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He’d been running back to the stable to meet with Lynch and Meeker when he’d heard the distinctive sound of glass breaking, the sound echoing through the stillness.
“What the devil?” he whispered under his breath.
Of course, it was quiet again. Deathly quiet. Not a noise to break the silence.
Even with Maeve’s murder, there was a deceptive serenity and calm over the white-blanketed buildings of Blue Rock Academy.
That was changing, of course. Though Lynch had decided to withhold information from the students until the morning, hoping to contact Maeve’s family first, the word was getting out.
Some of it came from the staff, most of whom Lynch and Flannagan had contacted while Meeker guarded Maeve’s grisly death scene. Then there were the patrols of students who also knew what was going on. Trent had noticed lights in dorm rooms flickering to life. Yeah, the word was getting around that the killer had struck again.
And so why the sound of shattering glass?
Thud!
He spun, turning quickly toward the direction of the sound. And his house. Running now, he was certain that the noise emanated from the direction of the row of cottages.
Who would be breaking windows in the middle of the damned night? In a second, he flashed on the table in his house and Lynch’s private files, spread out and open.
If someone stole them …
“Hell!”
Speeding through the thick snow, he cut across the back of the admin building and along a thicket of pines to the alley behind the row of cabins where darkness prevailed, still no backup power reaching this string of old cottages.
All the houses were dark, no signs of life visible.
All except his.
Through the drawn shades of his cabin he saw firelight shifting, brightness illuminating the interior.
His insides clenched. The fire he’d left smoldering in the grate should have died by now, and all the lanterns had been turned down. His house, too, should appear nearly dark but now offered up an eerie orange glow behind the shades.
Silently, he reached for his pistol before remembering he’d given his weapon to Jules.
He rounded to the back of the house without making a sound. Sure enough, the window in the back door was broken, jagged shards of glass visible in its frame, the door itself hanging ajar, the smell of burning oil escaping with a thick cloud of smoke.
Damn it!
Through the broken glass, he spied a wall of flames. Hot and wild, crackling hungrily, they ran through his home. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, flicking on his walkie-talkie as he climbed the short flight of stairs to the back porch.
“Yeah?” Bert Flannagan said.
“It’s Trent.” He kept his voice low but firm. “I need backup. ASAP. I’ve got a fire in my cabin. You hear me, ASAP!” Trent clicked off, wondering if he’d just alerted the enemy. Not really giving a damn, he picked up a piece of oak from the back porch,
the only weapon at hand.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why his cabin had been broken into: Someone was dead set on destroying Lynch’s damning files.
Who?
Had Tobias Lynch figured out the files hadn’t been burned the first time?
So much for being the man of God and faith.
He burst through the door to the kitchen.
A wave of heat assaulted him. Black smoke stung his nostrils as he crossed the kitchen floor.
