallas Fire & Rescue uniforms came out of the building and walked toward the ambulance. She couldn’t mistake the broad shoulders and narrow waist of the one in the lead. His lips soundlessly formed the word, “Dee.”

Her first impulse was to throw herself into his arms. The scowl on his face kept her from it. “Brutus.” It came out as a strangled sob. “Have you seen Stella? She works at the Pink Pussycat and she’s not answering her phone.”

The forbidding look melted slightly. “She was our first passenger. She’s here.”

“Thank God!” She curled her hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. “Brutus, we need to talk.”

Dusty came to the other side of the vehicle. “No time to chat,” he reminded his partner. “We have more customers to pick up and transport.”

“Right.” Brutus walked right past her to the driver’s side of the ambulance.

“Brutus, I know we can’t talk now. Call me when you’re free, okay? Please.”

He stepped up into the ambulance and paused to stare hard at her over the top of the door. “I called you over and over for weeks. You never answered.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll answer this time, I swear.”

He stared, hard faced, for a moment more. “Okay. It will be hours until I’m free.”

“I’ll wait.”

He got in and slammed the door shut. With a curt nod through the window, he drove away.

Slightly shaky, Denise went around to the front door and went in to the hospital. She went to the information desk.

“Hello. I’m looking for my sister, Stella Johnson. She was in the fire in the West End.”

The woman, iron gray hair cut severely short, frowned. “I’m sorry, we have no information concerning the fire victims available to the public.”

Denise planted her fists on the counter and leaned close. “I’m not the public. I’m a sister. I just spoke with the EMS who brought her here. Now, where can I find my sister or someone who can tell me her condition?”

“Please step back. I will enquire,” she said rigidly, and picked up the phone. After a few minutes of guarded conversation, she hung up and sniffed at Denise. “Ms. Johnson will be transferred to a room in about an hour. If you would care to wait in the family waiting room you will be informed when you may see her.”

It was a long wait. Fifty minutes crawled by like days. Denise kept her phone close, although it was ridiculous to expect a call from Brutus already. When the elderly waiting room attendant called her name, she hurried to the desk.

“Ms. Johnson is in room 428. I’m afraid I don’t have any information about her condition, but you can go in now.”

The door to room 428 was open only a couple of inches. Denise pushed it a little wider and poked her head in. A nurse in lavender scrubs stood at the bed, a tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. Denise looked at the figure in the bed and her stomach filled with lead. Stella didn’t look like Stella. The thick blond hair she was so proud of was gone, replaced by loose bandages. Her face, so swollen and misshapen that it didn’t even look like her, was angry red except where multitudes of fine, small blisters had formed. An IV dripped fluid into her arm, an oxygen cannula was under her nostrils and an oxygen gauge was attached to a forefinger.

The nurse hung the tablet from a hook at the footboard and turned toward the door. She stopped when she saw Denise.

“She’s my sister,” Denise croaked.

The nurse patted the air with a flat hand to signal quiet. She jerked her head to the hallway and Denise followed her out.

“She is resting,” the nurse said quietly. “It’s the best thing for her.”

“Is she okay?” Denise shuddered. “What happened? Is she…” Her voice trailed off while she wrestled with tears.

The nurse’s reassuring smile nearly had Denise blubbering. “She’s here, not at Parkland, so her burns are not as severe as others’. Dr. Stanley should be by in about an hour and you can learn more then. You can stay in her room, if you like, but please be quiet and don’t touch her. And don’t try to change the thermostat. The room is a little cool, but that is good for her.”

The hour dragged by while Denise shifted in the chair against the wall of the room. It seemed Denise had had nothing to do for the past twenty-four hours but wait and think. Stella, a stranger who happened to be a sister, had not been her favorite person when she’d first come to Dallas. There had been times in the beginning she had regretted allowing Stella to share her apartment. With her low-cut necklines and high cut hemlines, sparkly shoes, and flirtations, she couldn’t have been more different than Denise. But living with Stella had allowed Denise to see her good qualities. Now, she couldn’t imagine not having a sister.

