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The shower was her next attempt at distraction. She stood under the spray, letting hot water pound against her tense shoulders. Steam filled the small bathroom as she scrubbed away the smoke smell that seemed permanently embedded in her skin.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in fresh clothes, Desiree felt slightly better and ready to take on the day. A half-hour later, she pushed through the front door of the conference room, expecting to be the first one there. Instead, she found a cup of coffee sitting directly next to her stack of folders.
She glanced around, curious as to who left it for her. That’s when she noticed the note beside the cup. She picked it up and read it.
“Thought a fresh cup of coffee from the Cozy Cup was the best way to show my gratitude for yesterday.”
Desiree smiled as she picked up the small gesture. The warmth soaked through her fingers, and she held it in both hands for a long moment before taking the first sip. It was exactly what she needed, and it bothered her that Brandon already knew her so well.
She set the cup down and opened the top folder. She fanned out the photographs of the pizzeria fire on the table: close-ups of char lines along the baseboards, wide shots of the collapsed office and roof, side-by-side comparisons of the pour pattern. The sequence was clean like the others.
She scribbled notes into her pad, the points of commonality with the previous fires: acceleration pattern, origin points, locations. There was a rhythm to it, a signature, but the why kept floating just out of reach. No insurance money in this last one, not even a mortgage. She flipped back through her notes, circled the possible motives, drew a box around the only two names that repeated: Dunbar, the developer, and Merritt, the disgruntled ex-partner.
She was cross-referencing those names to the feed store and warehouse fires when the conference room door clicked open. Brandon walked in, jacket unzipped, hair damp from a shower he probably took at the station. He didn’t say anything, just dropped into the chair across from her.
“Already went through the latest fire?” He asked, motioning at the spread.
She nodded and spun the page so he could see the highlights. “Still can’t figure out the ‘why’ though, and without it, I’m not sure we’ll be able to catch the arsonist.”
He watched her, eyes narrowing as he flipped through the printouts.
“How’s your leg?” She asked, doing her best to hide how much she really cared about his answer.
He glanced down at his calf and shrugged. “Nothing I can’t work through.”
“Good, because I have something to show you.” She slid two pizzeria photos toward him. “See the pour marks?” She said, tapping the edge of one photo with her pen. “The pattern is identical, even the radius. This one here—” she pointed at the low arc along the back wall— “matches the signature from Miller’s and the warehouse. Look at the way the accelerant pools before ignition. This isn’t a copycat—it’s the same arsonist.”
Brandon took the photo and held it up, squinting. “You’re certain?”
She nodded. “And whoever is doing this, they want us to know the fires are related, and one person is behind them.”
He set the photo down, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “If you had to bet money?”
She didn’t hesitate. “It’s not random. It’s methodical. There’s a reason we’re not seeing yet.”
He nodded once, then motioned at her notepad. “Who’s on your list?”
She turned the pad, showing her notes: three names, double-circled in black ink.
“Ray Dunbar, property developer. Quietly picking up land along the south side of Sweet Bloom since last year. Every place that’s burned was on his offer list in the last six months. Number two, Cal Merritt. Business partner of the feed store owner sued for breach after the co-op collapsed. Has a documented temper and a misdemeanor for attempted arson in college, but it was dismissed after not enough evidence. Number three—” She hesitated, pen tapping the paper. “—this one isn’t as clear yet. I pulled a county cold case because it was flagged in the county system because the fire pattern is a near match, but I hesitated to bring it up until now.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “You’re saying this is connected to an old case?”
“Maybe.” She flipped through her files and found the black and white photo of a torched house in Sweet Bloom. “It was the fire your father was killed in,” she finally pushed out.
It took her a couple of moments, but she finally worked up the courage to glance up. She couldn’t gauge his reaction. He wasn’t moving, his fingers splayed on the table, the skin tight over the knuckles. “You said they never figured out what caused that fire.”
Brandon didn’t look away. “Yeah, didn’t even think to investigate it. Had no idea there was a potential pour pattern—that it could have been arson.”
The silence settled in, but not heavy—just there, real. She closed the folder and pushed it away so he could have space.
He spoke after a minute. “If it’s the same arsonist…”
Desiree shook her head. “I doubt it. Too much time has passed. But maybe it’s a copycat, or maybe someone got coached. Either way, it’s deliberate.”
Desiree waited. She could only imagine what it felt like to have your personal history crawled over in a case file.
“I have the case file, if you want to take a look, but it’s up to you.”
