She poured him a cup and set it on the island, not trusting her composure if her fingers touched his. It might be that small contact that rattled open the lock that kept her secrets and desires boxed. She poured her own cup.
“Thanks.” Long fingers wrapped around the mug, unmindful of the heat.
“Let’s go back to my office,” she said. “I put up a grid that I’ve been filling out slowly but surely.”
“I’d like to see it.”
He followed her down the hallway, and as soon as he stepped into her office, his gaze was drawn to the timeline that she had stretched across the long blank wall.
“The good thing about not being unpacked is that you have plenty of blank walls,” she said. “The clutter that life brings has yet to really take over.”
He sipped his coffee, nodding his appreciation, and then set it down on the edge of her desk. He opened the manila file to the top page, covered with his own scrawled notes.
“I traced the postmortem purchases made on Dana Riley’s card all the way to Missoula. The last one was made six days ago.”
She scrolled through Dana’s social media feed. “What did she buy?”
“Gas, food, and there was a single purchase for $825.14.”
On D. Riley’s feed, Ann discovered a picture of blue snakeskin boots sitting on a rock overlooking Missoula. The setting sun dipped toward the mountainous horizon, painting the land in fiery reds, startling oranges, and vibrant yellows.
She turned the phone toward him. “Maybe the killer bought a very expensive pair of boots?”
He took the phone and enlarged the image. “That’s taken here in town?”
“Yes. What was the name of the vendor?”
“The Classy Cat.”
“They don’t sell anything on the cheap.” She searched for the name, found the website, and clicked on the store hours. “They’re closed today.”
“Then we’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“Why expensive boots?”
“A present for a woman?” he offered.
“But it’s such an extravagance.”
“Best bait is not cheap.”
“Feels more like showing off.”
Her gaze wandered from the fiery colors in the post to the grainy picture of smiling Jane Doe, and then her mind wandered back to the autopsy. “Shifting directions to the burning of bodies.”
“Okay.”
“It’s more than destruction of evidence. This killer is not just destroying evidence of the victim’s identities, but he’s communicating with someone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s no purpose to the fires. They may delay identification for a brief period, but anyone who watches TV knows about DNA and dental records. If anything, the fires increased the killer’s chances of being caught.”
“Another arsonist would notice that the fires had been set.”
“Exactly.”
“Elijah Weston?”
“Maybe. He’s certainly been in the news this last year. And he has a fair number of groupies.”
Bryce studied her closely, as if peeling back the layers. “Did Thompson mention Elijah’s groupies?”
“He did. He asked me about the Fireflies.”
“Elijah’s groupies.”
“Yes.” How many times had her brother said that coincidences associated with crimes were rare? “What if this is all connected to Elijah?”
“How?”
“Dana told folks she was here to see a man who’d been released from prison.”
“Elijah.”
“Maybe. And remember one of Elijah’s Fireflies was killed last year.”
“Lana Long, I remember.”
“She died by fire, and her death was widely covered, and Elijah attended her funeral.” She had been shell-shocked at the time and too busy protecting Nate and unraveling the web of lies Clarke had spun. “Maybe the fires are more than simply getting Elijah’s attention. Maybe the crimes are more personal.”
“How?”
“What if the victims are all Fireflies?”
Bryce’s frown deepened as he considered her theory. “We haven’t confirmed that.”
She glanced at Thompson’s card. “Could you check with the prison and determine if Sarah Cameron and Dana Riley wrote Elijah? If they were both Fireflies, it would be our first link between the women.”
His gaze shifted back to the chart on the wall. “I’ll get a complete list of the Fireflies tomorrow.”
“If Sarah’s and Dana’s names are on it, then you can track down the women and figure out who’s missing.”
“What’s the motive for killing these women? Would Elijah order a hit on them? Pit one against the rest? Clean up loose ends?”
“I don’t know. Elijah is brilliant. He’s a master chess player who thinks a dozen moves ahead.” She rubbed her fingers against her temples, reminding herself to take an aspirin soon. “Also search for social media accounts for these women.”
“Done. Ann, is all this taking a toll on you?” Bryce asked.
“I can handle it.” She slid her phone into her back pocket along with the business card.
“When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” he asked.
She held up her cup. “I’m having coffee right now.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s doing the trick.”
“You have any food in this house?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I stocked up yesterday, knowing my son, who never stops eating, will be home tomorrow. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”
“You show me the supplies, and I’ll make us both a meal.”
“It’s been a while since anyone cooked for me.” Clarke had scrambled eggs for her when she was pregnant, and her mother relied on frozen food and takeout these days.
She led him to the kitchen, and all she had to do was point to the food in the pantry and refrigerator, and he ordered her to pour herself another cup of coffee and sit. He got to work, carefully setting out paper plates, bread slices, and all the cheeses and meats that went between them. He moved with an exact precision she found endearing.
“So neat and careful,” she teased. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever had to slap together a dozen sandwiches for a den of Cub Scouts?”
“I’ve fed as many hungry soldiers. And I’ll bet you they eat more.”
“You got me there.”
He cut each sandwich on a sharp diagonal, indicating to her he liked, maybe craved, accuracy.
“You’re a man of many talents,” she said as he set the plate in front of her.
“I like to eat. I learned to cook.”
“What about your brother? Is he a good cook as well?”
“Can make the best chow a dog would ever want. I wouldn’t recommend you eat anything he makes.”
She rose and from the refrigerator grabbed two cans of lemon-lime seltzer water. Normally, she drank out of a can, but considering the sandwich, she put ice into two paper cups and grabbed two pieces of paper towel off a thick roll. “Sorry, no real dishes yet. They’re in one of these boxes or on order.”