Page 67 of Wild Embers
Not that it would take much to get me here.
Even though the sun has just dropped below the horizon, the inside of Santiago’s home is lit up as if it's still day.
Santiago's kitchen looks like it was built for feeding an army. A massive island made of dark wood sits in the center of the room beneath wrought-iron pendant lights. The black cabinetry contrasts with the weathered timber beams overhead.
Snow taps against the windows outside. Inside, a cold bottle of beer slides across the kitchen counter toward me, and I catch it, popping off the lid with a bottle opener. Santiago stands on the opposite side of the island from where I sit on a wooden stool.
The creak of the front door and the familiar cadence of boots on the hardwood floors alert us to Walker’s arrival.
“In here,” Santiago calls.
Walker crosses the kitchen in three long strides and drops a large stack of manila folders on the dark granite between Santiago and me. “This is how you can help.”
Santiago takes a sip of his beer, then uses it to point at the mountain of reports. “You’re joking.”
Walker scoffs, folding his arms. “Did you think you’d be kicking down doors and getting in shootouts?”
“I mean…” Santiago trails off.
“Well, police work includes researching and analyzing data.” Walker gives Santiago a look that is full of smug satisfaction.
“We’re on it,” I claim as I grab the first file from the top and open it in front of me. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“I have a theory,” Walker informs us with a nod.
Santiago waves his hand out. “Care to share with the class?”
Walker shakes his head. “I don’t want there to be any bias. Just look for patterns.” He taps the pile, then turns on his heel and heads back out the door.
As Santiago picks up the next file, I remind him teasingly. “Don’t forget to put on your grandpa glasses.”
Santiago gives me a miffed look. “Ha. Ha. Very original.”
I smile into my beer when I spot Santiago retrieving his glasses from the living room.
Two beers later, I’ve filled half of a legal pad with notes. Santiago has his own organization system that only makes sense to him. To me, it looks like a tornado came through the kitchen and only hit his files.
Opening the next manila folder, a certain detail sticks out to me.
I’ve read this before.
Flipping back through my notes, I count the number of times the detail has come up, and a sickening wave of realization wells up in my abdomen. “Oh, my God.”
Santiago discards his file into his mess. “What is it?”
I don't give him an answer as I stare down at the papers in front of me. “That bastard.”
“Who’s a bastard?” Santiago rises from his seat, rounding the island.
“That dirty, rotten bastard!” I shout as I throw my pen down.
Santiago searches for the answer, hovering over my shoulder. “Gotta give me a little more to work with.”
I point to the words I just read in the case file. “I think this is what Walk wanted us to find.”
Santiago picks up my notes, flipping through the pages. “Are you saying that Derek Holt was the arsonist?”
Retrieving specific files, I show him what I found. “He was first on the scene for every arson fire, and he saved each person who was caught in the fire. And look here. The direction the fires spread seems to be away from the people who were in the buildings.”
