Joan stepped over the debris and stripped off her gloves as she approached him. “I want to see Elijah.”
“What makes you think Elijah will even talk to you?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Nine years ago, I wrote to him. And he responded. We’ve been corresponding ever since.”
“You’re shitting me!” he said, louder than he intended. “Why would you reach out to him?”
She shrugged but did not look away. “I wanted to know why he wanted to burn me alive.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask. Did he tell you anything that was of value?”
“No.”
“What a surprise.”
“I thought a look inside the mind of someone like him would be informative. He started following my cases. He also offered a few interesting insights that helped me solve a couple of cases.”
It was a kick in the balls to know she had reached out to Elijah and not him. “So you two are best pals?”
“Hardly. When the parole board asked me three years ago if he should be released, I said no in as many ways as I could think of. But he has now served his full term.” She ran her hand through her short hair. “You remember the scorpion and the frog fable?”
“Trusting a predator never ends well.”
“Exactly.”
“Just make sure you don’t forget that.”
She rubbed her fingertips over the ribbed white scar on her palm. “I never do.”
They got into his car and he started the engine. They drove in silence for a half dozen blocks before he pulled up in front of the boardinghouse.
“It is within walking distance to the fire,” Joan remarked.
“Yes, it is.”
The two got out of the car and walked up the cracked, freshly scrubbed sidewalk to the front porch. All the faded traces of the graffiti were gone. He rang the bell, and Mr. Pickett answered it. His eyes were bloodshot, but he had shaved, and his shirt looked to be clean. The monthly six-pack appeared to have left him a little hungover.
“Mr. Pickett, could I speak with Elijah?” Gideon asked.
“He’s in the kitchen. He’s offered to cook up lunch. Making a tomato sauce. And for the record, he was here when that fire started.”
“Are you sure?” Gideon asked.
“Very,” Mr. Pickett said emphatically.
The scents of oregano and garlic reached out to him as he and Joan moved toward the kitchen. The aroma had a warm, comforting effect, and it surprised him that Elijah could cook.
“He’s a great cook,” Joan said, as if reading his thoughts again. “He worked in the prison kitchen and decided to improve the culinary standard. He even organized the prisoners to grow herbs in a greenhouse.”
“Quite the Renaissance man.”
“He can’t stand boredom in any shape or form.”
They found Elijah at the stove, wearing a yellow apron covered in bouquets of pink bitterroot flowers bound together with twine. He was holding a spoon dripping with red sauce up to the mouth of an older, thinner man.
The man opened his mouth to taste, but when he saw Gideon, he closed his mouth and nodded for Elijah to look. Elijah slurped up the sauce on his spoon. “Can I get you to try my sauce, Detective? The recipe came from a dear friend.”
“No, thank you.”
Joan stepped around him. Elijah’s expression turned quizzical, and then his lips split into a wide grin. He set the spoon down and opened his arms wide. “Joan! God, how I have missed seeing you.”
Gideon expected her to retreat. She had been too shaken all those years ago to even talk to him about Elijah or the fire. But instead of fear, her expression softened. It was a far cry from the cool, awkward greeting Gideon had shared with her earlier. “Elijah.”
Elijah took her hands in his, and his thumbs rubbed against her palms. He turned them up so that he could study them. “What happened to you in that fire was a travesty. Are you going to help me figure out who set your house on fire?”
“That’s why I came,” she said.
Elijah’s eyes brightened. “I have really missed you, Joan.”
She stood silent and then slowly smiled.
“Finally, justice will be served for us both,” Elijah whispered.
Tamping down his anger was harder than Gideon had imagined. He had been through the police department’s files on the College Fire. He knew Elijah had taken Joan’s class in college, had pictures of Joan in his room, and was dumb enough to leave his DNA at the scene. Elijah Weston was all smiles now, but he had the look of a man biding his time. Gideon did not know what Elijah’s endgame was, but sooner or later, he would strike.
Confessions of an Arsonist
When the stress rises, I set small fires. They relieve the pressure building in my head, like little safety valves. But when it gets too great, only an inferno will do. And that’s exactly what I did. It was glorious.
CHAPTER NINE
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, September 6, 2020
11:45 a.m.
Joan knew Elijah was as toxic as the deceptively beautiful milkweed’s delicate and bright blossoms. She was not fooled, regardless of what Gideon’s expression suggested. It was because Elijah would never break her heart. The same could not be said for Gideon, who threatened a far greater wound if she allowed him to get close.
She stood back. “You look good.”
“So do you,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re doing so well. The press was very unkind to you in Philadelphia.”
She felt Gideon’s scrutiny sharpen. “I live to fight another day.”
“That’s all we can ask. Do you want to try my spaghetti sauce?”
“I would.”
He generously filled a tasting spoon with sauce and held it up. She wrapped her lips around the edge of the spoon and genuinely savored the sauce. For a moment, the rich flavors of onion, garlic, and tomato transported her back to Ray’s pub. “Marvelous. Reminds me of home,” she said.
Elijah smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “It should. It’s your mother’s recipe that you told me about in one of your letters.”
The recipe had been Ray’s, and he had scribbled it down on
