Loyola stared into the empty depths of her glass as if lost. “I don’t know where she lives.”
“I do.”
“Why would you care?”
“Maybe I don’t like her either.”
She swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “What did she do to you?” She had the eyes of a dead woman.
“Doesn’t matter. You in or not?”
Loyola held up her empty glass and smiled as he refilled it. “I’m in.”
“Excellent.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in front of Jenna’s house. Loyola swayed, so drunk she could barely stand.
“What’re we doing here?”
“This is the house of the woman who drew that picture of the Lost Girl. She’s the one that started all your trouble.”
Squinting, Loyola glared up at the cabin. “She lives here?”
“She does. I hear she’s the type of woman who likes to stir up trouble for the sake of it.”
“Some secrets need to stay buried,” Loyola said.
“They surely do. No good comes from dredging up the past.”
“No good.”
Loyola shifted her stance and flexed her fingers. “Bitch.”
In a voice low and sharp, Madness asked, “How about we give her a little payback for all the trouble she’s caused?”
“I don’t need no more trouble.”
“You wouldn’t get into trouble if you were careful.”
“I ain’t careful. I mess up everything I touch.”
“I know how to be careful. Very, very careful.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes as if swatting away a memory. “I screw up everything. Everything. My father kicked me out when I was seventeen and my husband was pissed when I got pregnant and kept saying I was no good for him. I tried and tried, but it never seemed to matter. I always screwed up.”
If not for her sins, one might almost feel sorry for her. She was like everyone else, rich or poor, famous or unknown. She wanted to be loved. “Would you like to do something right? I can show you how.”
“I can’t.”
What had Sister said once? You could sell ice to Eskimos. “You can. With my help.”
She looked up into eyes filled with worry, fear, and loss. “Why would you help me? We just met.”
“I see a lot of myself in you. Someone who is lost and wants to connect but just can’t seem to say or do the right thing. If I’d had a mentor my life would have been different.”
“What’s a mentor?”
“Someone who guides you. Helps you. A friend.”
She raised two clenched fists to her temples and pressed them hard against her skin. “What does all that mean?”
“It means, I show you how to get a little revenge. It means, we could do something fun. Like burn down Jenna’s house.”
She moistened her lips as if she savored a delicious flavor. “Why?”
“Why not?”
She stared at the house, her gaze burning with a white-hot desire. “If she’d not drawn that picture everything would be fine.”
“That’s right. If not for her, it would all be fine.” He settled his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Is she in the house?”
“Yes.”
Tension rippled through her shoulders. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He held her steady. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The cops are coming after you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. They’re going to make sure you rot in jail. At least know that Jenna isn’t laughing when they take you to jail.”
“She laughs at me?”
“All the time.”
Loyola grit her teeth. “Is it hard to burn a house down?”
“No, it’s fairly easy.”
Normal people slept at night. They closed their eyes and let the day’s events sort themselves out. They decompressed. Shut down.
For Jenna, nights could be painfully long if she didn’t sleep. She rolled on her side and punched her pillow. When she’d been in Baltimore there’d been friends she could call at night. Always someplace open that would welcome her; she could pretend it was a case bothering her and not some insane quirk she couldn’t shed.
She rolled on her back and stared at the play of shadows on the ceiling. Counting the now too familiar cracks in the ceiling, her thoughts turned to Sara. Her sister was arguing. Her voice had crackled with anger as she’d stood toe-to-toe with their father. I hate you!
The echoes of slamming doors rattled in her memory. Her father was yelling. Her mother crying. She huddled under her blanket, crying, wishing someone would take her away.
Her wish had been granted. The shouting had stopped. And she’d been taken away.
“Be careful what you wish for.” She glanced at the clock. How many hours would have to pass before sleep returned? Too many.
Frustrated, she tossed her blankets aside. As much as her mind ached for the release of art, her bones needed a break. In Baltimore, nights like this were spent watching television. She had an intimate relationship with the top infomercial presenters on television, and she’d caught just about every movie made in the 1960s. Here, though, she had no television and relied on a downloaded movie.
“Maybe Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn will keep me company tonight,” she said.
With daylight just a couple of hours away she dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater. Running a brush through her hair, she tied it up in a ponytail. She might not be able to control when she slept, but she would control what she could.
She was nearly in the den when she smelled the first traces of smoke. Smoke? Her thoughts went first to an electrical fire. She thought about her coffeemaker and wondered if she’d left it on or if the automatic shutoff hadn’t worked. And where was her cell? Most nights she charged it by her bed but hadn’t tonight.
The scent of smoke grew heavier and heavier and when she reached the living room, a wall of flames rose up. Her entire back deck was on fire and it had eaten into her living room. Thick, black smoke billowed and whipped up the wall and over the ceiling. Fire had slithered across the floor closer and closer to her art supplies. Not her art!
How had the fire started? The question rattled in her head for only a moment before she realized that right now the answer didn’t matter. Her art didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. What mattered was getting out of the house. She coughed and hurried toward the front door, grabbed her purse, and ran outside.
She drew in a breath of fresh air, coughing and sputtering. She fished her cell out of her purse and dialed 9-1-1.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, August 25, 12:20 A.M.
Flashing lights of three fire trucks and a rescue vehicle greeted Rick when he pulled up at Jenna’s hou
se. Leaving Tracker in his car, he strode toward the rescue truck, doing his best not to run or give in to fears. God, what the fire could have done to her.
He found her sitting on the back tailgate of the rescue vehicle, an oxygen mask on her face. She glanced up at him, removed her mask, and said, “Insomnia rocks.”
Relief washed over him, extinguishing the worry in a loud hiss. “What the hell happened?”
“I can’t sleep. I prowl a lot at night. I got up, went into my living room, and my entire back deck was on fire as was the back of my house.”
“It started on the deck? Do you have a grill?”
“As I told Inspector Murphy, no grill. No candles, no lanterns, no funky wiring issues, no stored fuel. Plain old deck.”
He rested his hand on his hip. “I suppose the firebugs have put you through a lot of questions and answers.”
“As they should. My place did just burn down for no reason. And I know about the other fires. They should be grilling me.”
She was a cop, logical in the face of turmoil. Later, when the adrenaline deserted her, she’d be left with a lot of unanswered questions and maybe some fears that would let loose. He turned back toward the house, now a charred stick structure. It was a complete loss. “Damn.”
“You’re telling me.” She put the oxygen mask aside and moved beside him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing that?”
“I’m fine. If I breathe any more oxygen, I’ll float away. Don’t suppose you can give me a ride into town? My Jeep is blocked in by the fire trucks. I’m not even sure if it escaped the flames.”
“Where’re you going to go?”
“Hotel. I’ve also got to call my landlord.” She held up her purse. “I did manage to grab this, so I can at least function.” Adrenaline coursed through her veins and her body all but vibrated with it.
A slow shake of his head told her he understood what was happening to her physically now. “You can stay with me.”
“No, thanks.” With this kind of emotion surging through her, it wouldn’t take much for her to seek a sexual release with the good detective. And right now, the last complication she needed was a relationship.