Her heart thudded heavily beneath her breastbone as she digested his words. Hotshots possessed encyclopedic knowledge of fire behavior.
A couple of firefighters called out from the section of roof that remained, “Fire's nearly under control,” and Maya looked back at the building, fighting off the sick sense that she'd fallen into a rabbit hole, one that was dropping her straight onto the day her brother had died. This motel fire was far too similar to the apartment fire that had taken Tony's life.
“Open the letter, Maya.”
Logan's soft words startled her. Drowning in what-ifs and should-have-beens, she'd nearly forgotten about the letter.
Arsonists rarely got to see the fear in their victims' eyes. Did he want her to open it in front of him so that he could relish her reaction? Because if Logan was her arsonist, this moment would make his crime so much more satisfying.
The thin envelope burned a hole in her palm. She slid one gloved finger beneath the glued flap and unfolded the single page. The note was neatly typed.
Maya, it's been six months since I've seen you and you are still so pretty. I've often dreamed of seeing your long hair on fire and watching your soft skin melt down to the bone. It won't be long now before my dreams come true.
Her fingers went cold and stiff and she almost lost her grasp on the note. Quickly reading over her shoulder, Logan put his hands on her shoulders.
“You okay?”
His strength, his touch, was almost too welcome for her to shake off, but she made herself move away from him, away from his heat.
“I'm fine,” she lied as she gave the note back to Patrick. The police would want to keep it as evidence. “I need to go question witnesses.”
Turning her back on Logan, she walked over to a group of women and children who were watching the action from a safe distance. The only way to keep it together was to focus her whole attention on the current situation.
“Hi,” she said, forcing a smile. “I'm an arson investigator and I was wondering if I could ask you all a couple of questions.”
A young mother's eyes lit up. “Wow. You sure got here fast! It really is just like those CSI shows on TV.”
Maya was glad someone thought this was fun. Because she sure didn't.
“Did any of you happen to see someone suspicious near Room 205?”
The three women nodded their heads in the affirmative, a brunette speaking up first. “I don't know if I'd call him suspicious-looking. More like drop-dead gorgeous. He was standing outside the room for a while, like he was waiting for someone to come back.”
A chill ran through Maya. “Could you be more specific? What did he look like?”
The brunette's friend giggled. “Tall. Really muscular. Brown hair. Like one of these firefighters. He had a baseball cap pulled down pretty low, though. I don't think any of us got a good look at his face.”
Great. They'd just described Logan. And about half of the firefighters in Lake Tahoe, both wildland and urban.
She needed to point Logan out to these women to see if they could positively I.D. him, even without having stared into his eyes. But when she turned around to locate him, he wasn't standing with Patrick anymore and she didn't see him anywhere.
She fought a growing sense of frustration as she made her way through the rest of the onlookers. But no one else was much help, pretty much echoing the other women's statements verbatim. After finishing questioning witnesses and talking to the police, she found it impossible to ignore the grim reality of her situation: Someone was trying to scare her—or worse.
Even though her stomach was empty, she had to fight back a wave of nausea. Desperate for something to hold on to, she pulled her leather bag against her stomach. She couldn't stand in this parking lot and be the cool, unruffled fire investigator for one more second. She needed to sit down someplace where she couldn't smell smoke or see firefighters who reminded her of her brother.
Moving quickly through the parking lot, she followed a pathway that led to the lake. The sun had set and she stumbled over rocks. And then, finally, the buildings fell away and sand crunched beneath her shoes. Water lapped against the shore and she dropped to the beach, her things falling around her feet, welcoming the cool sand beneath her. Hanging her head between her legs she took several deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Today had been one of the worst in her life, coming in right behind the days her father and brother had died.
She lifted her head and looked up at the full moon shining on the lake, watching the water move beneath it. She wished there was someone she could call for comfort. Someone she could say “I'm scared” to. But there wasn't. Not anymore.
Her girlfriends had called and called until enough of their voice mails went unanswered that they finally got the message and left her alone. She couldn't call her mother, not when Martha was already too damaged and couldn't possibly handle the thought of another child being threatened by fire. Not when it had already taken away her husband and son.
Fire was her mother's worst enemy. Maya could see why.
She fished her cell phone out of her bag and scrolled down her address book to retrieve her boss's home number. She definitely couldn't tell Albert how shaken up she was, but at the same time she had to tell him about what had gone down at her motel—and about Logan and what had gone down between them in the bar.
She dialed his house, never having bothered him on a Friday night before. She knew how precious her boss's family time was after a long, hard week managing a dozen investigators.
He picked up on the first ring, obviously recognizing her cell number. “Maya? Is everything all right?”
Regret rose up and choked her. Albert was one of the only people who knew all about her brother, how much she missed him, how long and hard she'd searched for concrete answers. She hated to let Albert down after he'd been so supportive of her career. But if she didn't set the record straight about her past history with Logan, she had no doubt that her suspect would beat her to it.
Caught blindsided, Albert wouldn't be able to deflect the blow, and Cal Fire might lose hold of the case altogether. Worst of all, the arsonist might run free.
She wouldn't allow her shame, her embarrassment over a reckless choice she'd made six months ago to give a potential arsonist the opening he needed to escape capture. Hopefully he hadn't beaten her to it in the past hour while she'd been questioning witnesses.