Death is in the Details

by Heather Sunseri

  Chief didn’t look happy about Luke withholding information, but he turned back to me. “Can you give me any reason to lock that son of a bitch up?”

  I shook my head slowly. “Actually, I can’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because when we were leaving the fire pit, I noticed the tracks in the snow—they were starting to be covered up, but I could still see them. One set of tracks was widely spaced around drag marks. The footprints were pointed toward my trailer—I assume because whoever was dragging me was walking backwards. The second set of prints was different—not the same shoes. So there were two people there. Either Ethan is telling the truth, and he arrived after I was attacked, or he had a partner who took off before Luke arrived.”

  Luke leaned back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, hell! That matches up perfectly with Ethan’s story.”

  While I was at the police station, Finch was called away for a veterinary emergency. I asked him if he wanted me to go stay with Aubrey—to do my part to keep her in bed, resting—but he said I needed to take care of myself tonight.

  Ethan left, too—the police had no reason to keep him, and an officer drove him back to his car, which was still at my trailer. I didn’t give Ethan a chance to talk to me before he left, though I could see how he badly wanted a moment alone with me.

  That left me with Luke Justice.

  “Take me to your place,” I said once he and I were settled in his SUV. I knew I shouldn’t be alone after suffering a concussion.

  His expression was serious at first, then a grin slid across his face. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the seat, cupping my hand over my forehead. My headache remained. “I want to look at your evidence board.”

  “Faith…” His tone went back to serious.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m obviously tied to this. Immediately after all three recent arson cases, someone has set a fire in my yard and broken into my trailer. And today, someone assaulted me. Either Ethan is involved, or someone wants me to believe Ethan is involved. Like it or not, I’m in this deep. You said you’d ruled me out as a suspect, and you’ve already invited me to get involved. So I accept your invitation. I want to see your evidence.”

  He faced forward and started the vehicle. “Fine. But you’re going to take your medicine and sleep off that headache first.”

  “Agreed.” The pain was excruciating, and I wasn’t sure I could process any new information in that state anyway.

  “And you’re going to tell me the whole truth about what happened the night your mom was killed.”

  I stared out the windshield. Luke Justice would get more than he bargained for if and when I ever started being honest about that night.

  Twenty-Five

  I wasn’t sure how much later it was when I awoke in Luke Justice’s bed, alone. A single soft lamp was lit in a far corner. Luke had let me wear one of his sweatshirts—from Georgetown University, his alma mater—and I had draped my jeans across the end of the bed.

  Now I pushed off the blankets, slipped on my jeans, and padded downstairs in sock feet.

  I found Luke asleep on the couch. Apparently he hadn’t intended to nap: he had glasses on, and a thick booklet of white computer paper was turned upside down on his chest. He’d probably just decided to “rest his eyes.”

  I smiled at the image before me. I’d never seen him in glasses; he probably wore contacts most of the time. He looked handsome and smart in the wire rims. And I believed that he was a kind man. It was unfortunate for him that he’d stumbled into a case involving me and my dark history.

  I walked quietly to the kitchenette and got a glass of water from the tap. I was tempted to take more medicine, but I wanted to have a clear head for a while.

  “How are you feeling?” Luke asked behind me. His voice sounded groggy.

  I turned. “Like someone scrambled my egg.”

  He sat up, set the booklet and his glasses on the coffee table, and rubbed his eyes. Then he stood up and walked over to me. His fingers went immediately to my forehead and traced a line from there down to my jawline. They were cool and slightly calloused to the touch. “It’s two a.m. Why don’t you sleep a little more?”

  “Don’t know if I can.”

  “I’d say you’d have no trouble if you took another of those magic pills.”

  “Probably, but that medicine makes me feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. It’s not something I enjoy.”

  He nodded. “I’m not big on the strong pain meds either. How about some good ol’ acetaminophen or ibuprofen?”

  “That I’ll take.”

  “I’ll get you some.” He pulled a bottle from a cabinet and tapped three gel caps into my hand.

  I swallowed the meds, then walked to the windows along the back of the apartment. The moon reflected off of the snow-covered ground. “There’s got to be half a foot of snow out there. That has to break some kind of October record for this part of Kentucky.”

  “The eleven-o’clock news predicted we’d have six to twelve inches before we’re done.”

  I scoffed. “Don’t you just love that? Six to twelve inches. If only we could all have that much latitude for accuracy in our jobs. ‘Yes, Your Honor, I can say with sixty percent accuracy that I think the defendant killed the victim. I think he should get a lethal injection.’”

  Luke sat on the couch and crossed his arms. “Are you a believer in the death penalty?”

  I studied him. It wasn’t an easy question. “I think there are too many flaws in our justice system, and too many people on death row later being proven innocent, for death to be man’s decision.” I lifted a finger just as Luke was about to speak. “However, if someone I loved or if a child of mine was harmed, I might change my opinion. So I guess I’m undecided.”

  “Did you think Ethan deserved the death penalty?” Luke asked.

