She and Gideon used to stop here after their weekend hikes. They would sit at this very table, more worn and weather beaten now but pretty much the same. She had often protested, wondering why anyone would give up a perfectly warm fast-food restaurant to sit in the open and eat food off a paper plate. Memories pressed forward.
Gideon unwrapped his burger and grinned at the sight of the double patties. “Stop being a baby.”
“But I like real restaurants.”
“This is real.” He took a huge bite, chewed for several moments. “This is Montana.”
“I know.” She glanced around the open sky. “It’s everywhere.”
“You always complain about long hikes, the snow, and the cold. Why did you come to Montana?”
“The scholarship money,” she said. “I didn’t think I would actually have to experience the great outdoors to get an education.”
Gideon chuckled and scooted closer to her until his shoulder brushed hers. He smelled of fresh air, pine, and a scent that was all his own. Joan almost never felt safe, but in his arms, she did. He was a big guy, strong, and he had a kind of code. He stuck by his responsibilities. Took care of his own. And he was not the type to leave a girl.
And all that had not stopped her from leaving him.
Now, as a cold wind blew up the mountainside and slid under the loose folds of her large cable-knit sweater, she placed her untouched burger down and pushed her fries away. She realized she had not felt safe in a very long time.
She took a pull on the milkshake, tasting the real chocolate syrup they used here. Nothing powdered, nothing canned. Real ice cream and chocolate, with a splash of whole milk.
Joan’s phone rang. She rubbed her cold, damp fingers over her jeans. She did not recognize the number, but it had a Montana area code. “Joan Mason.”
“It’s Gideon. Those files you requested about the College Fire have come back from storage.”
“That was fast.”
“We’re not quite as big an operation as you have back east. Fewer layers to cut through.”
“Can I come now?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“See you in twenty.”
Joan hung up, gathered her uneaten food, and tossed it all in the trash can. A part of her did not want to relive the College Fire. But she had the growing sense that if she did not, there would be more fires and more deaths.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
12:30 p.m.
Gideon set the three worn and dusty file boxes on the small round conference table in the police station. The boxes were packed with forensic data, witness statements, crime scene photos, and police reports. As he stared at the collection of boxes, he thought how paltry it was, considering the level of destruction the College Fire had created. In his mind, the files should have filled this room.
His phone rang, and he gratefully turned from the boxes and answered it. “Detective Bailey.”
“There’s a Joan Mason here to see you,” the deputy said.
“I’ll be right out.”
He strode down the long, tiled hallway, hoping that Joan would find something in these files that would give her peace. Maybe she could leave Missoula and return to her life in Philadelphia, so he could get back to mending the life he was rebuilding for Kyle and himself.
She stood by the front entrance with her arms crossed as she stared at a wanted poster. Energy still snapped from every sinew in her body, as if she were a rocket ready to blast off.
“Joan,” he said.
She turned, and her green eyes reflected a tangle of anger, trepidation, and regret. “Hey.”
In college, whenever she’d looked at him like that, he had hugged her and reminded her she was not alone. But a hug now would not be appropriate, nor would it repair anything. “I’ve got the evidence bins in the conference room.”
“Terrific. Thank you.”
She followed him down the hallway to the small windowless room. Gideon flipped on the light. There was a large table, a half dozen chairs, and a coffeepot emanating a slightly burned scent. In the center of the table were the three dusty brown boxes.
“Not much to go through,” he said.
“I’ve seen homicide files that were thinner.” She set her purse down.
He noticed her fingers were red from the cold. When was she going to get gloves?
“It might take me a few hours,” she said.
“The room is yours for the rest of the day. But you can’t take anything out of here,” he gently warned her.
She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over a chair. “Feel free to frisk me when I leave.”
His brain immediately flashed to his hands on her body. His groin tightened, and the annoyance tracking him since yesterday amplified.
She rubbed her hands together, either to warm them or maybe express anticipation of the task.
He was tempted to caution her that this material might be tough to see. She was a cop, but that did not make her immune to evidence that had directly affected her life. She always put up a good front, but he knew the person behind the facade was not so tough.
“Don’t get all stressed out, Gideon,” she said as she removed the top of the first box. “I can handle this.”
Christ, could she still read him with just a glance? “I know that.”
“When you’re worried, you still purse your lips,” she said.
He opened his mouth to relax his lips and voice a denial. “You think you know me?”
Her gaze snared him. “I know you, and you know me more than either of us would like to admit.”
“A lot has changed, Joan. We aren’t kids anymore.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Now, as before, she hid behind boldness
