Page 33 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
“Not much,” Diebold says, his tone grim.
The corner of Joe’s mouth turns down. He steps back to let me climb out. He acknowledges me with a wordless grunt. I give him a short nod in return. That’s about the extent of the politeness between us, and it’s only for Diebold’s benefit.
The fire chief is in his sixties. He must be on the verge of retirement by now, but his dark eyes take everything in the same as they did before. “Like I told you on the phone, the scene’s been released. That means we’ve collected all the evidence we need to get. You’re free to get a cleanup crew in here to see what you can salvage. I imagine you’ll want to tear it down, start over. The property will be worth a pretty penny, even empty.”
“Haven’t decided yet,” I say, my tone noncommittal. I’m keenly aware that Causey is listening, aware that he’ll use anything I say against me if he has the opportunity. I lead them a few steps away from the house, and they follow me. “What did the evidence say?”
“Arson,” the chief says, his eyes solemn. “Traces of accelerant in the attic. Not near any of the origination points we’d expect for an accidental fire. No stoves or electrical points. You know we mostly see pranksters around here. Tourists starting bonfires that get out of hand. Not often we come across a case like this. Have a couple fire investigators under me, but I took this one myself. Known the two of you since you were babies.”
My stomach clenches. Accelerant in the goddamn attic. I’d known it was possibly arson. Probably, if I were honest, but I was hoping it wasn’t. “Appreciate it.”
His eyes are an unearthly pale between bushy gray eyebrows. He settles a stare on me that sends a bolt of cold down my spine. “You didn’t store anything flammable up there, did you?”
“Christ.”
“I have to ask.”
“The truth is I don’t know everything that was up there,” I admit, my voice gruff. “It was full of furniture and boxes when I got here. I never really looked through it all.”
“Sad business,” he says, staring at the ruins. “First she loses her parents. Then she near burns to a crisp. It’s a good thing you stepped up. She needs you, Rochester.”
Tension vibrates through the air. Does the chief know that he’s taking sides in a conflict that goes back decades? Hell, he might. He’s always seen too much with those pale blue eyes. He lifts a thick finger toward the sky. “That’s where it started, in the back, near the outer wall.”
There was a window in that part of the attic. There was nothing up there.
But someone was.
I didn’t hear footsteps in the middle of the night. No soft creaks along old flooring. Never once during a storm, when the rain would have muffled the sound. If I wonder about it now, if I hear the haunting echo in my mind, that’s just paranoia superimposing itself on my memory.
It’s only because I haven’t been up there in weeks. Months, maybe.
Can’t remember the last time.
“When’s the last time you’d say you talked to Em?” Joe says, his notepad out like it’s normal as hell to ask about a dead woman. Even if that woman is his sister.
Of all the things I hate about Joe, this is the fact I hate the most.
He lurked in the background of my relationship with Emily. Bristling. Scowling. Watching me as if I posed some threat. He tried to catch me out for years, when it was Rhys who was the dangerous one. Of course he probably blames me for that, too. I blame myself for it. We all know she would never have ended up with Rhys if I hadn’t left for the West Coast.
The wind from the ocean quiets. The whole place is listening now, even the trees. Joe drags his gaze up off his notepad and arches an eyebrow in accusation.
“Emily’s been gone for years,” I say, and a muscle in the side of his jaw flexes. “Any conversation I had with her has nothing to do with this.”
Alan clears his throat. “There are those in this profession who talk about the psychology of arsonists. Profiling, they call it. Don’t know if I always buy into it, but if I did…”
I tense. “Yeah?”
“The location of the fire suggests the arsonist is more likely to be a woman.”
My pulse drops into my fingertips. “How? A fire’s a fire.”
The fire chief cuts a glance at Joe. “Female arsonists more often set fires that are calls for help. Not for the attention, not for the love of fire. Not to become a hero pulling people out of the house. We find those kinds of fires in the kitchen, usually. On the ground floor.”
