Nicki’s almost-colorless eyes moved to Sam. “While Petraski stopped just shy of a direct accusation, he made it sound as if you were responsible for not only the Winston fire, but also the fire at your grandparents’ bakery and the café in town where you worked.”
Sam’s face paled, but Smoke’s face turned thunderous. “That fucking prick. He knows that’s bullshit. Or at least, he would if he were competent enough to do his fucking job.”
“Yeah, he knows,” agreed Heff, “but if the little fucker told the truth, he’d have to admit that they screwed up the investigations big time. And not just him. He’d be throwing shade on his father, his uncle, his whole goddamn inbred family.”
“Regardless,” Nicki said, waving her hand, “I think Bree’s too smart to take anything he says at face value. She does her research.”
“Which explains why I’ve been getting pinged all night,” Ian said, entering the conversation. “After that clusterfuck with Anthony Cavatelli a few years ago, I set up notifications when someone requests access to certain confidential files, and someone’s been knocking.”
“Bree?” Cage guessed.
“No, and not the Sentinel Voice researcher who’s been doing background checks on you either. I’m talking professional arson investigator with credentials and clearance here. It’s too coincidental to be completely random. My guess is, De Rossi sensed something didn’t add up and called in someone from the outside.”
“Is there anything for him to find?” Church asked.
After their impromptu and unsanctioned op to rescue Sam from a deranged admirer, the Callaghans had helped them cover their tracks.
“Nothing to connect any of you to Cavatelli, no. But Petraski’s original reports are still on record, and anyone with half a brain who takes the time to look is going to know they’re bullshit. If word gets back to Petraski that the files are being opened again, he’s not going to be happy. The last thing he or Freed wants is more spotlights shining into their dark cracks.”
“Which means,” Sean said, looking directly at Cage, “that your reporter needs to watch her six. Or better yet, you should cover it for her.”
“Hard to do when she’s three thousand miles away, man.”
Ian laughed. “Yeah, it would be, if she were.”
“Her flight left a couple hours ago.”
“Her flight might have left, but she didn’t. She’s holed up in a motel thirty miles south of here.”
Cage narrowed his eyes. “And you know this how?”
“Because after Nicki shared what she found, I did a bit of research myself. Your woman’s been racking up charges to access Dwayne Freed’s criminal records among other things. From there, it was just a simple series of IP back traces to the unsecured public motel Wi-Fi.”
“You’re really scary, you know that?” Sam half-whispered, earning a round of chuckles.
Ian looked directly at Cage and smirked. “Oakport Motor Lodge. Room 204. And you’re welcome.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bree
Bree’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything but a handful of Squirrel Nut Zippers from her big score in hours. After stretching out the kinks from sitting in front of a screen all day, Bree ran a brush through her hair and walked to the family restaurant on the other side of the lot.
She no longer had one story knocking around in her head, but several. There was her original assignment, of course—Sanctuary and their mission. That was the easiest. She had interviews and images and her personal observations. She could write that piece in her sleep.
The incidental spin-offs were a different story and far more interesting. Like the series of fires that had plagued the mountain valley community. Or the cop with dubious familial connections and a hidden agenda. Hell, she could write an entire cozy mystery series based on Sumneyville and its people.
She could picture it so clearly. Sitting in a remote cabin, pecking away at the keyboard, weaving small-town intrigue and romance with an entire cast of characters—some loved, some not so loved, and ...
Bree shook her head and took a few deep breaths. She’d been sitting too long. She was a journalist, not a fiction writer. She wrote real stories about real people.
The rain had stopped at some point, the air cooler and drier than it had been over the past week.
She was shown to one of the two-person tables along the wall and left with a menu. None of the daily specials were particularly appealing. What she really craved was one of the delicious chicken and veggie mountain pies she and Nick had made over the fire.
She sighed and ordered the closest thing—a grilled chicken stir-fry with seasonal vegetables. When the waitress brought a tiny loaf of bread with her iced tea, Bree thought longingly of the crusty bread and homemade herb-and-garlic oil dip at Franco’s.
What is wrong with you, Bree? If you’re not pining over Nick, you’re obsessing over food.
Well, they were both hungers.
After a mediocre meal that satisfied her empty stomach but not her cravings, Bree was feeling restless. With no desire to return to her room yet, she opted for a drive instead.
Unsurprisingly, she found herself back in Sumneyville, cruising Main Street. It was the only place familiar to her in the area. No one gave her a second look in her nondescript silver rental. She cruised past the park, now completely devoid of stands and animals. Past Franco’s and the library and Martha’s house and the fire hall.
Then, she was turning up the mountain road, wishing she still had the convertible.
She drove past the entrance to Sanctuary, the urge to pull in almost overwhelming. She resisted. She hadn’t heard from Nick since the night before. No calls, no texts. Nothing.
Not far beyond Sanctuary was a sign for Danny’s Happy Trails Ranch. She wondered if that was the place that had partnered with Sanctuary and had provided the horses for her field trip. Bree smiled when she thought of Peaches and Herb and how nice it had been to explore the mountain trails on horseback with Nick by her
