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I stepped out of the flower shop, and walked towards my truck. I hopped in, shutting the door behind me. I needed clarity, a plan, and the first person who came to mind was Brett. The man had been my right hand for the past few summers, and his perspective might shed light on the mysterious fire.
I dialed Brett's number, the anticipation building with each ring. Finally, he answered.
"Hey what's up?" He asked.
"Nothing, just us," I paused, "Doing some landscaping. Anyway, are you with Casey?" I didn't want her to hear.
"No, she's in the kitchen with Tamara. Why?" His voice sounded concerned.
"Brett, someone intentionally set fire to the ranch. The detective said it was deliberate, and I'm trying to piece together who would want to do this," I explained, my voice heavy with frustration.
"Whoa, Christian. Arson?" Brett's concern was noticeable through the phone.
"Yeah, I know." I said. "Can you think of anyone who would want to do that?"
Brett was silent for a moment. "Sarah? Remember last summer you left her? I’m glad you did, but she sure wasn’t.”
Sarah and I had a brief fling after my grandmother passed. We used to get real, real drunk together. After my wreck, I decided it was time to stop drinking. Sarah didn’t want to stop. She hated me, but I couldn’t keep going down that path. I tried to help, but she wasn’t interested. She just recently got the job at the flower shop about a year ago, and I was impressed with her growth.
"Yeah. I'm at her job. She was out of town last night, though."
Brett was silent for another few seconds. "What about the guy who you outbid for the ranch house? Remember he was leaving those awful letters."
The realization hit me like a thunderclap, echoing through the recesses of my mind as Brett's words settled in. "Weren't you in a bidding war with someone?" Brett's question pierced through the fog of confusion, unveiling a crucial piece of the puzzle.
My breath caught as the memory resurfaced. Mark, the man I had outbid in the relentless pursuit of securing the ranch. The bidding war had been fierce, emotions running high as the stakes escalated. I had emerged victorious, driven by a determination that now seemed to have ignited a dangerous flame.
"Brett, you might be onto something," I confessed, the weight of realization settling on my shoulders. "Mark— the one I outbid for the ranch. He could have a motive."
Brett's silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, revealing a vendetta fueled by resentment. "Christian, if this guy is behind the fire, we need to be careful. Who knows what he's capable of?"
"I know, Brett. I'm heading to his house now. I need to confront him, figure out if he had a hand in all of this," I replied, the urgency evident in my voice.
"Be cautious, Christian. If you need help or if things get dicey, call me. I'll be there," Brett offered, his loyalty unwavering.
"Thanks, Brett. I appreciate it. I'll keep you posted," I assured him, ending the call with newfound determination.
Just three days after the fire, I stood on Mark's doorstep, my knuckles rapping against the door in an insistent rhythm. Silence greeted me. Glancing around, my eyes fell upon an empty gas can positioned conspicuously beside the porch, a sinister artifact casting shadows on the suspicion that had taken root.
As the unanswered knocks persisted, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that Mark was somewhere close, perhaps watching from the shadows. My instincts screamed caution, urging me to tread carefully. I circled the house, surveying the surroundings for any sign of movement or an alternative entry.
Finally, Mark comes to the door and unlocks it, pulling it open as it creaked. Facing Mark on his doorstep, a tension-laden exchange unfolded. His eyes, still fueled by resentment over losing the ranch, bore into mine as I ventured into the delicate territory of confrontation. The air was thick with unresolved grievances, and the unease was palpable.
"Christian," Mark's voice, laced with lingering bitterness, sliced through the charged atmosphere. "What brings you here?"
I took a moment, carefully choosing my words. "I need answers, Mark. About the ranch. About the fire."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Yeah, I heard about your little mishap down at the bar. Your precious ranch got attacked, and now you come here, blaming me?"
I shook my head, trying to diffuse the hostility. "I'm not blaming you outright, Mark. I just want to understand what happened."
He crossed his arms, a defiant stance. "I don't have to explain anything to you. You got what you wanted: the ranch. So, leave me out of it."
"Did you burn down the ranch, Mark?" I asked, my voice steady.
His eyes flared with anger. "You think I'd do that?” He laughed. “Maybe it's what you deserve after swooping in and taking it from me."
I noticed the gas can beside the porch, an unsettling detail that demanded an explanation. "What about the gas can, Mark? Care to explain that?"
