“Of course you did.” She fished a twenty from her pocket, tossed it on the bar.
He rose. “I thought, maybe—”
“So did I, but you just talked yourself out of what could have been a fun evening.”
“I make my living talking.” He was the type to argue with the weather. “But I also know how to shut up.”
“Apparently not today.”
Purse on her shoulder and letter clutched in her hand, she walked outside to discover a sky thick with gray clouds. Mother Nature understood exactly how she felt. As far as she was concerned, it could rain buckets on everyone until Tuesday.
Still, there were people heading to the bars. Many were laughing, as if they had already adapted to the rainy forecast and shifted their weekend plans inside. If only change were that easy.
The air was muggy, and she cursed the sweat running down her back as she made the two-block walk to her town house. As she rounded the corner onto her street, her phone rang. She removed it from her back pocket and glanced at the display. It was her partner, Seth.
“I heard about the suspension.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“I warned you,” Seth’s gravelly voice barked on the end of the line. “Can’t beat people who are connected. In my younger days, I made that same mistake, but I learned. Just like you have.”
Joan flexed her fingers, accepting that he was trying to help. “You and I both know she did it. Even if my witnesses recanted their testimony after I arrested her.”
“You are preaching to the choir, Joansie.”
“She’s going to do it again.” Just like she sensed in her bones that Elijah would set more fires.
“We don’t arrest people for crimes that haven’t happened, and unless you have one big smoking gun, you’re not going to hold her for more than five minutes.”
“Who gets to die the next time?” Joan asked. “The next woman Avery believes is sleeping with her boyfriend?” The next woman Elijah Weston fixates on?
“Look, you got two weeks of what amounts to paid vacation. Use the time to relax. You work harder than anyone I know.” Seth sounded tired. “Take a break.”
“Right.”
He must have heard the fatigue in her voice. “You going to be okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said carefully.
Seth hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m golden, Seth.”
“Don’t let the suspension get you down. Two weeks will fly.”
Two weeks of no distractions and time to think about how she should have built the Newport case differently. “Like a bird.”
“Barb and I are grilling tomorrow. Door’s always open.”
“Thanks. But don’t count on me. I’ll be foul company.”
After a few more reassurances that she was good to go, she hung up. She climbed the stairs to her town house and unlocked the door. Inside, she picked up the letters dropped through the slot by the mail carrier. She clicked on a light, toed off her shoes, and dropped the mail on a small kitchen table. A card fell out of the stack of envelopes. It was from a reporter. “Would love to interview you.”
She crumpled the card and tossed it in the trash before she walked to her refrigerator and grabbed a beer. She twisted off the top and took a long pull. Sitting at the small round table by the kitchen window, she pressed the cold bottle to her temple and looked toward her refrigerator, where she had taped a picture of Mandy Kelso, Avery Newport’s dead roommate. The picture had been taken at an amusement park and featured eighteen-year-old Mandy flashing a thousand-watt smile. “I’m sorry. But I’ll make this right.”
The tightness in her chest twisted harder, forcing her to look away. She focused on the mail. Most of it was junk, some were bills, but at the bottom of the pile was a handwritten letter with no return address. She stared at her name printed in the familiar bold handwriting. Heart hammering, she carefully set down the beer, opened the envelope, and removed the letter.
Dear Joan,
It’s been a while since we exchanged letters, but I wanted you to know I have been following the Newport case . . .
She dropped the letter and closed her eyes. How the hell had Elijah Weston gotten her home address? She could think of nothing more inappropriate than today of all days to receive a letter from the guy who had nearly burned her alive. Karma clearly had a grudge against her.
Needing a moment to gather her thoughts, she moved to her den and sat on a blue vintage midcentury sofa angled toward a nonworking fireplace. A metal-framed mirror over the fireplace reflected the opposite wall and the low shelves showcasing biographies and classic novels. There were more antique pieces, including a coffee table and two walnut lounge chairs sporting cushions covered in a navy-blue fabric. Her decorating style was clean, clutter-free, and incorporated older furnishings not as flammable as their modern counterparts.
She regarded the envelope, again noting her home address written in his very precise handwriting. She had first written to Elijah Weston a year after the fire because she had needed to know why he’d set the fire. She had provided a PO box, never believing he would answer. But he had written back, denying that he had set the fire. She had exchanged more letters with him over the coming years, hoping he would eventually tell her the truth. But he never had told her why he’d set the fire. Five months ago, she’d closed down the PO box and had stopped writing him.
“How the hell did you find my house?” she whispered.
Dear Joan,
It’s been a while since we exchanged letters, but I wanted you to know I have been following the Newport case. I still believe that your instincts about Avery Newport are correct. She did set the fire, and she has escaped justice because she has money and privilege. I know if I had half the resources available to Avery, I would never have gone to prison. Stay strong. Avery will strike again because it is hard for someone like her to ignore the lure of fire.
I didn’t mean for this letter to be gloomy. In fact, I have very good news. The State of Montana has ruled that I have served my time and paid my debt to society. By Friday, I will again be a free man and living back in Missoula. I don’t know how often you get back to Big Sky Country, but I would love to see you again.
Cheers,
Elijah
“It is hard for someone like her to ignore the lure of fire,” she whispered.
Was Elijah talking just about Avery or offering a hint about himself? She reread the letter, trying to wrap her brain around the idea that he had found her. She let her head fall back against the couch.
The last time she had seen Elijah had been a week before the fire. The school year had been nearly over, she’d had her sights set on graduate school, and he had been wrapping up a very successful freshman year. Her roommate, Ann Bailey, stood at the top of the stairs. “Joan! Chop-chop. We have movie tickets.”
Ann’s blond hair was swept into an effortless yet attractive ponytail, and, as always, no makeup covered her peaches-and-cream complexion. A bulky cable-knit sweater skimmed above her trim jeans, proving cold weather lingered a long time in Montana. A pair of well-worn UGGs warmed her feet, and a blue-and-white cable-knit scarf wound around her neck in an offhanded yet stylish way.