  I was immediately taken back to Ethan’s trial. “The jury didn’t think so.”

  “But did you?”

  I turned and looked at the snow again. Clean, white, untouched. Tears threatened as I pictured Ethan’s face the day of his sentencing. He was terrified. He had lost everything.

  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t think he deserved the death penalty.” I’d had no idea why Ethan had done what he’d done, but not once did I ever believe that he had planned it.

  I faced Luke again. He was rubbing his hands over his face.

  “You look tired,” I said. “Exhausted, actually.”

  He pushed away from the couch and stalked toward me. He slid a hand to my waist. “Yeah. I could use a couple more hours of sleep.” He pushed a rogue strand of hair from my face. “But then I’d like to talk with you about the evidence I’ve accumulated upstairs.”

  I looked into his eyes. “I’m still a little pissed that I’m at the top of your suspect board.”

  “Well, I’m confident you won’t be pissed after we talk. For now, let’s both get some more sleep. We’ll talk about my board over breakfast and coffee.”

  After a deep breath in and out, I nodded. “Fine. You win.”

  “Good. I like winning.”

  The next time I woke, I wasn’t alone—Luke’s legs were intertwined with mine. And though I was still wearing my jeans this time, it felt too intimate for what our relationship had become after I’d seen my photograph on his wall.

  I peeled my body away from his. He moaned slightly, but didn’t wake up. It was still dark out, but I could see the beginnings of light on the horizon.

  I went down to the kitchen and rooted around until I found coffee grounds. I was impressed by the fresh-roasted gourmet blend. Luke didn’t find this at the local Paynes Creek grocery store—he must have brought it with him, or purchased it in Lexington.

  I started the coffee, then roamed around the downstairs. It was definitely a cozy space. I wondered what Coop planned to do with it. Use it for guests? Rent it out? I ran my
fingers along a bookshelf, past a couple of biographies, a Civil War history book, and a few suspense novels set in Kentucky, written by a local author.

  When the coffee was finished, I poured myself a cup, then added milk and found some sugar in a white canister with a lid in the shape of a rooster. Armed with my coffee, I grabbed my phone from the table and curled up under a blanket on one side of the couch to check messages.

  Penelope had called, then texted. Of course she’d heard about my concussion, and was checking on me. Finch had checked up on me too, late last night, and had then texted me to tell me he’d gotten a status update from Luke. He finished with: Feel better. Call me tomorrow. Be careful. Are you sure you trust Justice?

  I knew Finch was simply showing brotherly love and support; he’d always been protective of me. But there was no reason for me not to trust Luke. He was a respected FBI agent. His only agenda was discovering the truth.

  I heard Luke walking around above me, and moments later he came down the spiral staircase. “I was scared you had left,” he said. “And damn it’s cold.” He rubbed his arms and walked over to a wood stove. Once he had it properly stoked, he faced me again. “What are you smiling at?”

  I’d been watching him, but hadn’t realized I was smiling. He had an air about him that reminded me of boys from college. Although he was a successful thirty-something FBI agent, he had a boyish charm that made me laugh. “I’m not sure.” I looked down at my coffee, tracing the mug’s rim with my finger. “You’re not what I expected when I heard the FBI was getting involved.”

  “What did you expect?” He turned and headed for the coffee pot as if it were some beacon.

  “Well, mostly I didn’t care. I do my best not to get involved in the cases. I only take the pictures.”

  “Chief Reid thinks you can do much more than that.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, then faced me again. “Says you spot details that his top detectives miss.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it helps that I’m one of the first on the scene. And that I’m the one who shoots the pictures.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m told you have an eye. That’s why the younger cops, especially those looking to be promoted to detective, are threatened by you.”

  “Well, that’s stupid. I have no desire to be a detective. Or any kind of police officer, for that matter.” I stood, refreshed my coffee, then walked to the stairs. “On that note, I’m going up to look over your evidence board. Take your time.” I started the climb to the second floor.

  Luke took another sip of coffee, then said sarcastically, “For someone who doesn’t want to be a detective, you seem mighty eager to look over my evidence.”

  I stood a short distance back from the evidence board so that I could take in the entire thing. On the left side was evidence related to the deaths of my mother and Eli—photos of basically every member of my family, news articles, Post-It notes, and crime scene photos. To the right were similar items related to the other arson cases—some familiar, some not. The familiar ones included photographs of Bella Reynolds and her parents, Sadie Porter and her parents, Alexandra Sims, Matthew Lake, and, to my surprise, Principal Johnson of Paynes Creek High School. I was at a loss as to how the principal might be involved.

  I stayed where I was, taking sips of coffee as I stared at the board, memorizing the parts I knew something about, making mental notes and questions about the parts I didn’t. I was very appreciative when Luke brought the coffee pot upstairs.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, standing next to me.

  Deep in thought, I ignored him at first. I stepped closer to the board and began reading it from one side to the other. First I memorized the names on the photographs across the top—the key witnesses and victims. Then I moved down to the next row, scanning the photos of secondary characters in the stories we call crimes, the corresponding newspaper articles, and tons of Post-It notes.

