Page 44 of Trust No One

Amy had once asked about the attic door. She’d been so curious. I’d told her it wasn’t safe. Nothing of value remained. She’d accepted my explanation—but I suspected she’d come up here when she was alone with Mom.

“Not that old,” he said. “In the last year, I’d say.”

“What caused it?”

“Hard to say. Ignition point is where the wall meets the floor. Soot patterns rise high. But the burn patterns are only a few inches.”

“Small fire. Big smoke.”

“Someone extinguished the flames quickly.”

“Any theories?”

“Could be electrical, a lightning strike, or a vagrant trying to keep warm.”

An intruder churned worries—strangers in my house. “Someone was up here?”

“It happens.”

He opened a knife and dug into the charred wood. “I’ll get on the roof and check for signs of a lightning strike. But I think this fire started inside.”

Lightning was the most comforting theory. Better a big storm than faulty wiring or a trespasser.

“I won’t know about the wiring until I open the walls. It’s not the outlets I worry about, but what’s behind the walls.”

“Open the walls?”

“If we do this renovation right, the walls should be stripped to the studs and then we rip the wiring and plumbing out. Start anew. A patchwork system is just asking for trouble.”

“Cha-ching, Brad.”

“Old houses always have surprises.” He tapped his clipboard against his thigh. “I can give you three prices. Bronze, silver, and gold. And we can do the work in stages.”

“Work up a bid, and we’ll talk.”

“Might be a week or so.”

“No rush.”

“Mind if I poke around the house a little longer? Bathrooms, kitchen, basement.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen. Take your time.”

“Good to have you back, Raine.”

The jury was still out on that one. “Thanks, Brad.”

Chapter Seventeen

Judson

Sunday, October 18, 2026, 6:00 p.m.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the private number for the state forensic department director. We’d swapped numbers last year at a law enforcement conference when we’d discussed a potential panel.

I’d never called the director at home before. But I needed answers.

“Judson?” His voice was slightly slurred—Sunday beers at a backyard barbecue, if I had to guess.