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“Mom, something happened in the neighborhood.”
Misty lived only a few blocks from Michelle’s house.
“If you’re awake, let me know what you know.”
Michelle looked up at her friends. “Maybe Mom heard something from Dad?”
Fletch opened a director’s chair and set it across from Michelle. “Your mom’s death was ruled an accident. Yet many blamed you.”
Her chest ached at the memories, the accusations, and even the questioning by the police. Her dad tried to intervene, but Michelle was over eighteen years old and according to the law, an adult. The conspiracy theories ran the gamut. The most believable was that Michelle accidentally, or intentionally, hit a burner on the gas stove. Without a flame to ignite it, the gas accumulated.
“I was cleared,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Your mother dies in a house explosion, attributed to a ruptured gas pipe, yet no construction had occurred in the area. And now your father will be declared deceased due to an unexplained fire.”
She sat taller. “My father was already dead. I heard the gunshot. When I went downstairs, he was dead on the floor. The flames…someone started a fire to cover up the crime.”
Fletch’s gaze narrowed. “Why would your parents be targeted?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. My mom was a librarian—a great mom but as boring as they come. Dad was a policeman, thirty years with IMPD. The sheriff either killed him or knows who did. You tell me.”
The percolating bubbles of coffee exploded in the glass top of the coffee pot. As Fletch stood, he unzipped his hoodie, revealing a tight black dri-FIT shirt, the kind that hugs each muscle, each indentation and bulge.
Michelle didn’t mean to gape, but she suddenly realized why he had no problem carrying her through the woods. Either Fletch worked out religiously, or he was simply created to near perfection.
Noticing the obvious rise in temperature from the hotplate and lantern, Michelle unsnapped the large coat she was still wearing. Leaving it draped over her shoulders, she asked, “You don’t by chance have any spare clothes around here?”
Fletch turned her way with a curl to his lips. “Not here. After dark, we’ll move. He lifted his eye to a peephole near the door, one she hadn’t noticed earlier. “The snow is falling heavier than before. That’s good. Along with the wind, our tracks should be hard to follow.”
“Are you a cop? You don’t work with Sheriff Perkins, do you?”
“I’m not employed by the sheriff’s department.”
“Private eye? Some kind of survivalist?” she questioned as he handed her the steaming cup of coffee.
“Sorry, no cream or sugar.”
Michelle sighed. She liked both in her coffee. “The warm mug feels great on my fingers.” She took another look around. “How do I know I can trust you?”
Fletch retook his seat across from her. “I’d say that’s up to you, but at the moment, your choices are rather slim.”
“Do you know more about my mom’s death?” It was a question she hadn’t broached with anyone since she was found not guilty—not guilty, not innocent. Yes, she remembered the state police officer making that distinction.
“The less you know, the better.”
The small hairs on Michelle’s arms stood to attention. “Less I know about what?”
“Why were you at Denny’s house last night?”
“He’s my dad.”
Fletch nodded. “Why last night?”
“It was a surprise visit. I wasn’t planning on staying. Dad is always…” She took a deep breath, deciding to make a less emotional declaration. “…was always concerned about the roads around here, especially when the weather gets bad. With some time between projects, I made the decision to visit him. I hadn’t seen him since he visited me a few months ago.”
“Did he know you were coming?”
Michelle shrugged. “No. Like I said, it was a surprise.”
