Death is in the Details Page 2

  The chief was waiting patiently for my answer, so I stood and faced him. “Sir, I don’t think I’m in a position—”

  “Don’t start with me, Faith,” he interrupted. “You’ve been photographing and analyzing crime scenes long enough. You’re like the nurse who knows more than the doctor. You run circles around my patrol officers, so until I hire another detective, you’re the best I got to bounce theories off of.” He crossed his arms and leaned into his heels, staring at me. Frustrated, he added, “Hell, you have a degree in forensic science and your uncle is the fire chief. Tell me what your gut is saying.”

  I removed my mask and breathed in the smoky air mixed with gasoline. “No, sir. I don’t think this looks like a murder-suicide. I think it looks and smells like murder.” I angled my head. “You think this has something to do with their daughter and the school teacher?”

  “I suppose word of the arrest got around already.” He rubbed fingers across his unshaven face.

  “Chief, this is Paynes Creek.”

  The sound of a slamming car door had the chief and me turning toward the driveway. Paynes Creek Fire Chief Henry Nash stepped out of his vehicle. He paused to survey the damage before slipping into his own outerwear and footies.

  “Have you heard from Ethan?” Chief Reid asked.

  I jerked in his direction again. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering if he’s made contact with any of you.”

  “He hasn’t,” I said simply. “Not with me.”

  The coroner’s car and a white van arrived. A barricade was set up down the block, and several uniforms were stationed at the tape to keep people from coming too close to the crime scene, but it was near impossible to keep everyone away. A steady flow of residents huddled together in small packs across the street, sipping their morning coffee and shaking their heads.

  Chief Nash ducked under the tape and walked cautiously over to where we stood. “Doesn’t take a genius to determine this was arson, does it? This place reeks of gasoline.” He looked at me. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Hi, Uncle Henry. I’m fine.” I was sure he knew I was lying. I was certainly not okay. This crime scene hit too close to home.

  Uncle Henry’s thick golden hair and dark complexion always reminded me of my mother. He once told me that his nickname in high school had been “California.” It was he and his wife who took me in after my mom died; I lived with them as I finished up my last year in high school. My brother had wanted to take care of me, but he was finishing up his undergraduate degree at the University of Kentucky and had just been admitted to Auburn University’s veterinarian school. And everyone agreed it was best that he finish college and proceed straight to vet school. I knew everyone hoped I would be off to college in a year, I’d move on from the tragedy, and everything would be okay.

  I did go off to college. The rest of the plan didn’t go so well.

  Chief Reid angled his head, studying me as if he’d only just now realized that this scene might be hard on me.

  The squeal of tires pierced the crisp morning air, followed by a high-pitched scream. I spun to see Bella Reynolds getting out of a red sedan.

  “Well, I guess we’ve found the daughter,” Chief Reid said under his breath. “Who the hell let her through the barricade?”

  The coroner was closest to her, and he stopped her from running through the red caution tape like she’d just finished first in a marathon. Unfortunately for her, I knew the marathon was yet to come. The longest race of her life would be trying to forget the image of the people she loved most being burned to a crisp. Even if she didn’t actually see the bodies, her mind would conjure up the image—and it would haunt her forever.

  She was still screaming hysterically, held by the coroner, as Chief Reid walked over to her. “What happened? Oh, God! Mom! Dad! Nooo!” Her screams turned into sobs.

  It was yet another replay of a horrific moment I’d experienced myself.

  As Chief Reid comforted the girl, I turned to Uncle Henry. “He thinks it’s Ethan, doesn’t he?”

  “Ethan’s name was mentioned when Sam called last night.”

  Ethan had been sentenced to life in prison, but in a shocking turn of events, he was released less than a month ago. He had put in a request for an appeal of his verdict, based on exculpatory evidence hidden from the public defender during the original trial. And it must have been quite the collection of evidence withheld, because not only was the appeal approved, but the commonwealth’s attorney decided to drop all charges almost immediately thereafter. And then the judge did something completely unprecedented: he sealed the evidence and kept it from being released to the public.

