or take a few months.” He shifted his weight again. “What’re you doing here?”
“You mean at the fire?” Obviously, since he had to know why she was back in Wesley. She glanced over at the trailer’s smoldering metal ribs. “Just seeing if there’s a story.” She cocked her head. “Who’s the female firefighter?”
“Denise Logan.”
Ah, from high school. She would have been in Seth’s graduating class.
“Was this arson?” When Garrett didn’t respond, Callie added, “Pretty clear night. No lightning.”
“How long are you staying in town?”
“Awhile.”
“And then?”
She shrugged.
“Must be nice,” Garrett replied, “having no ties. Going where you want, when you want.”
“It’s great,” she agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. “You should try it.”
“Can’t. I prefer to be there for the people who matter to me.”
“Oh, do you have some of those? People who matter to you? Because I remember you dumping girls right and left, without much regard for hurt feelings.”
“At least I told them it was over, instead of taking the coward’s way out and running away without a word.”
She wasn’t touching that one, and Garrett knew it. He smiled without humor, then muttered, “I have some things I need to take care of.” Nodding in dismissal, he strode past her toward two older men checking gauges on a truck.
Callie turned away and headed for the Neon. She got in without looking back, slamming the stubborn old door shut.
She fought the urge to rest her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat, and instead turned the key in the ignition, carefully pulling back out onto the road and then executing a three-point turn. She followed the route the kids had taken, to make sure they’d gotten home.
A few minutes later she turned down Grace’s street and cruised by the house where the neighbor kids lived. It was dark inside, except for the distinctive glow of a television set, but the old bikes were propped against the porch. They were home. She debated stopping, but it was late, almost ten now. Maybe she’d try to catch the parents at home tomorrow and mention that the children had been at the fire. Parents who cared simply did not let kids ride across town—even a small town—after dark.
“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL HERE?” Nathan asked, indicating the burned-out trailer with a jerk of his head. He’d rejoined his brother after he’d made certain that Chip, who’d thankfully put off his trip when he saw the smoke, would get his photos in before he left the next day. “Two fires in a week, no lightning.”
Nathan hated fires. He hadn’t had a problem until the explosion, when the world around him had erupted into a fireball. That was after the shock wave had thrown him back against a brick wall and driven shrapnel into his leg and torso. His partner, Suzanne Galliano, had also been injured, but her wounds had been superficial, which was why she was still reporting in Seattle, while he was back here in good old Wesley, Nevada.
“What do you think the deal is?” Garrett asked. He was careful what he said around Nathan in an official capacity, having been quoted as an “unnamed source” enough times to get him in trouble with the brass, who had no trouble figuring out the identity of the unnamed source.
Nathan rubbed a hand over his head, loosening his matted hair. “If it turns out this fire was man-made like the last one, then someone could be setting fires.”
“That’s a big leap, junior,” Garrett said, careful not to be quotable. “A field and a structure.”
“Or the fires may not be related and this one came about because old man Anderson wanted to get rid of his rusty trailer without paying to have it torn down and hauled away.”
“Talk to Dad,” Garrett said, jerking his head to where their father was conferring with another man near the front of an engine.
“Oh, I will. Later.” Not that it would do a lot of good. Fifteen years of being sheriff prior to taking over command of the fire department had made John Marcenek a master at avoiding a direct answer.
“My gut reaction is that the two incidents aren’t connected, and you’re probably right about Anderson,” Garrett finally said, before giving Nathan a fierce look. “Do not quote me.”
“Unnamed source,” he agreed with a half smile. The brothers fell into step as they walked back to Nathan’s car.
“Law enforcement officials are uncertain whether the incidents are connected,” Garrett corrected. “You didn’t seem too surprised to see Callie at the fire.”
“Probably looking for a story. She showed up at the office and asked me for freelance work a couple days ago.”
Garrett glanced at him. “No shit?”
“I turned her down, but if Vince Michaels hears about it, he’ll be an unhappy camper.”
“Or rather, you’ll be an unhappy camper.”
Nathan grinned for the first time all evening. “In your words, no shit.”
AS SOON AS CALLIE GOT home, she fired up her laptop and started to write. Words appeared on the screen, but something was lacking: decent writing. Disgusted, she ditched the file and turned off the computer. She’d try again tomorrow.
The next morning was no better, nor was the afternoon. Finally, as the sun was setting and Callie had accomplished nothing except for an industrial cleaning of the bathroom, she faced reality. She couldn’t keep cleaning bathrooms and waxing floors. She had to do the one job she did not want to do, the task that was constantly lurking at the back of her mind, and then maybe she could settle and write a few words.
She needed to go through Grace’s belongings.
Callie opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, taking in the neat little room. Grace’s reading glasses were on the nightstand, along with an empty water glass, and a box of tissues set on top of a library book. Callie should probably return that before the library police came after her.
She went to the closet and opened the door, the squeak of the wheels in the tracks instantly bringing back memories. When the closet had squeaked, it meant Grace was awake, getting her robe. It meant Callie would smell breakfast soon and that the house would be warm when she got up.
The closet smelled of spice. Grace had loved cinnamon and had sachets everywhere. Callie had always loved cinnamon herself, but at the moment the scent was too poignant, too much.
Sorry, Grace…
Callie did her best to shut herself off as she pulled armloads of clothes out of the closet and laid them on the bed before going back for more. If she didn’t think about what she was doing, she wouldn’t get sucked down. And once she got this chore done, the worst would be behind her. She’d be able to write.
After the first closet was empty,
