Page 37 of Ink and Ashes

Colson

I barely slept last night. After I stormed out of the dining room, I didn’t leave my room again, not wanting to see the look on Holland’s face.

Because I’m so damn angry, and I know that one glance at her would wash it all away.

She’s gotten good at calming me when I feel myself losing control, and I’m not ready to let this anger dissipate quite yet.

It’s not her I’m angry with—it’s her suggestion.

The fact that her theory has turned my entire life upside down and suddenly has me questioning everyone I’ve ever known, looking at them in a different light.

I felt like an ass for leaving the way I did last night, but the mere idea that the arsonist could be not just someone in this town, but one of my firefighters, has been eating away at me since she told me.

I’ve been second-guessing every single one of them and myself, wondering if I could really be so blind to not know one of the guys I’ve worked with for years has a penchant for setting the fires we work so hard to put out.

That’s why I head out before the sun rises this morning. The feel of her hand against my skin has been on replay all night, clashing against the thought of one of my closest friends being an arsonist, and I need some space from her—more than what a four-foot hallway grants me.

I grab my keys off the bedside table, making my way out the front door of The Scarlet, and hop into my truck.

I plan to head over to my parents to talk to my dad about all this, but it’s not even six a.m. yet.

So first, I stop in at Cedar Lane since they always open at the crack of dawn, and then I just drive, trying to clear my mind of the mess going on right now.

It doesn’t work.

I can’t stop wondering how I never realized this situation is way more dire than we thought. I’ve been a firefighter for years, yet someone in this town has been setting fires right under our noses and getting away with it.

It makes me feel sick.

It’s nearing seven when I finally show up at my parents’. Still early, but knowing them, they’ve both probably already eaten breakfast, showered, and are now getting ready to head out for the day. If I don’t catch my dad now, I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to talk to him.

Blowing out a breath, I lock my truck and head up the front steps. It takes about a minute for the door to swing open after I knock.

“Colson?” Dad’s brows pull together. “What on Earth are you doing here so early?”

My jaw flexes. “I need to talk to you. You busy?”

Dad shakes his head, his expression turning concerned. My dad knows I wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t serious. “Was gonna get some work done with Billy, but I’ll let him know I’ll be late.” He moves aside to let me into the house.

I immediately make my way to the dining room, taking a seat, and Dad isn’t far behind me. He pours us each a cup of coffee and then sits down across from me.

“Mom already out?” I ask, clutching the mug in my hands.

Dad nods. “She met Gemma for breakfast down the street. What’s this about, son? ”

I grit my teeth together, then just spit it out. “This town has an arsonist.”

Dad’s eyes widen. “The journalist was right?”

I jerk my head. “The journalist— Holland , was right.”

He lets out a low whistle.

“And worse…” I start, swallowing. “She thinks it might be a firefighter.”

Dad stares at me slack-jawed, but he doesn’t question it. He knows I wouldn’t joke about something like that.

“Do you?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

I brush a hand through my hair, thinking about the conversation I had with her. I hate the idea that a firefighter could be setting these fires. And I’ve been taking it out on her because she’s the one who suggested it.

But I hate even more that I think she might be right.

I clench my jaw and avert my dad’s gaze as I nod.

“There have been too many aspects about the fires that only a firefighter would know, Dad. They’ve been careful to only set them in areas where fire is likely to move away from town.

The only evidence we’ve found at any of the scenes are the little silver tabs from candle wicks, which really doesn’t prove much.

Whoever’s doing this has been smart, and the patterns of the fires support her theory. ”

Dad blows out a breath. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Tony Watkins was at the top of her list, but he was out of town at the time of two of the fires. She also had suspicions about Liam Parillo from Cedar Lane and George from the paper, but neither of them have proper motivation or the criminal history we suspect the arsonist would. She hasn’t completely cleared Liam, but it’s unlikely that he’s responsible.

Which only leaves the guys at the station. ”

“She say who she has suspicions about there?”

“Morgan, Hart, and Sharpe were at the top of her suspect list. We ran through all their files yesterday, and we cleared Morgan.”

Dad huffs a laugh. “Ray Morgan is many things, but an arsonist is not one of them.”

