Her fingers brushed the edge of a door, and she stood and twisted the knob. She expected to see her living room but instead found herself in her closet. Sweat beaded on her brow and between her shoulder blades. Inside the closet, she sucked in the last of the fresh air and then moved to the door to her right.
Rising again, she reached for the door handle and immediately recoiled as the metal, now molten hot, burned her palm. The pain rocketed through her body and sent a surge of adrenaline, clearing all traces of brain fog. She glanced back toward her bed, thinking she could wrap her body and hands in a coverlet, but the smoke now enveloped her and the bed.
Grabbing the edge of her shirt, she twisted the handle with her left hand. The heat immediately burned through the worn cotton fabric, blistering her skin. She accepted the pain and kept turning the knob. It gave way, and the door swung inward.
Joan gasped at the first sign of the inferno eating through the room and their lives. She looked toward the front door and saw Gideon carrying his sister, Ann, outside. She tried to follow, but the heat held her back.
“Don’t leave me!” Joan gasped.
Neither looked back as they rushed out the front door. She dropped to her hands and knees, desperately searching for another pocket of air. The carpet radiated more heat as wallboards crackled and groaned beneath the fire thundering over her head. When she lifted her gaze, the door had vanished in a cloud of black smoke. Desperate, she crawled back to the closet in her room, choking until finally her head spun, and she passed out.
The plane came to a stop, and the steward announced the local time. Joan waited as the passengers grabbed their bags from the overhead bins, and when it was her turn, she yanked her backpack free.
Checking her watch, Joan knew that if Ann was as punctual as she had been in college, she would be at baggage claim now. As she made her way through the terminal, she wondered what it would be like to see Ann again. It had been more than ten years since the fire, and though she and Ann had exchanged cards each holiday and had spoken on the phone a few times in the early years, they had not had any real contact in some time. They had been the best of friends during college and had survived a devastating fire. They should have shared a lifelong bond of friendship.
So many times, she had nearly called Ann, but each time she found a reason not to. Dismantling the past was much like poking around a burned-out building. Tug on one board or beam and you risked toppling what structure remained. Pushing through the door, she tamped down her apprehension and followed the sounds of a growing cluster of passengers gathered around the luggage carousel.
Joan’s gaze was drawn to a tall, lean woman wrestling a large bag, which she yanked free and pushed toward an elderly man.
Joan recognized Ann’s blond hair and compact, athletic body. The hair was shorter, but her body was as fit as it had been in college. Joan tugged her sweater down, remembering her broken promise to get to the gym before her flight today. As Ann turned, she spotted Joan. For a moment, they stared at each other, trying to gauge the other’s reaction.
Finally, Joan raised her hand, and they closed the gap between them. She hugged Ann’s thinner frame and felt the tension rippling through her body like a rubber band ready to snap.
“Long time no see,” Joan said.
“We finally got you back to Missoula. I’ve missed you.”
“Same.” Smiling, Ann shoved her fingers through her bangs, a habit Joan remembered from college as a sign of nerves.
To break the ice, Joan produced a red Philadelphia Phillies T-shirt and ball cap from the backpack’s side pocket. “Where’s your boy? I come bearing gifts.”
Ann held up the small T-shirt. “Thank you.”
Joan instantly realized her mistake. “Okay, how big is the kid? Any son of Clarke Mead’s has to be tall.”
“The top of his head comes up to my shoulder.”
Joan studied the T-shirt. “Tell me his head will still fit in the ball cap.”
Ann laughed, and some of the tension between them eased. “It will. Do you have much luggage?”
“Only the backpack. If I need a change of clothes, I have a brand-spanking-new Phillies T-shirt I can wear.”
“Is there a coat in that backpack?”
“It was eighty-five degrees in Philadelphia this morning.”
“It’ll be close to thirty here by tomorrow evening. I have extra jackets.”
“The daytime highs were in the sixties, but I forgot about the cold nights. Winter comes fast out here.”