She sat in the recliner, her silenced phone in one hand, and watched Stella sleep. Her sister was propped on her good side, revealing how the burn travelled from the side of her face, down her neck to her shoulder, and disappeared under her hospital gown. She wished the doctor would come to tell her just how bad it was.

A footstep sounded in the doorway. Denise looked up eagerly, and then shrank. It wasn’t the doctor. She had never met this man, but she had seen pictures of him. The asshole. Denise felt a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. He didn’t even notice her. His gaze was fixed on Stella. The anguish written plainly on his face shocked Denise. She had never imagined her sperm donor with honest emotions.

She tried to force herself to look at him as if he were a complete stranger. He had to be at least fifty years old, but the years sat lightly on him. He was lean and rangy. The blond hair sprinkled with silver strands was a little too long, in a trendy way, and his darker mustache and goatee were perfectly groomed. Eyes the same blue as hers were bright in a face that had some lines, but was still handsome. Thirty years ago, he must have been devastating. Certainly, he had been to her mom.

She saw the moment he realized he wasn’t alone with Stella. And she recognized the shock on his face when he saw her. She wasn’t the only one who had seen pictures, she concluded grimly, remembering Stella snapping her and Brutus dressed up to go to dinner at the French place.

A harried looking woman entered. She nodded brusquely at the asshole and went to unhook the tablet from the bedframe and read. She stepped closer to Stella and gave her a thorough visual inspection. She seemed to listen for a long moment before giving both Denise and Stella’s dad a long look and crooking her finger at them.

Denise avoided looking at the man, just followed him as he followed the woman out of the room, down the hall, to a tiny meeting room.

“I’m Dr. Stanley. You are Ms. Johnson’s family?”

“Yes,” said the asshole. “Mike Johnson. Stella’s my daughter.”

The doctor looked at Denise. “I’m Stella’s sister,” she volunteered.

“Alright then,” the doctor said briskly. “First let me say that I believe Ms. Johnson can make a full recovery. Most of the burns are second degree, with some third degree. There will be scarring on the left side of her face, neck, and shoulder. The good news is, her eyes and nose were not affected. It’s likely she’ll lose at least part of her left ear.”

Stella took such pride in her appearance. Denise inwardly cringed.

“Skin grafts?” Stella’s dad asked.

The doctor shook her head. “I will discuss that with Ms. Johnson,” she began, and continued in medical jargon that Denise didn’t understand, outlining various possible options, chances for infection, and which treatments would be most effective. Stella’s dad nodded with a gravely intense expression.

“When can I bring my little girl home?” he asked when the doctor wound down.

Denise opened her mouth to protest.

He shook his head at her with a small smile. “Can you take care of Stella while you go to school and work and serve in the Guard?” His voice was gentle. “Stella’s mom will take care of her at home.”

Denise just barely kept from sounding belligerent. “Jesse might want to have a say.”

“Her boyfriend.” He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.” He turned back to the doctor. “When can I bring her home?”

“Not right away. I want to keep her here for at least another twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.” The doctor glanced between them. “Ms. Johnson has been sedated. It will be at least another two hours before you’ll be able to speak with her. It’s nearly seven o’clock. Why don’t you go downstairs and have some supper before the cafeteria closes.”

It was not a question; it was clearly an order. When the doctor swept out, Denise found herself staring at her sperm donor. He was obviously uncomfortable. He licked his lips and sighed.

“Can I call you Denise, or do you prefer Ms. Friedlander?”

“You can call me Denise.” Her tone was ungracious. “But if you think I’m going to call you dad, forget it.”

“You can call me Mike.” His smile was hopeful. “Come on. I’ll buy you what is probably an absolutely delicious supper in the hospital cafeteria.”

She stared at him, so full of roiling emotions that she had no words.

His hopeful smile fell. “You hate me. I get it. But I’ve waited almost thirty years to be able to meet you and talk to you. This might be the only chance I get. Won’t you let me tell my side of things?”

Her gaze shifted to the phone she still held. Hypocrite, jeered Brutus in her head. “Okay. But I can buy my own supper.”

