Page 33 of Ink and Ashes

Holland

I glance between Dom and Colson, a panicked feeling settling low in my stomach. It’s been a week since Dom and I last spoke, and judging from the tone of his voice, he’s pissed.

“Well? Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Dom urges, making his way deeper into the dining room. His eyes scan over all the evidence laid out on the table before he takes the seat across from Colson.

Colson nods at me, a silent signal that I should be the one to fill Dom in on the past twenty-four hours.

On an exhale, I say, “Jimmy told me that the fuel line on my car was tampered with.” I shuffle through the files, searching for the one Jimmy gave me.

When I find it, I hand it to Dom. “He’s not sure if the fire was intentional or not, but it seems too convenient for it not to be.

And it was the only fire you guys got called to yesterday. ”

“So it was fire number ten,” Dom concludes, coming to the same realization both Colson and I did.

I nod, and he continues scanning the file.

“Show him the emails too,” Colson adds.

Dom’s brows furrow. “What emails?”

I swallow, pulling up my inbox on my computer and navigate to the one I received yesterday first. A chill runs up my spine as I read it again, and Dom’s brows pull even tighter as he does too.

“The first one I received was from the same address and same format, but all it said was I’m watching you . I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but coupled with the note, this email, and my car being tampered with…”

“It appears the arsonist is after you now.”

I nod.

Dom blows out a breath, leaning back in his chair. I can tell thoughts are racing through his mind, as if he’s debating whether this is enough reason to forgive me for lying.

“You haven’t made trusting you very easy, you know,” he says, meeting my gaze.

“I know. I’m sorry for lying about who I am. And for publishing the article without telling you about it first. But I did it for a reason, and I promise, aside from my name, everything else about me is true. I just want to help.”

His jaw clenches. “Why did you lie?”

Colson simply answers his question with, “She was framed.” I turn my head toward him, smiling softly. It surprises me that he’s trusting me so easily after everything, but I appreciate it.

Dom hums. “What is your real name?”

I tense, glancing between him and Colson. I know I told Colson I wouldn’t tell him, but at this point, I don’t really have anything left to lose.

After a beat, I blurt, “Hollis Rothwell.”

Dom’s tongue darts out over his lips, while Colson narrows his gaze on me.

“Hollis Rothwell…” Colson repeats, and I flinch hearing my given name from his lips. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

I turn to him, swallowing roughly. “My dad is Harrison Rothwell, Ontario’s Premier.”

A muttered, “Shit,” falls from Dom’s mouth as Colson’s face falls .

“Fuck, Red…” he says. My heart skips a beat at the nickname he hasn’t used since our first meeting.

I really shouldn’t be surprised that they put it together so quickly. My dad has always been well-known throughout the country for his ultra-conservative views, and with all the current press surrounding the Ontario election, it doesn’t shock me that they know who he is.

“That must’ve been a fun childhood,” Dom says, the sarcasm clear in his voice.

“Pretty much exactly as you’d expect from a man who hates women.

I don’t know how my mother puts up with it.

But they’re a big reason why I left.” I shake my head, rolling my lips together.

“I know you’re probably going to look me up now, but I promise you, the articles online aren’t true.

You can find my other work in the Investigative Journalism Foundation’s archives and see that I’m serious about what I do.

I would never go against my morals or do anything the articles claim. ”

The men share a glance. Dom’s jaw flexes, then he says, “We’ll take your word for it.”

My shoulders drop in relief. “I really am sorry for not telling you from the beginning.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’m still not happy about the article, but I get why you did that too. Let’s just focus on catching this bastard before someone ends up dead.”

I flinch at that sentence. By someone he means me .

“Dude,” Colson says, glaring at Dom.

Dom winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

I swallow. “No. You’re right. I need to watch my back.”

Colson rests his hand atop mine on the table and butterflies take flight in my stomach. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, a whirlpool of emotions swimming in his emerald eyes.

“We’ll be watching it too.”

Dom and Colson have been super helpful in the investigation over the past few days.

They’ve been talking to people in town on my behalf, and we’ve been able to rule out a handful based on their alibis at the times of the fires.