  Uncle Henry sighed. “When he was released, I knew his name would be thrown around in any arson investigations that came up. The public still believes he’s guilty—there’s no reason for them to think otherwise, since the evidence is sealed—and you know he’s on the radar of reporters, too. They all want the story.” He looked down at me. “Do you know where he went after his release?”

  “Me? Why would I know?”

  “The two of you were close once. I thought if he contacted anyone…”

  My body tensed, and a wave of dread and nausea rose from my gut. I quickly changed the subject. “I’ve got enough photos,” I said. “I’ll have the station send copies to you.”

  I started to edge past my uncle, but he grabbed my arm and held firmly, forcing me to look him in the eye.

  “You’re not safe at the farm, Faith. I don’t even care why the prosecutors decided to drop those charges—Ethan is still a dangerous man. And twelve years in the state pen can’t have helped. We don’t know what kind of person he is now.”

  “If Ethan means me harm, I’m not safe anywhere,” I spat. I pulled my arm from my uncle’s grasp. He liked to treat me like I was still a teenager, but I hadn’t been a young girl in a very long time. I knew how to take care of myself. “He should never have been let out.”

  The way I saw it, Ethan’s release was the fault of the fire and police investigators, who must have made some sort of procedural mistake. They should have made sure the evidence was tight all those years ago. But I couldn’t say that to Uncle Henry, because he’d been involved in the investigation. Chief Reid, too. They’d spent a lot of hours collecting evidence and building a timeline that convinced both a jury and me that Ethan was guilty. Which only made me hate Ethan even more.

  Bella still wailed. She was facing more heartache than a seventeen-year-old should have to face. Lucky for her, she’d only have to live through it once. I lived through it every single day of my life, reliving my most significant memories over and over again. And according to the slew of doctors and therapists I’d seen over the years, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  An angry heat rose in my cheeks when I spotted a reporter snapping photos of the chief and Bella, forever preserving the girl’s grief. I spun back to face Uncle Henry. “Instead of worrying about me, you ought to work on your barricades. Someone needs to keep those vultures out of your crime scene.”

  The back entrance to Boone’s Taphouse stank of stale beer kegs and rotten food at eight thirty in the morning. The restaurant and bar wouldn’t open for another two and a half hours, but I knew Caine would be there. Sure enough, when I entered, I heard his deep voice yelling obscenities from the storeroom.

  I pushed opened the door. He was leaning an elbow against a stack of boxes, his other hand was massaging his temple, and he was speaking loudly into his phone. His blond, shaggy hair was already a mess—he’d clearly been running his hand through it quite a bit. He spotted me, and I motioned that I would be at the bar.

  The bar was mahogany-topped, with leather that was stained with rings and scratches, giving it a weathered look. I grabbed a glass, reached for a bottle of Caine’s finest bourbon, and poured myself a finger’s worth. I threw it back, marveling in its smooth, rich taste as it slid past my tongue and warmed my throat. Then I poured a couple m
ore fingers.

  “Help yourself,” Caine said sarcastically as he joined me behind the bar.

  “You were busy.” I shrugged, then circled the bar and slid into a stool.

  Caine grabbed himself a larger glass and fixed a soda. “Tough scene this morning?”

  “House fire. Two people dead.”

  “I heard. You okay?”

  I lifted the glass and nodded at it.

  “Point taken.” He pulled out a clipboard and began making checkmarks.

  “Why haven’t you married?” I asked him while swirling the amber liquid around in the tumbler.

  Caine was a handsome man who’d just turned thirty. The regulars of Boone’s Taphouse had thrown him a birthday party complete with a store-bought cake and tons of black balloons—which, of course, Caine had had to clean up afterward. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

  He cocked a single brow. “Is that a proposal?”

  “Sure.” I grinned. “Let’s go down to the courthouse right now. Give old Mrs. Kenny a big surprise.”

