Page 49 of Fire Fight

“It had recently sold,” Crew said suddenly, his words tickling the back of my neck. He’d moved closer without me realizing, standing over my right shoulder.

I tapped the map. “The…place?”

He hummed in agreement, knowing what I meant. “The owners of the shop relocated to a larger building on the other side of town.”

“The place with the impound lot?”

“Yeah. They’re the only shop in town unless you want todrive the hour up to Boise, so they were able to expand. The structure of the old place was sound, but a gasoline-induced fire is a beast. Took us hours to knock it down after the roof collapsed.”

His statement pulled me up short. “The fire was started by gas?”

“You didn’t know?”

I scoffed. “I’m only a vic. No one tells me anything.”

I rotated slightly so I could look at Crew out of the corner of my eye, and his palm came up to cup and scratch at the back of his neck—a nervous gesture if I ever saw one.

The question was, what did he have to be nervous about?

“Are you sure we should be discussing this?” he asked.

Oh.

He was worried about hurting me, dredging up trauma I’d rather leave buried.

But I learned a long time ago that the only way around it was through it, and while nightmares plagued my sleep, I knew I’d survive this like I’d survived everything else life had thrown at me if I just kept moving.

“I’m going to keep chasing this fucker,” I replied, a vehemence behind my words that surprised even me. “Don’t sugar coat anything for the sake of my feelings. This might be personal now, but I won’t let that get in the way of doing my job.”

Crew sighed, as if weighing his next words.

“Yes, the fire was started by gasoline. When my crew and I entered the shop, there was a trail from the door that led me right to you. From the smell of it, we ultimately deduced diesel fuel was used.”

“Have you managed to run down any leads?”

Crew shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not my jurisdiction, and my brother isn’t exactly the most forthcoming man on the planet.”

I snorted. “Understatement of the century.”

He grinned and said, “Let’s grab your files and get you set up.”

Wordlessly, I followed him out, and ten minutes later, I was set up in front of his desktop computer, the fire department’s reports and my notes from the Vicky Lee and Roger Stanhope incidents spread out before me. As a firefighter, Crew had access to some government servers I didn’t, and it allowed me to get a bit more background on the two than what Mrs. Lee and the newspapers could provide.

As a former journalist, this killer not being national news was a wonder. Being active for over forty years was…impressive, to say the least. I wasn’t about to give the guy any props, but the fact that he’d managed to elude law enforcement for so long told me a number of things, namely that he was both highly intelligent and highly organized.

When I ran out of leads I could follow from the desk and my eyes swam from staring too long at the computer screen, I got up, stretched, and headed to the guest room to change. After throwing on another pair of linen pants and loose-fitting tee—my injuries wouldn’t be able to handle tighter or rougher materials for a while yet—I went in search of Crew.

I called his name, but received no response. He wouldn’t have left without telling me, so I strained my ears for any hint of him.

I felt more than heard bass pulsing through the floor. Moving around the living room and down the hall toward the mudroom, I followed the beat as it grew louder until I stood in front of a door open at the top of a descending staircase. The words became clear then, some old Breaking Benjamin song providing the backdrop to whatever Crew was doing down there.

The sight I found when I reached the bottom stole my breath.

Crew Lawless.

Shirtless.

Dripping sweat.