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“Looking at this room, your house should be rolling like the rest of the street. I’m going to ask you again. How’d you stop the fire?”
Michael had no answer for that. He ran his hands across his face. “I don’t know. I don’t—it must have burned itself out.”
“That’s not how fire works, and I’m pretty sure you know that as well as I do.”
He did know that. He also knew he didn’t have any answers to give. His thoughts were still trying to make sense of the fires—and who had started them.
There was someone in the woods.
Was it just Chris? Or someone else? Was it a coincidence this happened when he’d been chasing his brother?
Had he been lured away?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t even answer his own questions, much less the fire marshal’s.
Michael rubbed at his eyes and wanted to sit down. “Are you going to arrest me because the fire stopped?”
Marshal Faulkner held his eyes across the haze. “Not yet.”
“He’s not going to arrest you at all,” said Hannah. Her voice was firm.
“Hannah—”
Irish cleared his throat. “I’m going to go help run lines.”
“Take her with you,” said Marshal Faulkner.
Hannah inhaled to object, and her father said, “Don’t think I won’t order you out of here.”
“It’s okay,” Michael said. “He’s doing his job.”
“Come on, Blondie,” said Irish. He gave Hannah a pat on the shoulder and gestured toward the front. “We’re shorthanded anyway.”
Blondie. Michael tucked that away in his head to think about later. Along with the casual way Irish had touched her.
But she gave Michael a last, lingering squeeze of her hand. “Find me before you leave, okay?”
“Okay.”
And then she was gone, following Irish through the door.
Leaving him there with the fire marshal.
Michael wondered if he could make a run for it, or if the guy would take that as guilt and just shoot him.
But then Marshal Faulkner said, “I’m going to let you take your brothers out of here.”
His voice was almost kind, and for an instant, Michael wished he was seventeen again, that the marshal could call DFS and find someone else to make all this go away. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Not far. You understand me?”
“Yeah,” said Michael, making no effort to hide the exhaustion in his voice.
Marshal Faulkner pulled a card from his coat and held it out. “I want you to call me later, after you’ve gotten some sleep. After you talk to the insurance company and get yourself settled.”
Michael reached for the card. He nodded.
The man didn’t let go of it. “I expect to hear from you within twenty-four hours. Clear on that, too?”