  “You know I’m gay, right?” he asked in all seriousness.

  I shrugged. “We’ll never have to worry about breaking each other’s hearts.” I took another sip of bourbon. The visions of the two charred bodies had faded during the conversation, but they snapped back now, as did the memories of my own mother and her husband dying in similar fashion.

  Over the years, I’d tried to learn how to hold back the flood of emotion I’d felt when my mother died, but nothing worked. I didn’t need anything to trigger memories—they just happened—and every time, they were as fresh as they had been the moment they occurred. Not just the images, but the feelings. And I had to live with them forever.

  Things would be better for Bella Reynolds. Her memories would fade and evolve. She would replace the worst memories with happier ones, and eventually she would heal and move on with her life, while keeping fond memories of certain parts of her childhood. Only occasionally would she have to shove those terrible memories back inside their box.

  I felt a sudden, ugly wave of envy. There were no lids to my memory boxes.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I pulled it out. “Faith Day,” I said.

  “Hi, Faith. It’s Penelope. Chief wants to see you.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve got ourselves a fed in here.”

  What the hell was a fed doing in Paynes Creek? “Okay. I’ll be right there.” I hung up and drained the rest of my bourbon. “Duty calls, Caine. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Why do you stay with that horrible job?” Caine asked. “Why would you want to photograph death and destruction for a living?”

  I forced a smile. “Why do you listen to everyone’s sob stories at the bar day after day? Doesn’t that bring you down?”

  “I’d like to think I’m helping. Giving them an ear that they can’t get elsewhere.”

  “Well, maybe I think that by photographing crime scenes, I’m giving victims a voice they no longer have.”

  That sounded pretty good. Even though it was a lie.

  That night twelve years ago was not the only horrifying memory I had to live with. And with every crime scene I photographed, I hoped to form memories that might, somehow, replace those of my past—the ones I kept secret and the ones that made me a liar.

  Three

  While driving to the Paynes Creek Police Department, I sucked on six Altoids. It was highly unlikely anyone would get close enough to me to smell the bourbon on my breath, but it was still a good precaution.

  Besides, I wasn’t an on-duty police officer. I was a contractor. When there was a crime scene or car accident to be photographed, the police called me, but beyond that, my time was my own. Yes, I was basically always on call—crimes and accidents didn’t confine themselves to the convenient hours between eight and five—but I could have a drink when I wanted to have a drink. No one controlled me.

  That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  The police station was buzzing. A couple of the more seasoned officers were chatting in the corner to my right when I pushed through the double glass doors. They straightened and stared at me when I entered, then I heard one of them—red-headed and freckled—mutter, “Did you hear that she called about an intruder in her house last week? When officers got there, they didn’t find shit.”

  “Crazy bitch,” the other one said. “To think I fell for that dare to ask her out when I first started.”

  “We all do,” Red said, laughing. “She never says yes.”

  Penelope sat at her desk with a Bluetooth headset connected to her ear. She looked up when I approached. “Hi, honey!” She chomped gum like a teenager and fiddled with the cross around her neck. Then she leaned across the desk and motioned with her finger for me to come closer. “Wait ’til you see the yumminess in the chief’s office.” She cast a mischievous look toward Chief Reid’s office before sitting back with a wide grin.

  I lifted a brow. “Penelope, you might need to lay off the coffee.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m just thinking of you. Go in there and be real nice, and you just might get to give him the grand tour of Paynes Creek.”

  If I was the type to roll my eyes, I would have done it then. Penelope was always either trying to marry me off or trying to get me into a church pew every Sunday. It would have irritated me except that I tried not to ever be angry with Penelope. She was the buffer between Chief Reid and me, and she kept me informed of all the gossip—especially the gossip concerning me.

  She hadn’t changed much since we’d attended Paynes Creek High School together. We weren’t friends back then, but I always knew who she was. She was popular—hung out with the cheerleader crowd even though she wasn’t a cheerleader. The guys listened to her, but didn’t really date her. She was everyone’s best friend and was known for helping everyone with their problems.