We’ve also visited the scenes of the final two fires, and we managed to find a candle wick tab at the scene of each.

Which confirms my suspicion that candles are the arsonist’s form of ignition.

It’s a strange choice, given that it does leave evidence behind, and it makes me wonder how nobody has caught anything before.

But as both Colson and Dom pointed out to me, plenty of campers use candles in areas they aren’t supposed to, and when it burns enough, the evidence left behind is easy to miss.

They aren’t wrong, but something about this whole thing has seemed strange to me.

Especially because I have reason to believe whoever’s behind these fires has been setting them here for years and has likely done so in other towns too.

But the number of fires labelled to have been caused by a candle in the wildfire database is so minor, it doesn’t seem realistic that this guy has used the same ignition method the whole time.

Either that, or he’s stopped covering up his tracks. And if that’s the case…well, I’m not too sure what it would mean. Just that it wouldn’t be good.

Now that I have a better idea of who the arsonist isn’t, I’ve been focusing more on who it is.

Once things settled down, Mary and Emmett let me review the security footage from the front of the inn.

It confirmed that my car was deliberately set on fire, though the angle didn’t reveal who did it.

I’m still waiting to hear back from the police about whether their street cameras picked up anything.

Watching it back was haunting, though. Seconds after the arsonist set fire to my car, I walked out the front door.

There’s absolutely no way they weren’t watching from a distance, and I’ve been cursing myself for not paying more attention to my surroundings after it happened.

I was in so much shock, I didn’t even think to look for anyone.

The video wasn’t the best quality, but it’s not hard to tell it was a man, as I predicted it would be. That’s not super helpful though, because all of my suspects so far are also men.

The only person the video does clear is George, and that’s only because I know he was at the Gazette at the exact same time—and I checked the cameras there to confirm.

Not that I really thought it could be him, anyway.

I’ve been keeping a closer eye on him while at the paper, and while he’s been eager about what I’ve found on the fires, he’s not interested to the point that it’s raised concern.

Which rules him out, at least.

But that still leaves Liam Parillo, Tony Watkins, and Ray Morgan—though I haven’t told Colson or Dom about my suspicions toward the latter.

Part of that is because I’m not ready to share that the arsonist might be a firefighter, and the other part is that technically, I can rule Ray out too.

Seeing as he arrived on the fire truck with the rest of the crew after I called them, he couldn’t have set the fire to my car.

But just because it isn’t Ray doesn’t mean it isn’t a firefighter.

There are aspects about these that don’t fit with what a civilian would know about fire.

I should really tell Dom and Colson that theory, if only for the fact that lying to them feels wrong.

But I’d really like to avoid thinking of the arsonist being a firefighter unless I have to.

Today, they’re coming with me to speak to Tony, and I plan to try to talk to Liam again later this week. If nothing checks out there, then I’ll tell them.

“You ready for this?” Colson asks, looking over at me from the driver’s seat of his truck. His expression is soft and caring—a complete shift from the cold, grumpy exterior he presented when we first met.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He reaches over and places his hand atop mine, squeezing once before he opens his door and exits the truck. I follow suit, and Dom does the same from the back seat.

I blow out a breath as I shut the door, looking up at the old, dilapidated house a few kilometres outside of town.

It’s pretty much exactly as I expected for the house of a drug dealer: boarded up windows, peeling paint, broken floorboards and lightbulbs.

I know before I even take a step that Tony Watkins, whoever he is, is not going to be happy about our presence here.

Colson and Dom stand a few feet in front looking back at me expectantly. With one more exhale, I move toward the house.

We make our way up the rotting front steps, both men telling me, “Watch your step,” as we do. I roll my eyes as the words come from their mouths, but I’ll admit, I do appreciate their care.

When we reach the front door, I knock firmly. A beat of silence passes, then I hear a loud crash, followed by footsteps. A moment later, the door swings open.

“What?!” the man who I assume is Tony Watkins bellows.

He looks about as disheveled as his house, donned in a ratty old T-shirt covered in who knows what and jeans with holes—that clearly weren’t there when he bought them—covering them. His hair’s a mess, and judging from his pinpoint pupils, he’s high as a kite.