Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga) by Estevan Vega Read Free Book Online Page A

approved of Kyro, what with his baggy outfit, unkempt look, and the fact that he had a few tattoos that looked as though they’d been etched by prison inmates or gang members, but seeing her husband take interest in a young person again, the way he had as a youth pastor, oddly warmed her.
    “Should we be worried?” she asked. “I’ve never been to a mental hospital before.”
    Kyro turned to Aimee and started firing off. “Oh, it’s a cozy joint, Mrs. P. Nice, comfy chairs, nothin’ but friendly Joes callin’ the shots. Heck, they practically have a church service every Sunday. If we’re lucky, we may just barge in on ’em havin’ themselves a quaint lil’ prayer meeting.” He adjusted his knees so that Redd would have to change the way her seat was positioned in order to quell the stabbing sensations in her back.
    “Cut that out,” she demanded in a high-pitched voice after about five seconds.
    “What’s the matter?” Joel asked.
    “He’s digging his knees into my seat. It’s rude and annoying!”
    “Is it? Shoot, I didn’t know. Pardon me, Lil’ Redd. Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive a po’ soul like me?”
    “Kyro, you don’t need to act like that,” Aimee said, nudging him.
    “Like what?” he returned, playing oblivious.
    “We’re all adults. Even if the professional is a bit rough around the edges, she deserves a sliver of respect.” Aimee hoped her sarcasm was detected. Putting judgments aside, she was more inclined to align herself with him as opposed to the unsuspecting, rosy-cheeked driver.
    Redd clearly took note of the not so subtle dig but managed a thank you.
    Kyro draped his hood over a cowering head and leaned against the window. He breathed on the glass and lazily began shaping letters into the mist.
    “What are you writing?” Aimee whispered.
    “Nothin’, nosy.”
    “Try not to leave fingerprints on the window,” the front seat requested. “It’s a nightmare to keep clean.”
    “It’s no big deal.” Kyro shrugged, his fingers forming lines in the condensation. After a moment of hesitating, he held up his left hand behind the seat; if only Redd could see his suspended middle finger…
    “Everybody cut him some slack for bit,” Joel asked. “I think he might’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
    “Maybe that half explains his peachy attitude,” Redd chimed. “By the way, Mrs. Phoenix, regarding your question earlier about if you should be worried, only you know the answer.”
    Aimee sank into the seat, and her shoulders dropped, as if another chunk of her faith slipped out of her bones.
    “There’s still hope, Aimee,” Joel offered, scratching at his unshaven jaw. “That’s why we’re going. There are no promises, but for now, we have hope.”
    It sounded good coming from his lips, but where was that kind of faith and strength when she had prayed for hours on end to get her sober husband back? Where was that confident man when she had stupidly tried to rekindle a dead flame with Carlos, in hopes that Joel would wander in from the fog and snap out of it? So selfish and wounded she let herself become. Yet both guilty. And both equally unraveled.
    No, not equally.
    As she stared at Joel now, noticing the way he held himself, and the way Redd tempted his eyes every so often, she thought hard on it, on her lack, on her misguided attempts and empty searches. And maybe she peered through time incorrectly, or with the wrong lens. Had the move to the lake solidified their decay? What if, by then, it was too late, like she’d first believed? But did that justify her? Did the years of heartache and anger—the miscarriage, or Emery’s accident—justify her? Should I have left back then? Would that have changed things? Oh, to go back. To go back and find the error of so long a love and war.
    The problematic truth of it was that she had always secretly hoped, no matter what she said or how cruel she turned toward him, that Joel