“Yes, it does.”
They crossed the terminal and stepped outside into the crisp air. Joan drew in a deep breath, her gaze lingering on the puffy white clouds hovering in the blue sky above the mountain chain to the west. “I’d forgotten how good the air smells out here. And the big sky. Philadelphia is currently locked in haze and humidity.”
“I’ve traveled several times to New York and DC, and I’ve always found the energy of the cities as intoxicating as it is exhausting. I’m always glad to get back home.”
“No more dreams of living in a big city?”
“Not anymore. And if that makes me provincial, then so be it.”
“I’m slated to attend a conference in Orlando in January.” Assuming she did not get canned from her job. “You and Nate should come and do Disney World.”
“I might take you up on that.” Ann’s acceptance sounded as tentative as the offer. She clicked her key fob, and the lights of a mud-splattered white SUV blinked. “When you called last night, I searched you on the internet. I read about the Newport case.”
Joan opened the back door and tossed in her bag. They each slid into the front seats, closed the doors, and clicked their seat belts. “Never arrest the daughter of a very powerful judge. And if you do, and you’re warned to back off, do it.”
“You could always be stubborn.”
“Doesn’t matter now. I’ve officially erased it from my memory bank.”
Ann smiled. “You used to do that in college.”
“What?”
“Press your ‘Delete’ key. Bad test, date, or movie, you closed your eyes and said, ‘Delete.’”
“Only way to move on.” The past was far more powerful than a mystical button, but it was easier to pretend otherwise. “Where’s Nate?” Joan asked.
“It’s Clarke’s weekend to have him.”
“Clarke’s weekend. Sounds like a divorce.”
“We separated six months ago.”
“Wow. Sorry to hear that.”
Ann’s smile was reassuring as she drove to the parking attendant’s booth, paid him, and headed north, away from town, toward the family ranch. “It’s really going well. We both agreed that a little time apart was a good thing. We married so young, Nate came right away, and neither of us had a chance to be ourselves.”
Joan leaned back in her seat and crossed her hands over her chest. She had never seen a civil divorce, but if anyone could pull it off, it was Ann, who had earned her PhD in forensic psychology, and then lectured at the university, but also consulted with the police. “You sound very logical, Dr. Bailey.”
“Clarke and I are okay with it. Nate loves living on my parents’ ranch.”
She omitted any mention of Gideon, his wife, or son, and Joan did not ask. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” Ann said, laughing and cringing at once. “There’s not been enough time for that.”
“There’s no one? As I remember it, every male over the age of twelve had a thing for you.”
“My best offer so far is from a police sergeant to speak at the Montana Highway Patrol.”
Joan offered an undeniably sly grin. “Is this guy single?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got more in mind than forensics.”
“He really does have a genuine interest in the psychology of repeat offenders. It’s strictly professional.”
Joan plucked an imaginary hair from her jeans. “Maybe you’re right.”
“You’re laughing at me,” Ann said.
“A little. What would it hurt if he did ask you out?”
The stress visibly melted from Ann’s shoulders. “If we’re talking about love lives, what’s the status of yours?”
“Married to the job.”
“That can’t be much fun.”
“It has its perks.”
“It’s the job that brought you here, then?”
Joan’s vibe shifted from easygoing to brittle. “You know me—I was never good at social calls. Is he really officially out?”
She knew Ann did not need a detailed reference to understand she was talking about Elijah Weston. “I haven’t seen him since the trial, but my sources in the prison system tell me that the beautiful boy we knew in college has firmed up into an imposing man during the last decade.”
“Brilliant and now strong.” Elijah Weston could have been the perfect guy. If he did not have a habit of setting fires. “Where is he now?”
“He moved into a boardinghouse near the university yesterday. He and his lawyer have gone out of their way to keep his release quiet, but you know how that goes. Missoula is a small town in many respects, and people will figure out that he’s been released. The state notified me, because I was his victim. Did they do the same for you?”