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All of the fires she’d read about had been deemed accidental.
But they weren’t.
Someone had set them.
Probably someone who knew about fires.
Someone like Alison, who had grudges against the victims.
All innocent people except for Larry.
And innocent people deserved justice.
Yet how could she betray her sister? The one who’d always watched out for her? Who’d protected her from Larry at great personal expense? Whose concern for her welfare had never wavered?
How could she do that?
Shoulders slumping, Sophie pushed herself to her feet and stumbled back to her chair, legs shaky. Sank into its welcoming depths and cuddled up in the sheltering wings.
Could she provide law enforcement with the facts she knew, leave her sister’s name out of it, and let them try to make the connection? See if they could find proof of her suspicions? After all, that was their job.
Yes. That approach would be fair to everyone involved.
But how could she anonymously pass on what she knew?
Sophie played with her phone.
She couldn’t call or email. Both were traceable.
A note would have to do. Mailed from a post office close to St. Louis, so the postmark couldn’t identify her location, and printed in the block letters she taught her students.
As for where to send it—why not that fire investigator Alison knew? Bri Tucker. The woman had come across as smart and buttoned-up. If she didn’t want to deal with the information, she could pass it on.
And it was possible nothing would come of it. If the information languished, or law enforcement failed to connect the dots, so be it. Her conscience would be eased, and Alison would never know.
Yet as Sophie rose from her chair and headed to the kitchento find a piece of notepaper and an envelope along with a pair of latex gloves from her COVID stash, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was about to set off a chain of events that would have dramatic and long-lasting repercussions.
“THERE’S AN UNUSUALONE FOR YOU, DETECTIVE.Looks like a prop in a B movie.” As the guy from the mail room deposited the day’s delivery in Bri’s inbox, he grinned and motioned toward the envelope on top with her name and address printed in block letters.
She plucked it off the stack. “Yeah. It does.” She turned it over. No return address. “Or someone with a complaint who wants to remain anonymous.”
“Could be that too.” He gave her a mock salute as he exited. “Have a nice day.”
Not likely. After spending too many hours yesterday on her feet at a fire scene, her knee and hip were aching.
Too bad she’d agreed to meet Alison for lunch today.
But bailing on a grieving widow who could probably use an empathetic ear would be heartless.
She’d have to suck it up and go—as soon as she opened this curious piece of mail.
After slitting the flap, she pulled it out and read the single folded sheet.
Under the heading “These fires may be connected,” the writer had listed four names and dates.
Bri stopped breathing.
Michelle Thomas was on the list.
