Page 40 of Studfinder

“I have it,” I mutter, lowering my eyes to the law school invite on my desk.

“You have the report? Have you read it?”

My lids close, and I shake my head. “I can’t bring myself to do it.” The declaration makes me sound like a coward. I feel like a coward, but I just cannot read the document and remain impartial to the details. This isn’t a case study with random persons but my former fiancé in the file.

“Let me read it,” May states. “I’ll pull out questions if I find any.”

“May, it won’t matter. What’s done is done. He went to jail for setting a fire. He’s served the time for the crime.”

May sighs. “You remember my friend, Jude, right?”

“The silent, broody one?” I’ve met the entire Shipley clan and their friends on a few occasions.

“Yes, the one who came to live at the farm for a while. He’s also in recovery for narcotics.” I stare at May, waiting on her point. “He was convicted of a crime and served time for it as well, but it was later proven he didn’t do it. He was exonerated.”

I recall the details of the crooked police chief and his son’s untimely death.

“That’s a wonderful story, cookie, but what does it have to do with Jake?” My tongue swells on his name, and my hand lowers for my chest, where I ache inside like I’ve only ever hurt one time before.

“I just think you need to do your own investigation into the case. Find out why he set the fire, if he set the fire.”

May’s right. I shouldn’t accept the hearsay of Scarlett’s research, and I hadn’t listened long enough to Jake to allow him an explanation other than the basics.

“I don’t know if I can,” I admit, hating once again the defeat in my tone and lack of will in my drive. Then I admit my greater concern. “I don’t know if I can be with a man who burned down a building. It was a crime, the very thing I defend against. For a moment, forget Ian in the equation. I’ve been so wrapped up in lust with Jake that I’ve ignored the fact he committed a crime,” I reiterate. “Holding people accountable for their actions is important to me. It’s the essence of our restorative program in Building Buddies, yet I’ve been blindsided by a sexy smirk and pretty eyes.”

May weakly grins. “We’ve all been duped by lust at one time or another. You’re raw today, Rita, but for your own peace of mind, you need answers. Maybe not today, tomorrow, or even next month, but soon you’ll want to know the truth. Your curiosity will best you, my friend.”

She’s absolutely right. My desire for facts and details, and justice to be served, will prevail.

I’ll want to know more.

Just not today.

Probably not tomorrow either.

Maybe not even next month.

But soon, I’ll want the truth.

17

Jake

For a week, Rita avoids the building site, and every day I wait on her at the Bean in hopes she’ll show somewhere neutral so we can talk. It’s torture, and by Friday, I’ve decided I’m waiting on false hope. I’m ready to leave the Busy Bean, taking the last dregs of a second cup of coffee I shouldn’t have so late in the day when Rita enters. She does a double-take at me as I sit on the plush peach couch where my attraction to her started. Where she cussed me out for taking her spot, and lust filled my thoughts about taking her on this sofa. Now, my emotions are so much more than lust. Was I in love with her? I’d almost said as much to Nolan, but that might have been a rash declaration after such a short time. However, I’m old enough to recognize how I feel, and what I felt was honest and real.

I watch as Rita places her order, waits on her mug, and then crosses the distance to stand before the couch. She glances at the emptiness beside me.

“Is this seat taken?” The vulnerability in her voice is everything opposite what I know of her.

“Only by you,” I admit, giving her a weak smile that falls short when she doesn’t smile back. I clear my throat as Rita lowers for the velvety cushion but doesn’t relax into the couch. Watching her lift the mug for her lips—lips I’ve missed kissing—I stare as she sips and swallows the warm brew. I miss her tongue wrestling with mine. I miss her arms around me. I miss her body against me.

“Did you like my gift?” I ask, finding it difficult to know where to start.

“It was very interesting,” she states. “A lamp is . . . different.” Uncertain how to read her impression of the piece, I don’t press. Rita remains quiet.

“I didn’t do it,” I start, but when Rita’s eyes close, I realize I need to start at the beginning. “I was driving home that night from an investigation. There had been a series of unexplained fires in the area. Vacant warehouses. Three in total. I was completely baffled by them. There was no connection between the warehouses, only their vacancy. Normally, a string of fires has a link. A disgruntled employee, perhaps. Even faulty wiring could have been linked back to a similar manufacturer or a poor electrician, but it wasn’t that either. I prided myself on assessing situations easily and efficiently. I understand fire—its pathways and how it moves—but these blazes made no sense to me.”

Fire to me was like a dance. It thrived on oxygen and followed a pattern of movement. It was almost sensual how it could lick and lap along on an object before bursting to life. I’d been very good at my job, decoding fire’s motive and movement.