  And just as she had handled her friends’ issues in high school, she now handled—or mothered—the patrol officers she worked with. She brought in food and consoled them after bad days. She was a good wife to an EMT who often worked the night shift, and she was an amazing mother to a three-year-old boy. She had a great big ol’ heart, and I always thought of her when I heard a southerner say, “Bless her heart. She means well.”

  “Faith,” Chief called from the doorway of his office. I flinched, causing Penelope to narrow her eyes at me. “Can you come here?”

  Penelope pretended to tidy papers on her desk as she mouthed the words Be nice. She had a look on her face as if I’d just been summoned to the principal’s office and she couldn’t wait to hear the details when I got out. With her curly red hair teased into a clip on the back of her head, even her appearance reminded me of high school.

  My black combat boots squeaked against the tile as I walked over to the chief’s office. One of the newer patrol officers looked up from his desk as I passed, but immediately averted his eyes. The younger cops were frightened of me. They’d heard the stories of what I’d been through, and were terrified to get into a conversation with me for fear I might finally snap. That didn’t bother me. I wasn’t much for chitchat.

  I stepped into the chief’s office. He was seated on the other side of his desk, and another man sat in one of the guest chairs. So this was the fed. He was in his low- to mid-thirties, dark-haired, and wore a navy blue suit. The suit was typical of FBI agents, but the tie was pink and featured… were those giraffes?

  “Faith, I want you to meet Special Agent Luke Justice. Agent, Faith Day.”

  Special Agent Justice stood and held out his hand. “Luke,” he said in a smooth voice. He commanded the room with his large, muscular presence. When I got a closer look, I saw that his suit wasn’t so typical—it was made of a beautiful, rich fabric. And the pink giraffe tie was silk. “I hear you’re the station’s forensic photographer.”

  I gave him my hand, and he squeezed it firmly while making eye contact with me. “I’m a forensic photographer, yes. I work on a contract basis.” I hated
how Chief Reid was always telling people I worked for the station like I was an employee he owned. I was my own boss, and I preferred to make that clear.

  I knew almost immediately that Special Agent Justice was the kind of man who could read you with a simple look—and he was giving me that look now. I made a mental note to stay clear of him.

  “Faith, Special Agent Justice is here to help us on the Reynolds case.”

  “Okay,” I said. Why was he telling me? I had nothing to do with the investigation other than taking the photos. And why was this a federal case? “You want me to make sure Special Agent Justice receives a copy of the photos?”

  Instead of Chief answering, Luke said, “Miss Day, I’m investigating a string of fires.”

  I eyed him. My palms began to sweat, and I resisted the urge to wipe them on my pants. “A string of fires,” I repeated.

  “Yes.”

  I looked to the chief and back to Luke. “You mean, like a serial arsonist?”

  He shifted. “Possibly. However, serial arsonists typically take a cooling-off period between fires, and the fires in recent weeks have been rather close together. So I’m looking at a lot of possibilities.”

  “And you think last night’s fire fits into the series you’re investigating.”

  “Maybe.”

  His one-word answer irritated me. “What do you need from me, Agent?”

  “Are you aware that Ethan Gentry was released from prison less than three weeks ago?”

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  “He’s your brother, right?”

  “Stepbrother.”

  “Has he contacted you?”

  “No.” Visions of my stepbrother—not what he looked like now, but how he looked, sounded, even smelled twelve years ago—poured into my head.

  “I’m told you had an incident on your property a few nights ago.”

  I glanced uneasily at Chief Reid, then back at the agent. “At three seventeen a.m. Sunday.”

  I saw no reason to hide anything now—I’d already reported the incident. I thought of the daisies that had been left on my bed and of the fire in my fire pit. I also thought of the fire on my property this morning and the candles that were lit inside. I had no proof that Ethan had come into my trailer or set those fires, but it hadn’t escaped my imagination that he might reach out to me in some way.