“Yeah, and he also took one of Clarke and me. Clarke keeps it in our bedroom. That’s the picture Lana had, right?”
“Yes.”
“What are you saying?”
“Clarke had the pictures and the negatives. And then Lana ends up with a copy.”
“Maybe someone else had a copy,” Ann said.
Before Joan could answer, the boys called out to Ann. “Mom, you said we could build a fire!” Nate shouted.
Ann’s brow furrowed. “Be right there.”
“I’ll give you the rundown in the morning. Go keep an eye on the boys.”
“Right.”
Joan got into her car, and in the quiet, she was able to think. Who had given Lana the picture of Joan and Ann? And how had Lana ended up with an engagement ring that looked like Jessica’s? Clarke had taken the original picture, and he had also done a fire inspection on the salon recently. Several had suggested that Lana had a boyfriend who made a point not to be seen in public with her. Clarke was separated from Ann, and if he had been seeing Lana, it would likely have ended whatever chances he’d had with Ann. Clarke was also an expert on fires.
None of these suppositions proved anything, but they also all pointed to Clarke. But something about Clarke troubled her. Sure, the two had never gotten along great, but the guy had pulled her from the College Fire and saved her life. He could have sold a rifle for the birthday-present cash. And if that were a crime, most of the country would be in jail.
Until she had solid proof, she could not make a move against Clarke. If Philadelphia and the Newport case had taught Joan anything, it was to have an ironclad case before making any kind of arrest. Maybe it was time to quietly poke around in Clarke’s history.
She kept driving, and by the time she approached the intersection that cut one way to the hospital and the other to Clarke’s house, she paused for just a moment before taking the road toward the small residential neighborhood where Ann and Clarke had lived.
She slowed as she pulled into the subdivision. Though the homes were much smaller than the ranch, they were close to the schools, grocery stores, and all the other civilized things not found farther out of town.
Joan located the one-level rancher that Clarke, Ann, and Nate had recently shared. The house was dark and silent. She parked across the street and studied its features. Fall leaves coated the yard, and the flowerpots that surely had been filled with vibrant blossoms while Ann was here now sat empty.
Clarke’s car was not in the driveway. He had said to Ann he was working tonight. He was not home. And she would need more evidence before she could even utter any suspicions about him.
Breaking into Clarke’s house would be crossing a line. If she was caught, she could not only kiss her job goodbye, but she could also end up in serious legal trouble. Not to mention losing Gideon and Ann.
She drove around the block and parked at a convenience store a half mile away.
Whoever had set the fires knew what they were doing. The same low-tech milk jug filled with gasoline was simple, hard to trace, and brutally effective. The buildings that had burned in Missoula and Helena had been heavily insured. Both owners had been out of town, with solid alibis.
Joan went inside the store and bought a few items she did not really want in order to provide a good reason why she was in the area.
Out of the convenience store’s door, Joan went around to her car and tossed her groceries in the back. Instead of getting behind the wheel, she ducked into the woods, got her bearings, and set off for Clarke’s house.
In the darkness, she weaved in and out of heavy thickets and fallen trees. When she emerged, she was staring into a lit-up house. She stopped, her heart pounding as she backed into the woods. At the kitchen table was a couple and a few kids. She had overshot her approach. “Terrific. Wrong house. Smooth, Joan. Really smooth.”
She moved to her right and made her way along the edge of the yard until she emerged from the woods to face the back of Clarke’s still house.
Her gaze was drawn to dark shadows for a long moment, hoping a solid reason would present itself and she could stand down from this crazy idea that she was about to undertake.
Finally, when reason stood her up, she glanced from left to right, hurried toward the back door, and peered through one of its glass panes that gave her a view of the kitchen. The sink was filled with unwashed dishes. Par for the course for a separated man. Hell, her own sink looked like this.
She tried the doorknob but found it locked. As she looked along the back of the house, she spotted what appeared to be a slightly open window. She slinked down to the window and peered inside. With no search warrant, anything in this house would be inadmissible in court. She could get herself arrested, and whatever chance she had of catching Avery Newport would go up in smoke.
Reason screamed for her not to go inside.
“Jesus, Joan, you’ve lost your mind,” she whispered.
She pushed open the window and listened for the beep of an alarm system. The house remained silent as she glanced left and right and then hoisted herself through the window and onto the floor.
She had landed in Clarke and Ann’s bedroom. The large king-size mattress was directly on the floor and covered in a tangle of blankets and sheets. Clothes were scattered about, and a couple of pairs of boots lay in the corner.
Joan picked up one of the shirts and raised it to her nose. The scent of smoke clung to the rough cotton, but she could already hear the defense attorney arguing it was common for firefighters to have clothes that smelled of smoke.
She walked over to
