Page 34 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
A kitchen fire would have killed us all. The flames would have eaten through the ceilings to the second floor, running down electrical wiring and skittering up the walls before we could get downstairs. It would have meant jumping out second-story windows.
Or dying before we could.
No. This fire was meant to flush us out. To chase us out.
“Did you look into Zoey Aldridge?” I ask, biting out the words, forcing myself to say them. I don’t want to believe she would set the fire. I didn’t think she had that in her, but I’m not going to take any chances. Someone set that fire, and now it sounds like it was a woman. “And she left a threatening note at the inn.”
“She has an alibi,” Causey says. “Though I did have an interesting conversation with her. Seems you’ve left a string of broken hearts through LA. Plenty of women who’d like to bring you down. Plenty of women with motive.”
“What about the insurance money?” I say, raising a brow. “You seemed pretty set on that when you tried to interview my nanny without a lawyer present.”
“Guilty people don’t need lawyers,” Causey says, and I snort. They do when there are questionable cops like Causey around, people who love power more than peace.
Diebold clears his throat. “Money’s always a motive. But I don’t see how you could be hurting for half a million dollars when you got many times more than that sitting in your accounts.”
I run a hand over my face. It feels grimy. Walking through the smoke-drenched house left a residue of soot on my skin. “So you’re saying the fire was set in the attic. That means someone was inside the house. How did they get there?”
“Couldn’t say,” Diebold says. “We looked for signs of forced entry, but there wasn’t much left. No lockpicking marks on the deadbolt, for what it’s worth.”
Christ. The thought of someone walking the dark hallways makes me go still. I was wrapped in bed with Jane. Paige was in her room, defenseless. Did the intruder open her door? Did they look at that sleeping child before they lit a match?
Joe taps his pen on his notebook. “When was the last time you saw Emily?”
“We’ve been over this,” I say, my teeth gritted. “You want someone to blame for her death? Talk to Rhys. You were friends with him. He’s the one who took her out on that boat. Everyone knows she never liked being on the water.”
“That’s right,” Causey says, his tone cold. “Blame a dead man.”
“This is ancient history. The only question we need answered right now is who set the fire. That’s your job, Detective,” I say, adding sarcasm to the title. “Paige is your niece. Maybe if you’re concerned about her safety, you can focus on the investigation.”
His eyes narrow, as blue as Emily’s. As blue as Paige’s. “You never gave a damn about her. Did you show up for her birthdays? No, you sent a goddamn card. A check.”
Guilt swallows me where I stand. It merges with the bitter scent of ashes from the fire, with the sight of Jane’s eyes filling with tears on the beach. There are a million things I’m sorry for, which is proof enough that I should leave Jane alone. “I came here to talk to the fire chief. You want to give me shit for being an asshole, you’ll have to get in line.”
Joe flips his notebook closed and claps Alan on the shoulder. “Keep me updated.” He walks away over the ruts in the grass left by the emergency vehicles.
Alan shades his eyes and watches him go. “He’s never been right since his sister died.”
He was never right before that, either, but I don’t bother correcting him. “Maybe it’s a woman,” I say. “Maybe not. But how do you know it’s not some teenage kid crying for help?”
“I don’t,” Diebold says. “Could be anyone. That’s not really my purview, but the police department usually shares their leads with me. Not in this case.”
“Because he has no leads,” I say, my teeth clenched.
Diebold runs a hand over his arm. I have a vague memory that he was injured in a fire once, around the time he got his promotion. He had burns along his entire left side. They’re covered up now in his uniform. “Spent some time going through the wreckage. When you live in a place like Eben Cape, something like this, it’s personal. It was interesting that there weren’t any signs of a break-in.”
“You said yourself the fire destroyed everything. Including evidence.”
He looks out at the ocean. “You say Emily Rochester never liked being on the water?”
“She hated it. Said it made her hair frizzy. And she got seasick.”
“Always thought it was interesting they never found her body,” he says, his pale watery gaze meeting mine.
