Page 43 of Girl, Reformed

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mia Ripley's gut clenched like a fist asshe screeched to a halt at the ass-end of Oakwood. The 3400 block, a wastelandof weeds, broken bottles, and shattered dreams. The kind of place even the ratshad the good sense to abandon.

And there, squatting like a mortallywounded beast amidst the urban decay, was Martin's pride and joy. His baby, hisExcalibur, his magnum opus on four wheels.

And it was smoking like an ancientfurnace.

The fire crew had the blaze mostly licked,but smoke still twisted into the sky like a python on the make. The acridstench sucker-punched Ripley right in the sinuses while the heat-blasted herface like Satan's sauna.

She swallowed hard past the lump in herthroat, a lump that tasted suspiciously like her heart trying to climb out ofher mouth. What the hell was Martin's car doing here, abandoned and burninglike a funeral pyre in this godforsaken corner of urban hell? Her mind spundizzying scenarios – kidnapping, carjacking, a simple malfunction turnedinferno. But in her marrow, she knew this was no accident, no coincidence. Thishad all the hallmarks of a deliberate act; a statement written in fire and ash.

Ripley stumbled out of her car on legsthat barely seemed capable of holding her weight. The ground felt unsteadybeneath her boots, the world tilting on its axis as she tried to process thisdisplay of vehicular carnage. She zeroed in on a uniform, some baby-faced beatcop standing around with his thumb up his ass.

‘Hey,’ she barked. ‘Agent Ripley with theFBI. What happened here?’

The cop blinked at her, looking about asbright as a sack of wet mice. He glanced from her shield to her face and backagain, the hamster wheel in his head practically smoking.

‘Fed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘This is just a car fire.’

Ripley's smile felt like a razor blade onher face. ‘It's personal, not professional. I know the owner of this car.’

That got the gears turning behind thecop's bovine eyes. He looked from her to the smoldering wreck of Martin'sbeloved ride and back again. ‘My condolences,’ he said.

‘Save your Hallmark moment,’ Ripleysnapped. ‘Just give me the facts.’

Baby-face shrugged, hooking his thumbs inhis utility belt like a cut-rate John Wayne. ‘Not much to tell, really. Lookslike a pretty standard torch job. Fire department says it was doused inkerosene, lit up like the Fourth. No one inside, far as we can tell, but wehaven't had a chance to really poke around yet.’

Kerosene, Ripley thought.‘Mind if I take a peek?’ She jerked her chin towards the car, already movingpast the yellow tape before the cop could respond. ‘Seeing as I'm here andall.’

The uniform scrambled to keep up, puffinglike a two-pack-a-day asthmatic. ‘Hey, you can't just... I mean, this is stillan active crime scene, you can't go contaminatin' evidence.’

Ripley spun on her heel, fixing him with aglare that could un-erupt a volcano. ‘You got about a fifty percent chance ofme figuring out what happened here, and that’s fifty percent more than you hadbefore I arrived.’

She could practically see the kid'stesticles shrivel. He held up his hands in a placating gesture, taking a smartstep back. ‘Alright, alright. No need to get hostile. You can take a look, justlet me witness it. There could be explosives in there.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

She'd walk through the fires of hell ingasoline panties if it meant getting to the bottom of this mess. A little sootand sweat was a small price to pay for answers.

She stalked over to the car, every stepfeeling like her feet were encased in cement. Up close, the damage was evenworse. The once cherry-red paint job bubbled and blistered, tires melted intounrecognizable lumps of rubber, windows blown out to leave gaping, jagged holeslike empty eye sockets. And the stench, Christ. Like a chemical spill in acrematorium.

Ripley steeled herself and reached throughthe shattered passenger side window. The door handle was still hot enough tosear her fingertips, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and wrenched itopen with a tortured creak of hinges.

The interior was a nightmarish ruin, likeshe'd just stepped into Satan's rumpus room. The upholstery was nothing butscorched springs and melted foam, the dashboard warped and sagging like a Dalipainting. Every surface was coated in a thick layer of greasy soot, clinging toher skin and clothes as she levered herself into the back seat. Shards of glassand jagged metal bit into her ass and thighs through her jeans, but Ripleybarely registered the discomfort. She was a woman possessed, tearing throughthe burnt-out wreckage as though the Shroud of Turin might be in here. Flingingaside charred hunks of god-knows-what, heedless of the way they crumbled toashen smears on her hands and clothes. Ripping, clawing, searching foranything, any tiny scrap that might point her in the direction of Martin.

Her gaze snagged on the underside of thefront seats, on the small gap between the charred upholstery and the car'sfloor. Something about that narrow crevice, that tiny slice of shadow amidstthe fiery devastation, set her senses tingling.

With desperate, clawing fingers, Ripleyripped and tore at the scorched fabric until it hung in blackened tatters. Shethrust her hands into that cramped space, heedless of the jagged metal andsearing heat that bit into her flesh. Groping blindly, frantically, until herquesting fingertips brushed against something solid. Something that crinkledbeneath her touch like ancient parchment.

She seized hold of it and wrenched it freefrom its sooty cocoon. Then she tumbled out of the vehicle, coughing andspitting black phlegm. She staggered around to the rear of the car on legs thatwobbled like a newborn foal's, adrenaline and panic buzzing through her veinsin equal measure.

A thick bundle of files.

The edges were curled and blackened, themanila folders stained with soot and God knows what else, but still blessedly,miraculously intact.

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