The walk to the cafeteria was silently uncomfortable. Only a few of the tables were occupied, mostly by people in scrubs. She and the asshole each ordered meatloaf and found a small table in the corner of the cafeteria. A large and incongruously cheery holly and ivy centerpiece took up half of the table. Mike picked it up and transferred it to a nearby table. Denise decided that calling him Mike was more respectful than the sperm donor or asshole. Not that she particularly wanted to be respectful. But the man clearly loved at least one of his daughters.

Well, that was bitchy.

Denise made herself relax her grip on her fork. Don’t be a hypocrite. Try to be fair, she ordered herself.

They started their meals in silence. After a few minutes, Mike made a face.

“I was right, this is absolutely delicious.”

The choked giggle surprised her. “Is that what you call it?”

“My mama always said to look on the bright side.” He picked up his coffee and drank. “Can I talk while you eat?”

She fixed her gaze on the meatloaf and nodded.

“Okay.” His voice dropped a bit. “Nothing I’m going to say is meant as an excuse. I just want to explain what happened thirty years ago.”

Denise forced herself to cut another piece of meatloaf and nodded again.

“I’m from Louisiana. Didn’t move to Mississippi until after Stel was born. Don’t know if you knew that. I got married to Linda, my high school sweetheart, a week after my nineteenth birthday. We were young and stupid in love with each other. I had a job at a garage that paid some of the bills.” His smile was a little twisted. “Linda was a hairdresser. Her paycheck paid some of the bills too. Neither of us made enough to pay all the bills, much less buy any fun. We were still in love, but sometimes real life made it hard to remember that. We were married four months when Linda turned up pregnant.”

He paused to drink more coffee. “I guess you probably know what happened next. It was too much for me. Like a fool, I ran. I told my wife I was heading west to find a job that would pay enough to take care of her and the baby. But honestly, I just ran. I ran until I landed a job on a ranch close to Fredericksburg, and that’s when I met your mama.”

Denise pushed her internal snarl back. She forked up some mushy green beans and tried to look nonjudgmental.

“I don’t want to lie, Denise. I liked your mama, but I didn’t love her, not like I loved Linda. But I was crazy mad at the world, feeling like a coon chased up a tree by the hounds, and it seemed like being with Julie, that is, your mama, was a nice revenge. An escape from real life.” He didn’t look away from her, his face open with regret, and some shame, but strength too. “It was wrong of me. It’s one of the worst wrongs a man can do to a woman, short of rape. I was stupid and weak. Me and Julie weren’t together more than six times. I guess it only took once for her to get pregnant. She took one of those home pregnancy tests and started building castles in the air about us being a family. When she told me…”

He trailed off to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth. Denise saw a tiny tremor in his fingers.

“It was the biggest wake up call of my life. In one split second I saw just what a selfish, weak fool I had been. A sledgehammer to the head couldn’t have made it plainer. I had to tell your mama that I was a married man and my wife had a baby on the way.” His swallow was audible. “Julie called me every name under the sun, and I deserved all of them. I had to walk away from her. I went back to Louisiana and confessed everything to Linda. I didn’t leave anything out. She took a week to think about it, but she forgave me. Our marriage hasn’t been perfect, but it’s strong. I’ve never strayed again.”

Denise looked across the table at him. Either he was sincere in his regret or he was a fine actor.

“Linda knew about you,” he went on. “We were never rich, but I did a lot better financially when I went into real estate. Linda agreed that some of that money ought to go to you. I wrote to your mama over and over offering to pay child support. I even sent checks. She must have opened the first few letters I sent, because every check was returned, torn up in itty bitty pieces. After the first few, they were returned unopened. I sent you presents for Christmas and your birthday, but they were sent back too. I didn’t blame Julie, and I didn’t expect she’d ever want to see me again, but I thought she might let me help you. After all, you were my daughter.”

She couldn’t keep it in. “Daughter?” That her voice was low and almost level was a miracle. “My mom never said anything about you sending money. The minute she told you she was pregnant you dropped her like a hot rock and went running back home.”

Mike’s blue eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, he leveled a stare on her both steady and stern. “I’m not lying to you, Denise. Your mama did everything she could to shut me out of your life. I knew I had a daughter only when I read about it in the birth announcement section of the paper. You could have been a boy. It took me months to find out what you were named. I tried in every way I could to know you. Your mama wouldn’t let me.”

