“Someone used an accelerant, that’s for sure. The fire inspector will be able to tell you more.” I glance up. “Any idea who the victim was?”
“Caucasian female. Slender build. No ID yet.”
My sweat-soaked layers are starting to cool, sending a chill over my skin. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that we were too late to save whoever was in that house. “Neighbors might know.”
He’s scribbling away, his left hand curled around the pen. When we were kids, teachers tried to get him to switch to his right hand, until Mom got up in their grill.
“M.E. thinks she was either unconscious or already deceased when the fire started,” he says.
Either conclusion offers little solace. Nobody deserves to be trapped like that. “Damn.”
“We had a bust not too far from here last month,” he says, gazing to the west.
Bust could mean plenty of things, especially in this neighborhood. “Why the bike?” I ask, stacking the last of the hose.
“Huh?” he asks, turning back to me.
“Inside that room. There was a bicycle.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe it was hers.”
Someone who gets around on a bike could mean they don’t have a car. The idea that this woman was homeless returns to my mind.
William Hayes comes around the other side of the structure with Scotty.
“Hellofa first day,” Everett says, arching an eyebrow.
“He did good,” I say with a nod. Hayes kept his head, didn’t get cocky, and worked hard.
Everett fixes me with a curious gaze. “Is it true you and Meg were at a house party on Walker Street last night?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I expect a ribbing—I rarely go to parties and he knows why—but his gaze softens. “How’s she doing?”
The ache behind my breastbone gives a sharp twist. I focus hard on loading up our tools. “Better.”
Now I know who tipped off Mom.
“That’s good to hear.” Ev flips his notebook shut. “Later.” He heads for his rig.
It takes us another hour to finish cleanup. Then I do a walk-through with the fire investigator, our boots crunching on the charred floor. It’s still warm in here, the air thick with the scent of doused campfire and the acrid hint of the fuel used to start the blaze.
The investigator videos the blackened shell of the room where the fire started. “Pretty warm this time of year for an external heating unit. Was it plugged in?”
I close my eyes for an instant to break into my memories. “Yeah, I think so.” But abandoned houses don’t usually have the electricity turned on, so maybe we’re wrong about that.
The investigator squats down in the center of the floor, where the fire was hottest, and scribbles some notes before taking a sample of the flooring for tests. Not that there’s any doubt an arsonist started this fire. The question going round and round in my head is why.
An abandoned home makes an ideal target for kids who want to play with fire. Or the fire could have been set by someone who gets his rocks off watching firefighters and cops scramble around to put it out. There’s an even more sickening possibility,but it’s so awful, it’s hard to fathom. A chill walks down my spine.
What if the fire was an attempt to destroy evidence of a crime—like murder?
Chapter Fifteen
When we’re finally loadingup the last of our gear, the sun is spilling over the Bitterroots. I’m hungry and exhausted, but the normal calm I’d experience after fighting a fire eludes me.
Someone purposefully set that house on fire. Did they do it to make sure whoever was inside didn’t make it out alive?
