Ignite (Wildwood 1)

“We want to talk to you,” Tate said, his expression serious, though no one did serious like his big brother. He had the look down pat.

Lane stood just behind Tate, scowling at him as they waited for his response. He didn’t say a damn word. That had always been his best defense tactic and it worked for him.

West scratched the back of his head with one hand while pulling out a chair with the other. They were in the kitchen, the only ones in there. Everyone else was outside washing the engines. West was about to bail since he was off shift, thankful to head back to his condo, where he’d collapse into his bed—or what he liked to think of as Harper’s old bed—and sleep like the dead for a few hours.

Instead, he was sitting across from his big brother and his captain, unable to shake the feeling that he was in trouble. Old habits died hard.

“What’s up?” he asked, hoping like hell he sounded casual.

Tate looked at Lane, who nodded as if in approval before Tate started to talk. “We didn’t want to bring it up around the others, but . . . we’re fairly certain there’s an arsonist in the area.”

Unease slipped down his spine. He recalled his earlier conversation with Tori. Guess her speculation was based in truth after all. “What makes you say that?”

“It started earlier this spring,” Tate said, leaning forward so his forearms rested on the table between them. “Had a few spotty fires here and there. No big deal at first. Most of them seemed accidental. They were always put out pretty fast and we were thankful they didn’t turn into more. Yet they kept happening, so after a bit of investigating, prevention discovered they were all started by the same accelerant. And it was too coincidental to be an accident.”

West glanced over at Lane, who was wearing his neutral I’m a cop face. It was also really close to his irritating I’m your big brother so you have to listen to me or else face. Both sucked. “How are you involved in this?”

“When prevention can’t make it, they call in the sheriff’s department.” Lane sent him a look, one that said he should know this. Maybe West did, maybe he didn’t. It still felt good to question Lane, which was stupid. He really needed to get rid of this big brother–shaped chip on his shoulder.

“So have there been any fires so far this year?” West asked.

“We think that vegetation fire yesterday was related,” Lane stated, but West shook his head emphatically.

“No way. That’s impossible. I was there, first on scene. Simple fire started by a hot car engine.”

“It flared back up,” Tate said, his tone and expression grim. “Last night, when you were on the call with that truck that rolled off the side of the road, the call went out and we responded. There was no reason for that fire to start again. None. Luckily enough someone who lived on the road was driving home and spotted it. Otherwise, it could’ve grown quickly and done some major damage.”

West silently agreed. They’d put the fire out fast. The burned hulk of metal that used to be a car was towed out of the field within the hour. The mop-up had been simple and quick. Fire out. Case closed.

“We found the same accelerant as from the ones last summer. They’re using paint thinner,” Lane added. “Someone went back out there and purposely set another fire to make it look like the old fire had flared back up. It was pretty easy to figure out when we went back to the scene.”

None of them said another word, but West would bet money they were all thinking the same thing. So many arsonists were volunteers. Frustrated men and women who wanted to be firefighters but couldn’t get hired on at a department no matter how hard they tried. So they lit the fires and were first on the scene, trying to look like heroes. In a few instances, some arsonists were also firefighters, captains, whatever. Hell, there was that one guy who was an actual arson investigator and had lit up all of Southern California for years. Once he was arrested and tossed in jail, the fires in the area reduced dramatically.

“Could it be . . . one of us?” West asked hesitantly. “Not one of us specifically, but you know what I mean.”

“We’ve thought about it,” Tate said, “though we haven’t questioned anyone yet. Hell, we haven’t even announced our suspicions. No media outlets have been notified. No one knows. We were hoping to solve the problem quickly, but I think we’re going to have to take this public. Before it gets out of hand.” Tate sighed, looking frustrated. “But for right now, we need you to keep this strictly confidential.”

“No one else can know,” Lane emphasized. “We’re only telling you because I told Tate we could trust you.”

“Gee, thanks,” West muttered sarcastically, causing Lane to glare at him.

“You know what I mean,” Lane said, shaking his head, completely irritated. West always knew just how to get under his brother’s skin. “Just keep an eye out. If you see anything let one of us know. But remember, we also need your silence.”

“I don’t know if my silence will matter much, considering people are talking.” At their frowns, West continued, “Someone from my crew mentioned it to me earlier.”

“We’ll have to tell them something eventually, but for now, let’s keep it quiet,” Lane said, his voice grim.

“A lot to heap on you at the end of your first shift here,” Tate said with a faint smile.

“Technically it’s not my first shift here,” West said. They talked like he was some sort of idiot. “I was stationed here my first season as a firefighter.” And he didn’t want Tate to forget it. He may be the captain, but West had been here first. He was the one with Wildwood in his blood. No matter how much he tried to deny it, it was true. He was born and raised here. This town belonged to him. And now someone threatened it.

Even though he didn’t work in prevention, he would do his damnedest to help figure out who that person was. Whatever it took.

HIS EARLIER PLAN of sleeping most of the day away went to shit after his meeting with Lane and Tate. They both pulled the asshole we’re more in charge than you attitude on him after they were finished discussing the supposed arsonist. Their matching behavior had irritated West so much he’d bailed on the station quick, hightailing it back to his place, where he ended up sprawled across the couch, TV remote in hand as he watched a bunch of bullshit daytime television.

That stuff was the worst.

But he did stumble upon a documentary on one of those crime channels about, of all things, an arsonist. A young guy who tried to burn up most of the industrial buildings in a Washington town back in the nineties. West had watched the entire show with interest, paying attention to the behavior of the arsonist, even taking notes on the reasons behind it. The psychologist’s conclusions?