“I’m not going anywhere.” This was his home, and he was prepared to kill anyone to prove it.
Confessions of an Arsonist
Burning her pictures gives me some satisfaction.
Too bad it’s not her flesh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, September 10, 2020
2:00 p.m.
Joan knew Gideon was annoyed with her as they left the interview room. But considering she’d sensed downright hostility from him just a few days ago, she saw this as progress. Love was not in the cards for them again, but a friendship would definitely be welcome.
“What happened to ‘I’m not going to talk’?” he said.
“I didn’t talk that much. In fact, I was damn near silent.”
Before he could unload his thoughts, his phone rang.
“Detective Bailey.”
His annoyed expression darkened. “We’ll be right there.”
He hung up. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“Missoula Montana Hospital. Elijah was admitted a half hour ago. He was assaulted.” She knew Gideon did not trust or like Elijah, but he sure as hell would not sit by and have a vigilante assault him.
Joan’s expression tightened with worry. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll survive. He has two broken ribs and a few contusions.”
“Does he know his attacker?” Joan asked.
“Apparently not.”
“I want to talk to him,” she said.
“You’re in luck. He’s asking for you. Guy’s got a thing for you.”
“It’s not romantic. He sees us as kindred spirits.”
“I disagree. He’s using you.”
Unwilling to argue now, she followed him toward the station’s exit and was already zipping up her jacket as she stepped outside. She and Montana were getting used to each other.
He drove them across town and parked in the spot reserved for law enforcement. Inside, he presented his ID and was sent to a room on the second floor.
“Let me do the talking,” she said as she hurried to keep up with his long strides. “I’m the one he trusts.”
Gideon paused and looked at her. “Does he?”
She shoved out a breath. “Maybe not, but I might be the one person he tolerates.”
“I’ll let you kick it off. Then we’ll see.”
“No. Let me go in alone.”
“Why?”
“Stand outside the door if you’re so worried. And if you discover a burning question—”
“Pun intended?”
“Text me.” Joan continued down the hallway to Elijah’s room. She knocked on the door and slowly opened it.
The room’s lights had been dimmed and the shades closed. Elijah lay in his bed, hands at his sides with eyes closed. She moved toward the bed, noting there were no bruises on his face.
“Elijah?” she whispered.
“Joan,” he said without opening his eyes. “I heard you coming down the hallway. You have a very distinctive gait, and you still smell faintly like smoke.”
She pulled up a chair and sat. “I’ve been told it sounds like a stampede when I walk. Rushed and angry.”
“That about sums it up.” He opened his eyes and turned toward her.
“You don’t look too bad.”
“My ribs would say otherwise. It hurts to breathe.”
“Do you know who attacked you?” she asked.
“No. He wore a ski mask.”
“You’re certain it was a man?”
“Very. He spoke to me. Something about me getting out of town. The kind of bad dialogue you find in an old western.”
“Was high noon referenced?” she quipped.
A slight smile tweaked his lips. “Almost.”
“You aren’t leaving, are you?”
“You know me too well.”
“Why stay?” She thought of Ann’s confession about Nate and wondered for the first time if Elijah had pieced together the truth.
“It’s home.”
“You’re smart. You can go anywhere.”
“My alleged past always follows. At least if I’m here, there’s no time wasted with awkward explanations. We all know where we stand.”
She reached to straighten his pillow. “Can I help? Is there anything else I can do? Get a nurse maybe.”
“No. But thank you.”
“Well, now that I’m here, I do want to talk to you about the fire out at Ann’s place.”
He turned his head toward her. All traces of humor had vanished. “I assume still no suspects.”
“None.”
“Ann and the boy?”
“She’s still shaken.”
“And the boy? How is he doing?”
“He’s fine.”
“He’s not upset by it?”
“No.”
That triggered interest. “How did he react to the fire?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he fascinated by it?”
“Yes. That would be a way of describing his reaction.”
“Was it speaking to him?” Elijah asked.
Instead of answering, she asked, “If the fire were speaking to him, what would it say?”
Elijah rolled his head and gazed back toward the ceiling. “Fires are like people. They show different motivations. Some are set as a demonstration of power, while others are an expression of passion, and many are simply designed for destruction.”
“Did your fires speak to you?”
“You mean the dumpster fires when I was twelve?”
“Of course.”
“They reminded me that I was still in control. That I could do anything I wanted.”
“Those are things a twelve-year-old in a challenging home would need to hear.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to be the fire’s creator for it to talk to you?”
“No.” He tried to sit forward and reach for the cup and straw, but he winced and lay down. She took the cup and held the straw to his mouth. He raised his gaze to her, wrapped his lips around the straw, and sucked. Once he’d drained the cup, he released the straw and leaned back.
“How is Detective Bailey doing?” he asked. “He’s out there somewhere skulking and worrying, but I like him.”
She smiled. “Do you?”
“Want to hear a secret?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Gideon’s still in love with you.”
She stilled, calculating where this was coming from. “What?”
His eyes lightened with humor. “Don’t look so surprised, Detective.”
She glanced toward the door, wondering if Gideon had heard. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought about him overhearing this conversation. Would he be angry or embarrassed or accepting? The thought concerned her more than she had expected. “That’s bull.”
The door opened, and Gideon strode in, his hat in hand.
“And now it’s a party,” Elijah said with a grin.
Gideon stood beside Joan. “One of my deputies is going door to door to see if there are any witnesses to your attack.”
“Then they’ll tell you what I told the deputy. Masked man. Worn jeans. Scuffed boots.