  “These notes are all yours?” I asked, pointing to a couple of the Post-Its.

  He nodded but said nothing. He was leaning back on his heels, an arm across his chest. His other hand was still holding his mug of coffee.

  There was a Post-It with the words “Arrived in P.C. two days later?” taped just below Finch’s photo. I replayed the memory in my head of seeing Finch after that awful night so long ago. Yes, it was two days after the fire when he visited me in the hospital. Uncle Henry and Aunt Leah had been in and out, but I didn’t have many other visitors. The nurses told me Ethan slept in the lobby; one nurse told me she’d seen him crying. But he never tried to enter my room. After the fire, I’d told him I never wanted to see him again.

  My heart constricted at the thought. He’d been all alone. Whether he was guilty, and feeling regret over what he’d done, or innocent, and simply mourning his loss, he was alone.

  Feeling suddenly weak, I grabbed hold of a chair to steady myself and set my coffee on the table, trying hard not to slosh the contents.

  Luke stepped to my side. “You okay?”

  “I will be. Just give me a minute.”

  “Is it your head? Here, sit down. If this is too much—”

  “It’s not. I’m fine.”

  “Look, you have a concussion. Have you felt nauseous? Maybe we need to follow up with your doctor this morning.”

  “Luke,” I said, my voice taking on an edge. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, but if—”

  “Are you always like this? The hovering type?”

  He smiled. “Not usually. I guess I’m developing a soft spot for you.”

  I angled my head. “Even though you know that’s not a good idea?”

  “Even though.”

  I decided now wasn’t the time to talk about this temporary whatever-it-was we had going on. “Tell me about your board,” I said. “I’m mostly curious about the middle—the photographs of crime scenes and people I don’t recognize.”

  “Those are unsolved arson cases that have similarities to the night your mom died and to the three recent cases. All occurred over the past ten years.”

  I turned and paced back and forth in front of the cases I hadn’t recognized, making mental note of the dates. “These fires occurred months, sometimes years, apart. And they occurred while Ethan was in prison.” I spun around to study Luke’s face. “You never thought Ethan was guilty.”

  “For a long time, I wasn’t sure. He could have been guilty. These other cases could have been the work of a copycat—or multiple copycats. Or the similarities could have been mere coincidences. But…” He paused.

  “But what?”

  “Well, there are two things about your mother’s murder that differentiate it from the rest of the cases. Number one, it was the first—the earliest case on my board. Number two, in all the other cases,” he gestured to his wall, “the victims were murdered at a distance. Gunshot wound, carbon monoxide poisoning, drugs, the list goes on. None of them required the murderer to touch his victim. But your mother and stepfather were beaten to death. That’s personal. The person who killed your mom and stepdad did so in an act of rage.”

  I swiped at the tears that had fallen down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” he said

  “No, go on. I can handle it.”

  “Okay. There’s a chance we’re looking at a cold, psychopathic serial killer. Perhaps your mom and Eli were his first victims, and it was personal, and after he got away with it, he kept trying to re-create that moment. And now, we have two more fires in the same town where that first fire occurred. That can’t be a coincidence. So if I’m going to stop these murders, it’s critical that I understand what happened all those years ago.”

  I looked at the wall of notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. My eyes glided over the pictures of my mom and Ethan. I was going to be forever haunted by my memories of that night. But could I do something to stop anyone else from going through the same thing?

  “How can I help?” My voice shook.

  “I need you to put asi
de your feelings about Ethan. Pretend you’re not convinced he killed your mother. I need you to walk me through the details of that night. Everything you can remember.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  “You’re right. And I’m terribly sorry to put you through the pain of it. But if I’m right, there’s someone out there who’s been committing murders and setting fires for the past eleven years. And you can help me stop them.”

  Twenty-Six

  I didn’t give Luke time to stop me. I headed for the spiral staircase and went downstairs. The sun had risen and reflected brightly off of the snow, lighting the apartment, but also making the pain that lingered behind my eyes worse.

  I found my snow boots by the door. My coat was hanging on a hook just inside.

  “Why are you running again?” Luke asked. The calmness in his voice irritated me more than my persistent headache. “What are you afraid of?”

  I stood there with my heavy coat on over his sweatshirt, my snow boots on my feet with the laces hanging loose. I was a mess. “Afraid? You think I’m afraid?”

  “I know you are. And I think you want to tell me why.”

  I walked toward him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You don’t know shit. You certainly don’t know me. And clearly you know squat about your case up there.”

  Before I could turn for the door, he grabbed my hand and pulled me close. His eyes stared down into mine; the heat from them threatened to overwhelm me. And I could feel his breath feather across my cheeks. “Then help me understand. Help me put a stop to these murders.”

  My breaths were coming fast and shallow. My chest tightened, and my head throbbed like a jackhammer. “I can’t,” I said weakly. “I don’t know how.”

  “I think you do.”

  “You’re asking too much.”