The photographic evidence moved into what had been her bedroom, and her throat tightened when she saw the outline of her metal-frame bed blackened and crushed by falling beams. A red-and-white MADE IN PHILADELPHIA poster was still thumbtacked to the wall but had been burned up to the cracked Liberty Bell illustration. That poster had been a gift from Ray and one of the few mementos she had brought with her from Philadelphia.
Beside the poster stood her secondhand dresser. The cluster of brushes, hair ties, and makeup had been swept to the floor by the spray of water, and the lone item remaining was a square Chanel No. 5 bottle, which she had purchased at a yard sale for five dollars. Though the scent had never suited her, she liked the idea of having something so fancy. All that destruction, and the perfume bottle still stood where she had placed it.
The ceiling had caved in on her desk, burying her computer, textbooks, papers, and the blue mug she had filled with fresh coffee every morning. Ironically, she remembered feeling grateful, as she had lain on the ambulance gurney hooked up to oxygen and an IV, that she had emailed herself her exam notes. At least she could still pull up her notes on another computer and study.
Joan shifted her attention to the door and the red-hot handle that had scorched her palms as she had desperately tried to get out. Memories crept out of the shadows, bringing with them the heat from the College Fire. For a moment it was hard for her to breathe.
She pressed trembling fingertips to her forehead as she pushed back the rise of panic and concentrated her focus on the image. The fact that the fire crews had reached her in that holy inferno rose to the level of a miracle.
She turned to the next image. The charred and water-soaked living room couch was now cast in sunlight from the collapsed roof. How many nights had she sat on that couch, a large bowl of popcorn cradled in her crossed legs, reading a book or watching Survivor?
Ann’s room had been damaged, but not to the extent that Joan’s had been. The kitchen had also sustained terrible damage. The cabinets, counter, and even its wooden floor had all collapsed into a pile upon the earth foundation.
Joan reached for a file marked Arson Report and skimmed a half dozen pages before she found the investigator’s official findings.
Three incendiary devices were used. One by the back door leading from the kitchen, the second under the window of the back bedroom, and the third positioned in the crawl space under the same back bedroom occupied by Joan Mason. The combustible devices appeared to have been plastic bottles filled with diesel fuel. The device placed by the back door was not completely incinerated, and forensics identified pieces of a thick cotton sweatshirt that had been wadded into the vessel. The wick was likely ignited by a lighter or match, and because the cotton material was so long, the arsonist had time to clear the property before the explosions. The positions of the vessels appeared to be placed strategically to create maximum damage.
The arson report went on to detail evidence that appeared irrefutable. That recovered strip of a sweatshirt had been tested at the lab, which identified Elijah’s DNA on the fabric. Eyewitnesses had spotted Elijah a few nights before the fire leaving their backyard, and he had also been seen walking down their street in the hours preceding the blaze.
“Your DNA was found at the scene,” she whispered to herself. Many of the guilty professed their innocence even when faced with overwhelming evidence. But there was something in Elijah’s confident tone that rang true.
Footsteps in the hallway had her lifting her gaze to Kyle Bailey. “Kyle?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Working. What’s your excuse?” She welcomed the distraction from the files and pictures chasing too many demons out of the shadows. “Don’t tell me—you’ve been arrested for telling too many bathroom jokes?”
He tipped his lips into a slight grin while still trying to act cool. “No, I’m not in trouble.”
“You’re not wearing handcuffs, so I guess the other officers agree.”
“Cops don’t arrest ten-year-old kids.” He dropped his backpack in a chair and sat in the one next to it. He dug out a soda and fished a packet of Nabs from his backpack. When he opened the crackers, he offered her one. He may have looked like his mother, but he was quick to share like Gideon.
She took an orange cracker filled with peanut butter. “Thank you.”
Freckles were sprinkled across his nose. “You’re welcome.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here, Kyle? Shouldn’t you be out playing soccer or football?”
“It’s a holiday, remember? And I’m waiting on Dad. He went to the jail, and I have an appointment at the clinic.”
The kid’s schedule was none of her business. She bit into the cracker, found she liked the Day-Glo orange and artificial peanut butter. And before she could stop herself, she asked, “Nothing serious at the doctor, I hope.”
“I broke my arm last winter.” He said it with such authority, as if he was proud of it. “They want to x-ray it and make sure it’s growing right.” He held up his right arm and bent it in multiple directions. “It’s fine. Doctors are a waste of time.”
She liked the kid. “I broke my arm when I was twelve. My best friend, Vincent, dared me to ride my bike down ten concrete stairs at the library. Made it almost to the bottom, but the front wheel twisted, and I went flying. Broke my arm at the elbow.” Damn thing still hurt when it rained.
“You rode a bike down the library stairs?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, but yeah, I did. I’m not a person to dare. How did you break your arm?”
“I was living with my mom in Denver. I was walking to the corner store to get her some ginger ale and was hit by a car.”
“Damn. That had to hurt.” Joan intentionally kept her tone calm, just like she did when she rolled up on a crime scene with a hysterical witness or traumatized victim.
“It didn’t hurt too bad at first. But it did later in the ambulance.” He again rotated his arm in a full circle. “But it’s fine now.”
“Impressive.” She thought about Gideon getting that kind of phone call. It was at least a thirteen-hour drive between Missoula and Denver. “I bet your dad drove all night after he heard.”
Kyle’s gaze widened with hints of surprise. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“I know your dad. He’s like that.” She was curious about Helen, the woman who had toyed with Gideon’s heart after Joan had split town ten years ago. But grilling the kid about his mother was a pettiness she would not indulge.
“You don’t sound like you’re from here,” Kyle said.
“You know I’m from Philadelphia.”
“Why are you looking at case files in this office?”
She closed the folder filled with graphic color images. “I went to college here. Before you were born.”
The boy, now looking curious about the file, tried to read the tab. “What was the case?” he asked.
The kid did not appear to be a fan of sugarcoating the truth, but he was still a kid. “There was a fire.”
“Did anyone die?”
“No.”
“So why do you care about it?”
“Because people shouldn’t go around burning down houses.”
“There was no arrest?” Kyle challenged.
It was her turn to smile. “You must know a lot about police procedures.”
“Some. Dad’s told me stories.”
“There was an arrest and conviction.”
“Then why do you care?”
“Good question.”
He nodded to her scarring. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Burn scar.” She tucked her hand under the table.
“From that fire?”
The boy was quick. “Yes.”
“There was a fire in town on Saturday,” he said.
“I know.”
“Are you working that case with Dad?”
“Yes. Kind of. Not exactly.”
“What’s that mean?” He offered her another cracker, but she declined.
“Your dad is letting me nose around.”
“He doesn’t need your help,” Kyle said.
“He doesn’t really need me at all.” The truth surprised her with a sting.
Quick, determined footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Gideon appeared in the doorway. “Kyle. Why didn’t you come by my office?”
“I didn’t want to sit there alone. I got a snack and came in here when I saw Joan. We had breakfast together yesterday at Aunt Ann’s house.”
Gideon lifted his gaze quickly to Joan, as if searching for a sign that she might harbor any resentment toward the boy in any way. Whatever he saw must have calmed him, because he shifted back to Kyle. “Ready to go to the doctor?”
“Yeah. But for the record, I don’t need a doctor,” Kyle said.
“Once you get your medical degree, I’ll stop bugging you about it,” Gideon said.
Kyle gathered up his backpack. “Good to see you, Joan. You going to be at Ann’s tonight?”
“I’ll be there.” She pointed her index finger at him. “Show your dad how flexible your arm is.”
Kyle rolled his shoulder and then his arm as if he were a major league ballplayer warming up.