“That’s what I said, and she agreed. She just doesn’t like the guy.” Morgan may be a misogynistic asshole, but he’d never do something like this.

“Can’t say I blame her for that.” Dad takes a sip of his coffee. “What about Hart and Sharpe?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

According to Holland, we’re looking for someone who’s a bit of a loner, can’t hold down a relationship, struggles to make friends.

Male between the ages of twenty-five and forty.

Has a history of criminal activity. Travis fits all that criteria, but my gut is telling me it isn’t him.

Do you think he could be responsible for something like this? ”

“Hell no,” Dad says. “Hart’s been on the straight and narrow since he started with the department. He’s closed off, but I definitely don’t think he could do something like this. He doesn’t have what it takes.”

My shoulders fall in relief.

“Tell me about Sharpe. He’s the new kid, right?”

I nod.

“You think it could be him? What’s he like?”

I shrug. “He’s…interesting. Twenty-three. Keeps to himself a lot while at the station but is always the first to jump into action at the scene of a call. He can be a touch impulsive, but he’s a good kid from what I can tell.”

Dad hums.

“What are you thinking?”

He leans forward, wrapping his hands around his mug. “Have I ever told you about Cameron Cooper?”

I furrow my brows, trying to recall any mention of that name, but it doesn’t sound familiar. I shake my head.

“Cam was a probie when I was a lieutenant. He was a lot like how you describe Ollie—quiet, eager, and a little bit reckless. He’d been in some trouble as a kid, and everyone was hoping that being part of the department would smarten him up.

Anyway, one night when he was off shift, we got called to assist in a disturbance.

There was a robbery at the corner store, and when we showed up on scene, Cam was inside with a gun in hand.

I’m still not sure what happened to make him snap, but he didn’t make it out. He was only twenty.”

My eyes narrow. “Why haven’t you ever told me that before?”

Dad shrugs. “It wasn’t relevant until now. All I’m saying is maybe keep a closer eye on Oliver for a while. I know it doesn’t seem likely now that he could be responsible, but you don’t know until you know. I’d hate for someone else to get caught in the crossfire if he eventually breaks.”

I swallow. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Dad.”

We chat for a little bit longer, then at quarter to eight, I leave to head into work.

It feels like any other day at the station, but my mind won’t stop. All day, I’ve been stuck thinking about Holland and her theory, replaying how I left things with her while also wondering which of my friends could be behind the fires.

I keep a close eye on Hart and Sharpe, watching for anything out of the ordinary, but I don’t notice anything.

They act the same as they do every day—Hart keeping his head down to get work done, Sharpe putting in extra effort to impress his superiors.

Neither of those things make someone an arsonist.

I want to believe the best in them. I’ve known Hart for too long to believe he could ever be behind something like this, and even though Sharpe is new and eager, I don’t see him being behind it either.

At least, I really hope he isn’t.

With only a few hours left in the shift, I pull out my phone, hovering over Holland’s contact. I contemplate calling or texting her for a moment, ready to apologize about last night and ask her to come down here to help me get to the bottom of this.

But I stop myself. Apologizing should be something I do in person, and if she’s here, I’ll just end up even more distracted than I already am. So I pocket my phone and get back to work, hoping the rest of the shift passes without any issues.

When I make it back to the inn that evening, I head straight for Holland’s room. I knock on her door, and after a moment, I hear her footsteps on the other side.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say the moment her door swings open.

Her shoulders fall. “You don’t need to apologize, Colson.”

“I do, though. You didn’t deserve that.” I take a step forward. “I’m not angry with you. I just…needed some space. To think. To process.”

“I appreciate you saying that, and I understand. Seriously, it’s okay.” She moves to the side to let me enter, so I make my way inside her room. I hear the door click shut behind her, and when I turn around and take her in, all the oxygen in the room evaporates.

She’s dressed in the same emerald green silk pajama set I saw her in the first day I started staying here, and her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail.

Her toned legs are long and smooth, and I fight the urge to run my hands along them—to find out what she’s hiding beneath her clothes.

Her face is clean from any makeup, and it’s the first time I’m seeing her this way.

Raw. Real.