“She would have told me.” Denise shifted in her seat, suddenly unsure of that. “She wouldn’t have lied to me.”

“Maybe she didn’t see it as a lie. Just keeping the whole truth back to build walls around you.”

“To protect me,” she murmured.

Mike opened his mouth, but only shrugged. “I guess.”

Her mother had kept this from her. Had everyone in her life lied to her? “I don’t believe it.”

Now Mike’s mouth firmed. “You should ask her.” He nodded at her phone lying on the table beside her plate. “You call her and ask her straight out. I’m gonna freshen up my coffee. I need to give Linda a call and let her know how Stel is. Probably take me ten minutes or so.”

He got up and headed to the line of coffee urns on the far wall. Denise chewed her lip and looked at her phone. Swallowing, she picked it up and called home.

“Mom.”

“Honey, I’ve been worried. Did you make it back to Dallas safely?”

“Yeah. Look, I need to talk to you about something. Did the asshole ever try to send money for me?”

Silence stretched. “What on earth are you asking that for?”

“Did he?”

A whip snapped in her mom’s voice. “That man is poison and I don’t care to discuss him.”

“Just answer the question. Please. Did he try to send child support? What about presents for Christmas and my birthday?”

“Why would you even think that?”

“Because he told me so.” Denise knew her voice sounded flat. “Is he lying?”

“No.” Her mom bit off the word. “He tried to pay me to cover up his guilt, but we didn’t need his charity.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“Of course not. The less you knew about him, the better.” A scathing laugh. “He didn’t give up until you were eighteen. He thought he could buy my forgiveness with money, but I didn’t let him off the hook so easy.”

“Oh, mom.” Denise leaned her forehead in her hand. Pieces of her world were breaking from their frame and crashing to the ground. “Oh, mom.”

“Is he there with you now? You get up, young lady, and walk away from him. You don’t need anything from him. He’s nothing to you.”

Denise focused on breathing for a minute. “I love you. I’ll call again later.”

“Denise Anne!”

But Denise hung up and laid her phone on the table. Mike must have seen her end her call, because he came back and sat down. Denise looked at him, feeling oddly fragile and weak.

“She told me you did try to send money and presents, just like you said.”

He looked almost sympathetic.

“All my life,” she went on, almost steadily, “I’ve believed you played with my mom and then went on your merry way with never another thought for us.”

“And now you’ve found out that things you believed for nearly thirty years may not be quite right.”

She made a helpless gesture.

Mike put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “There are always two sides to every story. Each side believes their version is the complete truth until they hear the other side.” His eyes crinkled in a half-sad smile. “Then the truth can look mighty different.”

Dry mouthed, Denise nodded. Guilt crushed her. What did the truth look like from Brutus’s side?

“I’m sorry your mama kept me from you. She had her reasons, but it seems to me it was you and me who suffered for them.”

Denise nodded again. Her mind slipped from this hospital to another hospital, where Brutus lay in a bed accusing her of hypocrisy. Tears rushed to her eyes. He was right. He was totally right. She blinked hard, but she could feel heat of the tears burn her eyelids.

Mike reached across the table, but dropped his hand before he touched her. “Being with Julie was a mistake, but you weren’t. I didn’t ever want you to think I didn’t care about you or that I went on my merry way with never another thought of you. Do you hate me?”

Denise opened her mouth. Closed it. Thought hard. “No. Not anymore. I’m not sure what I feel right now. It’s been a crazy day.” A crazy couple of months actually. She examined his face, seeing the hope not quite hidden in his eyes. “I can say that I understand you better now. I have plenty to think about.”

“That’s fair enough.” He did touch her hand now, lightly. “I’m not perfect, and I treated your mama wrong, but I’ve done everything I could to try to make it right. Or at least as right as it could be. Maybe you will never want me to be anything except your sister’s daddy, and that’s alright. But I hope that someday we could be friends.”

She opened her mouth to respond when a familiar voice growled, “Who’s this?”