The first file contained the crime scene images of her former house, blackened and gutted by fire. The walls remained standing, but the roof had collapsed into the interior. Her room had been on the east side, which coincidentally had sustained the most damage. Puddles from the firefighters’ water hoses dotted the scorched front lawn, the gold juniper plants along the foundation had been trampled, and the ten-foot-wide ponderosa pine by the driveway was singed beyond saving.
The photographic evidence moved into what had been her bedroom, and her throat tightened when she saw the outline of her metal-frame bed blackened and crushed by falling beams. A red-and-white MADE IN PHILADELPHIA poster was still thumbtacked to the wall but had been burned up to the cracked Liberty Bell illustration. That poster had been a gift from Ray and one of the few mementos she had brought with her from Philadelphia.
Beside the poster stood her secondhand dresser. The cluster of brushes, hair ties, and makeup had been swept to the floor by the spray of water, and the lone item remaining was a square Chanel No. 5 bottle, which she had purchased at a yard sale for five dollars. Though the scent had never suited her, she liked the idea of having something so fancy. All that destruction, and the perfume bottle still stood where she had placed it.
The ceiling had caved in on her desk, burying her computer, textbooks, papers, and the blue mug she had filled with fresh coffee every morning. Ironically, she remembered feeling grateful, as she had lain on the ambulance gurney hooked up to oxygen and an IV, that she had emailed herself her exam notes. At least she could still pull up her notes on another computer and study.
Joan shifted her attention to the door and the red-hot handle that had scorched her palms as she had desperately tried to get out. Memories crept out of the shadows, bringing with them the heat from the College Fire. For a moment it was hard for her to breathe.
She pressed trembling fingertips to her forehead as she pushed back the rise of panic and concentrated her focus on the image. The fact that the fire crews had reached her in that holy inferno rose to the level of a miracle.
She turned to the next image. The charred and water-soaked living room couch was now cast in sunlight from the collapsed roof. How many nights had she sat on that couch, a large bowl of popcorn cradled in her crossed legs, reading a book or watching Survivor?
Ann’s room had been damaged, but not to the extent that Joan’s had been. The kitchen had also sustained terrible damage. The cabinets, counter, and even its wooden floor had all collapsed into a pile upon the earth foundation.
Joan reached for a file marked Arson Report and skimmed a half dozen pages before she found the investigator’s official findings.
Three incendiary devices were used. One by the back door leading from the kitchen, the second under the window of the back bedroom, and the third positioned in the crawl space under the same back bedroom occupied by Joan Mason. The combustible devices appeared to have been plastic bottles filled with diesel fuel. The device placed by the back door was not completely incinerated, and forensics identified pieces of a thick cotton sweatshirt that had been wadded into the vessel. The wick was likely ignited by a lighter or match, and because the cotton material was so long, the arsonist had time to clear the property before the explosions. The positions of the vessels appeared to be placed strategically to create maximum damage.
The arson report went on to detail evidence that appeared irrefutable. That recovered strip of a sweatshirt had been tested at the lab, which identified Elijah’s DNA on the fabric. Eyewitnesses had spotted Elijah a few nights before the fire leaving their backyard, and he had also been seen walking down their street in the hours preceding the blaze.
“Your DNA was found at the scene,” she whispered to herself. Many of the guilty professed their innocence even when faced with overwhelming evidence. But there was something in Elijah’s confident tone that rang true.
Footsteps in the hallway had her lifting her gaze to Kyle Bailey. “Kyle?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Working. What’s your excuse?” She welcomed the distraction from the files and pictures chasing too many demons out of the shadows. “Don’t tell me—you’ve been arrested for telling too many bathroom jokes?”
He tipped his lips into a slight grin while still trying to act cool. “No, I’m not in trouble.”
“You’re not wearing handcuffs, so I guess the other officers agree.”
“Cops don’t arrest ten-year-old kids.” He dropped his backpack in a chair and sat in the one next to it. He dug out a soda and fished a packet of Nabs from his backpack. When he opened the crackers, he offered her one. He may have looked like his mother, but he was quick to share like Gideon.
She took an orange cracker filled with peanut butter. “Thank you.”
Freckles were sprinkled across his nose. “You’re welcome.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here, Kyle? Shouldn’t you be out playing soccer or football?”
“It’s a holiday, remember? And I’m waiting on Dad. He went to the jail, and I have an appointment at the clinic.”
The kid’s schedule was none of her business. She bit into the cracker, found she liked the Day-Glo orange and artificial peanut butter. And before she could stop herself, she asked, “Nothing serious at the doctor, I hope.”
“I broke my arm last winter.” He said it with such authority, as if he was proud of it. “They want to x-ray it and make sure it’s growing right.” He held up his right arm and bent it in multiple
