Page 9

The workday was over two hours ago, yet Alessandra Lagarde was still scraping blistered paint on the charred wall of Tyra Scharf’s bedroom.

The place was a wreck—walls scorched black, mattress burned down to the springs, window frames little more than carbon-streaked outlines.

And now that the water used to extinguish the fire had dried, ash and debris on the floor crunched beneath her boots with every step.

She’d been called in to determine whether an incendiary device had been used.

The fire had moved fast—too fast. Questions had been raised. A possible accelerant, maybe something homemade. Until they knew for sure, it fell to Alessandra and her team to collect, test, and rule things out.

Dressed in full Tyvek, she dropped a fresh sample into a nylon evidence bag and sealed it. Two days in, and they were still finding pockets of concern. The floor threatened to give way in places, forcing them to scaffold around what had once been a girl’s bedroom.

Alessandra and her forensic team would need a few more days to complete the job. Knowing this, she’d sent her people home for the day. They needed rest and focus.

But she still had juice.

In the second floor bedroom, the damage was bad, though not as awful as it could have been.

Everything in the room had burned—the bed, the closet, the inside of the closet.

Drawers in the wood desk were open, their contents ash.

Even the en suite bathroom had burned, the tiles cracked and blackened.

Something about this attack gave Alessandra the creeps.

She’d seen assassination attempts, evidence destruction, and the whole gamut of accidental explosions. This didn’t appear to fit the latter. Judging by the burn pattern, the devastation of the area came from the fire’s multiple points of origin.

Wherever Alessandra collected evidence, she saw the same narrow V patterns on what remained of the walls, the furniture, and the floor. She was sure her scrapings—taken from behind the far side of what had been the bed—would reveal traces of accelerant.

Whoever had started this fire had wanted every part of the site to burn, for nothing to remain untouched. This blaze looked like an attempt to destroy not only evidence but a memory. To eradicate all signs of a life.

Standing there between the blackened walls, the burned-out remains of the furniture, and the scraps of charred material that had once formed a wardrobe, Alessandra could feel the loathing.

Someone had hated this room. They’d despised everything in it and wanted to see it all destroyed.

A girl’s bedroom.

Patches showed that the walls had once been painted pink. Fragments among the remains of the bedspring suggested the bed had been home to a number of stuffed toys.

This was a space where a child had grown up before going out into the world. A store of memories and secrets and growth. It reminded Alessandra of Demetri’s room. And now it was gone.

Alessandra had never known anyone who’d hated the past so much—either their own or someone else’s—that they’d wanted to destroy everything about it. But someone had done that here. She was sure of it.

She shuddered and, taking her bag, stepped into the hallway. There was little left of the handrail there, and the carpet that ran down the stairs had burned away. The air still smelled of smoke and ash and burned plastic.

The news that Tyra Scharf’s ex-boyfriend was in the clear was disappointing. Significant others were always a good suspect, and while burning down an ex’s bedroom might’ve been extreme, Alessandra could at least understand that reaction.

Hate was a powerful motive for crime, and rejection was a powerful reason to hate. But if he was the one who’d dumped her, he’d have no reason to burn her bedroom to the ground.

Though she might’ve had reason to burn his.

Alessandra stopped by the handrail and took another splinter from the wall just above the floor. She’d already checked this part of the house, but she could have missed something.

Perhaps there’d been a second application of accelerant, an accomplice who’d helped spread things around. That would be unusual but not unheard of, and it might account for what appeared to be multiple sources of origin and the spread of the damage.

She dropped the slip of burned wood into a bag, feeling more hope than expectation. The flames had been so fierce, they’d left little evidence beyond the pattern of the fire itself.

Maybe the kidnapper had attacked Tyra in this room, then burned as much of the evidence as he could. Which meant the woman would’ve been dragged downstairs and out one of the doors.

Tyra could’ve fought hard, and there could’ve been blood.

If so, the fire might’ve burned away all visual traces of it.

Maybe the firefighters’ hoses had washed away every last drop.

But Alessandra didn’t want to give up hope of finding something.

Somewhere. A splash that had survived the heat and the hoses and left traces of DNA.

She took a bottle of luminol from her bag and sprayed the wall.

There was nothing. No sign of hemoglobin at all.

Alessandra replaced the bottle. The fire had been big enough to destroy evidence…but there was no real sign there’d ever been any evidence to destroy.

Maybe she’d find something on the scrapings she’d just taken.

In any event, she’d done enough for the day. One by one, she turned off the portable floodlights the forensic team had set up.

Alessandra continued down the stairs to the entrance of the building, stopping to take her mask off.

She stepped outside and inhaled a deep breath of the cold evening air.

A thick smell of smoke and charcoal still hung throughout the house, but the chill was refreshing and dulled the stink.

The police tape outside flapped in the breeze.

A black-and-white police car sat in front of the house.

Alessandra peeled off her Tyvek suit. A quick stop at the lab to drop off the material, then she’d head home. Back to Ander. The ransom drop meant he’d be home late tonight. They’d be tracking the kidnapper and waiting for Tyra Scharf’s release.

But he’d come home. To their house. To their family.

Contentment settled into her bones, warm and relaxing. She opened her bag and pushed the suit inside.

