Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

“How about I burn that and we forget all about it.”

“I can’t,” I said, trying to curb the pain in my chest, but he felt it anyway.

With a growl that sent my heart racing into overtime, he wrapped one hand around my throat and the other around my waist. From there, he led me back against the wall.

“Don’t you ever feel sorry for me, Dutch. The last thing I need is your pity.”

“It’s evidence, Reyes. If what you went through is ever questioned again, we’ll have proof. And I don’t feel sorry for you. I empathize with you.”

The grin that spread across his face no longer sat at a playful angle. It held more animosity than warmth. More intimidation than affection. And my heart broke. I thought we were beyond this. Apparently not.

He leaned in, the heat of his anger like molten lava on my skin. The visceral reaction from my body anytime he was near seemed to multiply triplefold. I inhaled through my teeth and he paused. After a moment, he placed his forehead on mine and leaned in to me, seeming just as unable to fight the attraction as I. But in his eyes, I had betrayed him. He didn’t want me looking into his past, and that is exactly what this picture represented.

When he spoke, his voice was even, his tone distant. “The minute you can tell me the difference between sympathy and empathy where that picture is concerned, you give me a call.” He pushed me back in warning before grabbing his duffel bag, heading out the door, and slamming it shut behind him. I slumped back against the wall and fought to fill my lungs.

* * *

Cookie came over the next morning with new intel on the case, and I fought to keep the telltale signs of sadness at bay.

“Okay,” she said, reading from her notes as she made herself a cup of coffee, “it seems that the gardener Mrs. Beecher told you about, Felix Navarro, died a few months ago.”

“Well, that would explain why he’s no longer their gardener. Anything suspicious about his death?”

“No. His daughter told me he died of natural causes, nothing to investigate.”

“Well, then, he’s definitely not our guy. If he did have all those pictures of Harper in his wallet, maybe he was just really fond of her.” I took a sip of coffee and sat at my breakfast bar. The boxes in the apartment had dwindled down to almost nothing. Cookie had made tons of headway in the last two days. The only boxes that remained were the ones from Area 51.

“He was,” she said. “His daughter told me he carried pictures of all his kids, and he considered both Harper and her stepbrother, Art, part of his family.”

“Oh, well, that’s sweet.”

“It is. Very. Though I can see why Mrs. Beecher would see it as suspicious, considering everything that happened.”

“True.”

She flipped to the next page. “Oh, and your uncle Bob called. That guy torched another building early this morning.”

“Same guy?”

“It would seem so. I wrote the address on the file.” She pointed to a file folder lying on my kitchen table. “Apparently the arsonist pulled someone out of the building kicking and screaming before he set fire to it.”

I sat my coffee cup down. “Well, at least he’s civic minded.”

She nodded and continued to stir her coffee as I went to grab my bag.

“Okay,” I said, “call me if you get anything else.”

“Will do.”

Just as I headed for the door, I glanced at the file folder. The recognition didn’t hit me until I’d shouldered my bag and reached for the doorknob. I stopped, remembered the address, and whirled around so fast, the world tilted off center. Hurrying back, I tore the Post-it Note with the address of the latest fire off the folder. Then the world tilted for another reason entirely.

* * *

When I pulled up to the scene of the fire, the smell of smoke billowed in through Misery’s vents, acrid and irritating. Firefighters were still working on it, shooting water in the air from huge red trucks. The whole area was taped off, and bystanders stood off to one side, watching the firefighters do their job, filming the massive wall of smoke on their phones.

I stepped out and looked up. No way was this an accident. No way was this a coincidence. This was it—the very building I’d been talking to Reyes about not three hours earlier. The one where I’d first seen him. The one where the picture was found.

I called Cookie. “Hey, hon. I need you to check something out for me.”

“You got it.”

“I want you to get that list of all the addresses the arsonist has hit. It’s in the folder. Then crosscheck those with the known addresses Uncle Bob had on Reyes Farrow when he was first arrested for Earl Walker’s murder. I have his file in the cabinet.”

“Right, I remember it.” Her words were drawn out and wary. “Do you think there’s a connection?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. Or, you know, for you to find out.” I hung up and strolled to an officer on duty. “Where’s the woman?” I asked him.

“Excuse me?” He started toward me with his palms up in warning. “You need to stay one hundred feet back.”

“The woman the arsonist dragged out before he torched the place. Where is she?”

The guy glanced around. “How did you know that?”

“I’m working with APD on this case under the supervision of Detective Robert Davidson.” When he didn’t budge, I showed him my PI license and my APD ID that identified me as a consultant. “Would you like Detective Davidson’s number?”