by Burton, Mary
That was another tidbit the defense attorney had used to publicly call her judgment into question. Shrugging her shoulders, Joan decided she needed fresh air. She scrounged up a decent-enough smile as she grabbed the letter and her purse. “It’s been nice, Steve.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“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.
“Be right there, Ann,” she said before she shifted her attention to Elijah, a freshman standing by her teaching assistant’s desk. Elijah had proven to have one of the quickest minds in the entire school.
At the sound of Ann’s voice, Elijah had immediately lifted his gaze to Ann. It was not like Joan did not work out or take care of herself, because she did. But Ann was in a different league. When Ann entered the room, men forgot about the other women a
round. What really sucked was that Ann was sincerely nice and smart.
“Mr. Weston, did you have a question?” Joan knew she sounded more annoyed than she had intended.
Elijah shifted his focus back to her. His hair was thick, blond, and swept back over his forehead as if a breeze had just caught it. It begged to be brushed back. “You shouldn’t compare yourself to her.”
“What?”
“Comparisons are rarely productive. Women do it all the time. Men do, too. Regardless, they’re a waste of time unless there’s real value.”
Joan felt the color rise in her cheeks, but instead of confirming his wise observation, she went on the offensive. “Did you have a question?”
“No question. You did a great job this semester, and I’m just giving credit where it’s due.”
“Okay. Thanks. See you around.”
“Sure.”
Joan gripped the strap of her pack and dashed up the stairs. Halfway up, her foot caught on a loose piece of carpeting, and she stumbled. Adrenaline surging, she quickly righted herself. She refused to look back because she sensed that he was watching.
Ann grinned. “You look flustered.”
“I just tripped.”
Joan watched as Ann looked toward Elijah, met his gaze, and smiled warmly. “What’s Elijah like?”
“Smart. Best student ever.”
“He and I are going to be volunteer math tutors this weekend at the student center,” Ann said.
“He certainly knows his material.”
Ann playfully jabbed Joan in the ribs. Then Joan hustled out of the room, glad Ann was right on her heels. Even after Joan’s breakup with Gideon, Ann had remained her friend, and for that reason alone, she would have her back forever.
Ann dropped her voice while glancing around. “He’s intense. Smart. Different.”
Different. Joan could have practiced all day and not crafted a better understatement. All kinds of rumors swirled around Elijah, but whispers often followed people who did not fit a mold.
“He’s hot,” Ann said, whispering. “But just a little young for me.”
Now, as Joan pushed aside the memory and considered another beer, she wondered for the millionth time if she had missed any warning signs with Elijah. However, replays of their brief interactions had never revealed any lingering omens, and his letters never suggested a motive.
She rose and walked to her laptop, centered on a small desk tucked in the corner. She opened it and checked the weather in Missoula. It was thirty degrees colder than in Philadelphia, and snow would be coming soon.
She tapped her fingers on the keys and then searched airline flights to Missoula. The tickets were not cheap and would mean a dip into the savings she’d been setting aside for a new car. But the car could wait a little longer. And if she called Ann, she knew the lodging would be covered.
Joan had not stayed for Elijah’s trial, but Ann had told her later that he had repeatedly professed his innocence. But a history of small arson-related events, multiple eyewitnesses who had placed him near their homes hours before the fire, and forensic evidence that linked his DNA to the crime scene had all resulted in a swift guilty verdict. At his sentencing, Ann had said Elijah had spoken calmly about the imbalanced scales of justice. She said it had not been his words that had troubled her but his expression and tone, which both had hinted of retribution.
In Joan’s experience, that kind of anger did not just go away. Ten years of incarceration was plenty of time to plan revenge. The letter Elijah had sent to her home was not meant to be friendly. Hidden behind the chatty conversation was a real threat that she intended to neutralize.
Confessions of an Arsonist
My first fire was a tiny brush fire.
It was nothing big, but it crackled as its flames stretched up and toward the brush around it. It was hungry and wanted to devour the dry land. But I panicked, afraid that it would spread and I would be discovered. So I stomped it out until there was nothing but smoldering black ash. Destroying it made me angry. My fire deserved to run wild and consume everything it wanted. Already, I was anxious to set another fire.
CHAPTER TWO
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, September 5, 2020
4:30 p.m.
As the plane touched down at Missoula International Airport, Joan stared out her window toward the mountain range ablaze with vibrant reds and oranges. She was surprised that the glowing Montana hues conjured memories of the College Fire, which always lurked in the shadows.
The night of the fire, Joan and Ann had been out drinking. Each had broken up with their boyfriends and were anxious to move on with their lives. But a couple of beers had quickly sapped their strength, so they had decided to make it an early night. They had staggered home, and both had fallen into a deep sleep. The next thing Joan remembered was the explosion and Ann’s panicked shouts. “Joan, get up! Get up! The house is on fire!”
Ann’s voice sounded so far off, and even as she prayed for five more minutes of sleep, the scent of smoke slithered up her nose and rubbed against her nasal passages like sandpaper. She sneezed, pulled in more of the smoke that was quickly filling the air. Her lungs burning, she coughed and sat up as the sound of fire engines wailed in the distance.
“Joan!” Ann’s voice grew more desperate and distant.
Her head spun as she looked around the small room filled with dark-gray smoke and coiling fumes. Beyond the door, popping sounds mixed with the roar of a spiraling wind.
Involuntarily, she sucked in a second breath, followed quickly by a new coughing fit. She raised her hands to her mouth as she swung her feet over the side of the bed. For an instant, she was back in the apartment with her father, and the fire was consuming the living room around his recliner as he slept.
The inferno’s pop and roar hissed louder as the gray smoke grew darker. She dropped to the floor on her hands and knees, taking refuge in a lingering pocket of breathable air. The smoke thickened and forced her to her belly against the blue shag carpet. Her eyes watered, and she sensed she had minutes to escape. She crawled faster.
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.”