She’d gotten so lucky with Ander. She’d seen him around the office building before they’d spoken and often wondered who that hunk was, with his broad shoulders and his curly mid-length hair. She’d always had a thing for curls.

But she’d had no idea he’d be so kind, so supportive and understanding. So many of the men she’d met at the Bureau combined good looks with giant egos. Ander was modest, grounded, and generous—and a good father too. They got to know each other, and everything clicked.

Alessandra had never thought she’d want to move so quickly. But she also hadn’t thought she’d ever be this happy, that love could land this fast and hit so hard.

A woman approached the house from the sidewalk after ducking under the yellow police tape.

Alessandra cast a glance at the police cruiser parked on the street. She couldn’t quite see the officers, but they didn’t react to the trespasser. She would have to talk with them about staying vigilant.

She moved toward the interloper. “Excuse me. You can’t be here.”

The woman was young and ambled slowly up the little paved path, her hands buried in the pockets of her leather coat.

Her hair was jet black, as was her lipstick, and her eyeliner was thick and smudged enough to remind Alessandra of a wild raccoon.

A sightseer, probably. A neighbor coming to gawp at the scene of the crime.

She moved past Alessandra as if she hadn’t heard her.

“Hey, excuse me,” Alessandra tried again. “This is a?—”

Holy shit .

The woman was Tyra Scharf. Alessandra had seen her picture on Ander’s phone.

The kidnappers must’ve retrieved the money and released her. She was alive.

“Tyra!”

The young woman slowed in the doorway. Alessandra pulled out her ID. “It’s okay. I’m FBI.”

Tyra hunched her shoulders. She had a small, pale face. The black makeup made her appear even paler.

“Did my father pay the ransom?”

Alessandra smiled. “He must have. You’re here. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine. I thought he’d pay. He gives his money away so easily.” Tyra stepped through the front into the foyer.

Tiny warning bells went off in Alessandra’s head. Something wasn’t right.

“You shouldn’t go inside. It’s not safe.”

Tyra pointed her chin toward the burned staircase and the shattered roof. “What a mess. Never liked this house.”

“Just a second, Tyra.” Alessandra took her phone from her pocket. “Let me call this in. Let everyone know you’re safe.” She needed real backup.

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

Alessandra pulled out her phone as Tyra began walking up the stairs. The girl must have been drugged by her captors. She was clearly in a daze.

Ander answered on the first ring. His voice was so warm and welcoming. “Hey, it looks like I’m going to be here for a while. We’ve got?—”

“Tyra’s here.”

“What? Where?”

“At the house. Her father’s house. I was collecting some more samples, and she just turned up.”

“That’s…tell her to wait there.” There was a muffled ex change of voices on Ander’s end. “Stella and Hagen are on the way. I’ll be close behind. Does she look okay?”

Alessandra watched as the girl tilted her head back, gaze fixed on the ceiling like she was waiting for something to fall from it.

“Yeah, but…something’s wrong. Send an ambulance. I think she’s been drugged. Or she’s in shock. Either way, send an ambulance.”

“On the way.” He hung up.

Tyra stood motionless halfway up the stairs, her posture strange—too still, too composed. Her head cocked at an odd angle.

Drugged. Yeah.

Alessandra lowered her phone. “We just need you to wait down here, Tyra. The FBI are on their way. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Let’s go sit in my car…get you warm, get you checked out. You don’t want to be here.”

Tyra blinked, then smiled faintly. “Wait? I can’t wait. There’s something I need. Upstairs.”

Alessandra looked out the window at her Ford Explorer. She turned back just as Tyra reached the top of the stairs and disappeared down the hall.

“Hey, Tyra! You really shouldn’t be up there. It’s not safe.”

“Come on up.” Tyra’s voice rang with real emotion for the first time. Urgency. Maybe fear? “You need to see this. It’s important.”

Alessandra waved toward the police cruiser. Nothing. No movement. In the early evening darkness, everything looked so calm. She turned back and trotted upstairs.

The young woman called out again. “I’m in here. In my parents’ room.”

The hallway stretched ahead, dim and claustrophobic. Alessandra stepped lightly, her boots crunching soot beneath them. The air carried a scent—faint smoke, scorched wood, and something else.

She reached the doorway, but only darkness met her.

“Tyra?” She took one step in.

Pain exploded in the back of her head—hot and blinding. Her body pitched sideways, shoulder slamming the doorframe, face cracking hard against the jamb. The breath fled her lungs. Her vision blurred.

She hit the floor, cheek scraping the charred wood. Her arms twitched as she struggled to push herself up, but nothing worked. Her muscles betrayed her.

Footsteps circled.

“Ander…” The word was a whisper, frayed and broken. “Tell Demetri…tell him I love him…”

She wished they’d had more time—more nights, more mornings, more of the quiet in-between.

Her hand curled into a fist.

She blinked, but her sight gave her nothing now. Only flickers of movement. A shadow.

Hands gripped her ankles.

No. No, no.

The girl—Tyra—lifted her legs with eerie strength and began to drag her. Alessandra’s body scraped across the floor, through layers of ash and soot.

Away from the primary bedroom.

Toward the blackened ruin at the end of the hall.

Toward Tyra’s room.

Alessandra tried to scream.

But nothing came out.