to keep his sister’s memory alive for them as best he could. He’d given up on telling them much about their father, the man who’d died of an aneurysm just before they were born. That had been tragic enough, but to lose their mother when they were only a few months old?
The relentless barrage of their needs sometimes made him long for his work, diving in bottomless oceans, alone, with nothing but the sound of his own breathing in his Scuba regulator. But getting his PI license meant he could be there for the girls, and their needs trumped his. “And don’t you worry, girls,” he muttered to himself. “Your mama’s killer is going to pay.”
A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling across his windshield and snapped him out of his reverie. He figured he might have strayed onto private property, but he had seen no sign and there hadn’t been a fence barring the way. He wasn’t there to make trouble, just to lay eyes on the place. In his rare imaginative moments, Sergio sometimes fancied himself a spider, so intricate was the web he’d spun, the feelers he’d put into place to solve the mystery of Fiona’s murder.
Those feelers had begun to vibrate when he’d learned that Helen Pike had gone to the cops with a note she’d found from Fiona.
Trish. Proof.
Find out who still has theirs.
It meant nothing to him. Was Helen making something up in her mind? Imagining a connection between what happened to Trish all those years ago and his sister? Maybe Helen’s own guilt had finally gotten the better of her. He felt no pity. She should have listened to Fiona, gone with her on whatever crazy investigation she’d hinted at in her last message to him.
Sorry I missed your call, Serg. Going to talk to Helen about something that’s bothering me. She’ll help me. Some help. Helen admitted to him that she’d put Fiona off, busy with her duties managing her fancy hotel. Helen’s tear-washed jade eyes had not cooled his ire one bit. His sister was gone, his nieces left orphaned with only a hard-bitten, desperate uncle to care for them.
He had a fleeting thought that he hadn’t reminded Laurel and Lucy to brush their teeth. Yet another thing he’d have to hope the nanny followed through on.
You’re a sad excuse for a parent, Serg.
A cottage came into view that had to be the one he sought. Parked outside was a van with Roughwater Lodge emblazoned on the side. As he opened the car door, his nose picked up the clue before his brain did.
Smoke.
A fire in the fireplace?
Yet the cottage was dark.
Not completely dark. There was a flicker of orange like a monarch flitting against the front window.
Not a monarch, his brain finally supplied.
A flame.
The cottage was burning. His leather boots hit the ground with a smack as he barreled out of the SUV and shoved through the front door.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Anybody in here?”
No answer. The curtains in the shabby front room were on fire, a lighter still lit on the floor, one of those fancy numbers that kept burning until it was switched off. The flames had not yet started to devour the rest of the room. Smoke filtered through the air, mingling with the darkness, so he did not notice at first.
As he lurched toward the curtains to pull them down and stomp out the flames, his boot impacted something soft. No, not something...someone!
Helen’s senses flooded her brain with disconnected impressions: heat, smoke, pain and the sensation of someone reaching for her, grabbing her arms. Her brother Liam? Returned early from his honeymoon to help her? No, someone else, a stranger, there in the shadows of the burning house. Her consciousness returned with a mighty rush of adrenaline. She sprang up and shoved the hands away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Easy,” said a voice through the smoke in a raspy baritone. “Just trying to help.”
Helen shimmied backward until her shoulders hit the wall. The burning curtains backlit a towering man wearing a leather jacket and boots, mussed black hair that needed a trim. There was something familiar about him, the set of his square jaw, the wide brace of shoulders, five-o’clock shadow. Smoke tickled her throat and she coughed. “What...what happened?”
“That’s my question. First thing’s first. We’ll talk outside.”
When she didn’t move, he took her arm and guided her toward the front door and out into the wind-tossed night. She stumbled on the grass made uneven by tunneling rodents, sinking to one knee. As he bent over to assist, she felt the ground vibrating. A horse and rider wheeled to a stop, sending bits of mud whirling into the air.
Chad slid off the horse, rifle at his shoulder, trained on the other man. “Get away from her or you’re dead.”
Her rescuer raised his palms. “Look, John Wayne, no need to shoot me. I’m a Good Samaritan. Cottage is burning. She needed help getting out.”
“You’re trespassing. This is private property.” Chad had not lowered the gun.
The man lifted a careless shoulder. “I missed the signs, or you need better ones.”
Helen realized her skull was pounding with pain. She fingered a bump on her forehead.
“You okay, Helen?” Chad said.
She heard the man next to her release a bitter sigh. “Helen,” he said softly. “Figures.”
“And you are?” Chad snapped.
“Sergio Ross.” There was a hard-edged challenge in his voice. “Maybe you knew my sister, Fiona. She was murdered here in your quaint little town. She stayed right in this cottage, as a matter of fact.”
Helen’s insides twisted. Sergio Ross. She flashed back to the funeral, Sergio’s face stark with pain, two little babies cradled in his arms as he bid goodbye to his sister, their mother, her best friend.
She gulped in a breath and fought for calm. “It’s all right, Chad,” she said. “I’m okay. He’s...he’s not here to hurt me.” But he did, just with his presence, the blame that emanated from him in silent waves.
Chad finally lowered the rifle, putting it aside to ease next to Helen.
Sergio strode back toward the burning cabin.
“Where are you going?” she called.
“To put out the fire. Not too big yet. I can rip down the curtains and smother it before it gets a real foothold.”
“Place is slated for demolition,” Chad said to his back, tone still hostile. “Not worth getting hurt over.”
“It’s no bother.” Sergio climbed the porch step. “Police are gonna need to photograph and such.”
Police.
