She stepped back and watched in stunned silence as the three muscular men carried in the heavy crate, then unloaded and assembled the treadmill and small pool. Braden dragged the garden hose in and connected it to a spigot long ago installed for watering plants, and voilà.
Judah had an underwater treadmill…and Evie had one more reason to adore Declan Mahoney.
When Connor and Braden left, Declan put his arms around her, cuddling her close for a kiss.
She looked up at him, her whole body humming with need. Not sexual need, not emotional need, but the need to make this decision.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.
“That Judah will be better in no time?”
“No. Well, yes. But that’s not all it means.”
He frowned, waiting.
“That right there?” She pointed at the treadmill. “It’s all the proof I need that you’re going to be a wonderful, caring, generous, amazing…” She closed her eyes to whisper, “Father.”
He sucked in a breath. “You’ve thought enough?”
“More than enough.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “I am so sure.”
“Evie.” He pulled her close and kissed her. “I have a twenty-four-hour shift. I’ll be back tomorrow by six, and then…”
“Let the games begin.”
“We’re gonna win this game, E. You and me and…” His gaze dropped to her belly. “Junior.”
She put her hand over the spot where he looked, fully committed to the dream.
Chapter Twenty-one
Declan was packing up at four fifty-seven on the nose when his phone buzzed with a text.
That couldn’t be good. Either Evie was texting to tell him not to come over, or Chief Winkler wanted yet another freaking personnel form filled out so it would be on his desk when he arrived the next morning.
But it was neither. Instead, the text came from a number he didn’t recognize, but the words seized his attention.
You want to talk about the Gloriana House fire?
Declan blinked at the screen and typed back, Who is this?
The answer came in seconds. Kirby Lewis, former AI.
The arson investigator Braden said was a retired legend. When can we talk? Declan asked.
I’m waiting in the town square by the statue of the dead guy.
The dead guy. Evie’s great-times-three grandfather. Seriously? Come on, dude. He was on his way to Evie’s for the best night of his life, for crying out loud.
Fine. What was another half hour after twenty damn years?
He grabbed his backpack, checked out with the night-shift dispatch, and headed out into the cool autumn air. He strode across the grass to the Bushrod statue looming high in the middle of the square. The playground was quiet at this dinner hour, and only a few dogwalkers were around as the first of the white lights started to sparkle on the trees.
An older man sat on the bench in front of the statue, alone, tapping a phone, a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Declan approached slowly, waiting for him to look up.
When he didn’t, Declan glanced around, then took a chance. “Kirby?”
He finally met Declan’s gaze. His seventy-something face was weathered, his expression blank. “Captain Mahoney.”
Declan nodded and sat down a foot or so away from him. “Thanks for coming out of hiding,” he said. “I understand it’s not easy to track you down.”
“Exactly the way I want it. But for this case?” The man almost smiled. “I had to.”
Something in the way he said it put Declan on edge. “Is that so?”
He faced forward, giving Declan his profile of a bulbous nose and soft jowls. “It’s haunted me, that fire.”
“That makes two of us,” Declan admitted. “Why?”
“Because there was something there I couldn’t see,” he said. “And I can always see what others can’t. But it was like I took months to put together a jigsaw puzzle, got to the end, and a piece was missing. Pissed me off, I tell you.”
“Do you have any theories?”
He blew out a noisy breath. “Always got theories, son. Starting with the fact that there were two burn patterns associated with different accelerants, and two possible ways that fire could have started.”
“So your theory is that the seat of the fire wasn’t the linseed oil-soaked rags?” Declan’s mind went back to the files. “All the evidence was consistent with that.”
“Not all the evidence,” Kirby said. “Yes, there was a burn pattern consistent with combustion on the outside patio. Was that possible? Yes, but I saw the container. In person. You probably saw pictures.”
He nodded, remembering them.
“The top snapped on,” Kirby said. “And I didn’t think that top could have been blown off unless the person who put it on didn’t snap it in place before walking away.”
Evie’s distracted, erratic, artiste mom? “That’s possible.”
“Think about it. This woman is a painter, right?” When Declan nodded, Kirby continued. “A painter knows what linseed oil can do. She went to the trouble to put her rags in a container, cover it, and place it outside. She knew what could happen on a hot night, so of course she snapped the lid into place.”
And it sure had been hot that night. He remembered the heat even in the mountains. And Mrs. Hewitt might be a bit bizarre, but she wasn’t dumb.
“So what are you saying? The wind didn’t blow the top off?”
He gave Declan a side-eye and raised a brow. That was exactly what he was saying. “That inside burn pattern was consistent with lighter fluid being squirted on the wall,” he said. “That wall was directly adjacent to the patio where the combustion happened. So the question I couldn’t stop asking is which burn pattern represented the accelerant and which happened because another fire had started? You get me? What was inside and what was outside? Were there two fires or one?”
“But there also was a lighter collection, so lighter fluid could easily have splashed on the wall.”
“True,” Kirby said. “There were a few lighters in that room, all being cleaned and polished that day, along with a very large tin of lighter fluid that was
