Page 1 of Over the Flames

Chapter One

Black smoke billowed from the flat warehouse roof and rolltop door.

A rush of cold wind burned Arden Olsen’s exposed skin as she approached the entrance where Baldwin had instructed her to meet him in his last text message. She huddled deeper into her scarf and coat, her exhales steaming from her mouth. Temperatures plummeted fast out here. Vashon Island had become home to fewer than eleven thousand residents over the years. Without bridges connecting to the mainland, spotty cellular service, and only a small satellite office for law enforcement, it was the perfect location to dump a body. Eighty square miles of trees, coastline, and isolation. If Baldwin’s suspicion that the recent death of an investigative journalist wasn’t accidental, they’d have a damn good story.

Pebbled gravel crunched under her boots as she studied the abandoned structure, a slight burn of gasoline in the air. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. That didn’t make sense. The warehouse had been shut down a few years ago when a fluoropolymer manufacturer had moved their operation overseas, but there were no other vehicles in the lot aside from her ten-year-old beater. Nothing to suggest Baldwin had already arrived or a reason for the smoke.

Arden checked her smart watch then swiped through to the last message her mentor had sent. She’d gotten here on time. He should be here. She crossed her arms over her chest, bouncing slightly to keep the blood pumping to her toes. The sun had started to dip behind the horizon, and she checked her watch again. Where the hell was he? “Come on, come on.”

Excited energy skittered down her spine the longer she forced herself to stay in place. They had to move on this lead. The Seattle Post had already positioned themselves as the trusted source concerning the death of Jacqueline Day, one of their own journalists, but Arden wouldn’t take the loss lying down. If she played her cards right, and Baldwin’s scoop turned out to be tangible, this story could double The Seattle Times’s subscription rate.

And push her into the open full-time investigative journalist position.

But none of it would happen without a new angle into the case. The King County Sheriff’s Department had played the investigation close to the vest and cut her out, but a new lead would put her back into the running for the promotion.

Jacqueline Day’s body had been discovered burned beyond recognition inside the remains of her vehicle outside the venue for the National Newspaper Awards, three days ago. Less than twelve hours after Arden had spoken to the journalist during the ceremony the previous night. After investigators noted there’d been a significant leak from the gas tank prior to the explosion, the sheriff’s department had tentatively ruled the incident an accident. All it would’ve taken was a small spark to trigger the inferno. But according to Baldwin’s message, the county’s chief medical examiner had reported traces of gasoline in Day’s stomach, which suggested she’d been injected with the accelerant before the fire.

Arden read the text again. No suspects mentioned. No motive. One of the city’s top investigative journalists had accepted the National Newspaper Awards investigations award one night, and Arden had been assigned to cover the story of her death the next. Now there was a possibility Jacqueline Day had been murdered.

The hints of gasoline Arden had noted earlier in the air thickened. She breathed into her hands to fight back the stiffness in her fingertips. They were losing daylight, and the only flashlight she’d brought was her phone.

She wasn’t going to wait. If Baldwin was right about Jacqueline Day’s death, it was only a matter of time before the medical examiner released the official autopsy report. She needed the story. She tapped the button for the flashlight and headed toward the single side door on the west side of the structure.

She wrenched the heavy steel door open, a full hit of gasoline diving deep into her lungs. Spinning around for a last inhale of clean air, Arden covered her nose with the back of her hand and stepped inside. Instant tears sprung to her eyes as petroleum residue crowded out fresh oxygen. Her boots echoed in the oversized space with every step. She aimed the phone’s flashlight in front of her. Smoke tendrilled out from under the dividing door between the offices and the main warehouse in random Rorschach patterns. Shadows clawed toward her from the corners of the office suite. “What the hell?”

The sound of metal striking cement twisted her gut, and she froze mid-step. Warning knotted in her stomach, and she clenched the phone tighter.

Someone was here.

“Baldwin?” She moved slower than she wanted to go, her body tight with tension, one foot in front of the other. Reaching into the depths of her bag, she closed her hand around the telescoping baton her ex-husband had given her for protection and arced her arm down to extend it fully. She transferred her phone to her mouth. Biting down on the edge, Arden adjusted her grip on the weapon as she tested the knob and wrenched the door open.

More smoke filled her vision, and she fell back. The taste of gasoline settled on her tongue. Her lungs immediately revolted, convulsing to find the smallest amount of clean air. Coughs spasmed from deep in her chest. This didn’t make sense. The warehouse hadn’t been used in years. Why would there be—

Realization hit.

“Baldwin!” Arden pushed through the smoke, hands outstretched, until cold steel shocked the nerve endings in her free hand. There was a roll top door somewhere to her right. Eyes shut against the burn of smoke and gasoline, she felt for the chain to lift the door. Her jaw slackened around the edge of her phone, and it fell to the cement. The flashlight beam arced wide as she hauled the chain toward the floor, and crisp January air filtered into the warehouse.

The smoke cleared after a few seconds—maybe a minute—and the source of the fire became clear. Remnants of dying sunlight outlined a body bound and burned beyond recognition in the middle of the second half of the warehouse. A scream caught in her throat as the backs of her knees threatened to give way. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Stumbling back against the wall, she fumbled for her phone. Police. She had to call the police. Wiping at her face with the back of her hand, she unlocked her phone and dialed 911, unable to take her eyes off the body.

The line picked up immediately. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I found…” Arden forced herself to take a deep breath. She’d written about the worst kinds of cases as a part-time investigative journalist for The Seattle Times over the past year. She could do this. Her gaze slipped to the dark outline of an all-too-familiar tablet near the charred, blackened, unrecognizable remains. The one with the dark green nail polish she’d accidentally spilled on the back. Baldwin’s tablet. No, it couldn’t… It couldn’t be him.

Adrenaline ticked her heart rate higher, and she studied the shape of the victim’s jawline, the wide opening of his mouth as though frozen in agony. She had to focus. She had to breathe. “I found a body. He’s burned. I can smell gasoline.”

“Ma’am, I need you to tell me where you’re located,” the dispatcher said.

“I’m… I’m in the old chemical warehouse on the island. I think whoever did it is still here.” Tears burned in her eyes as she shoved to her feet, the tip of the baton dragging against the floor. Dirty sunlight reflected off the shattered screen of the tablet beside the body. Baldwin carried it with him everywhere, even kept all his notes about different stories he was investigating in one of his apps. She pinched her phone between her shoulder and ear and picked up the tablet. If he’d had a new angle into Jacqueline Day’s death as he’d claimed in his message, he would’ve kept it in this device.

“Ma’am…still there?” Static cut through the line. “You said you… discovered…body…located?”

The call ended.

Arden stared at the tablet in her hand, her reflection broken up by different shards of glass. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there, staring at the remains. The device could be evidence in a murder. As soon as the sheriff’s deputies arrived, they’d log it into evidence and shut her out of the investigation. She’d never know why Baldwin had brought her out here. Never find out if he was right about Jacqueline Day’s death. Her attention drifted to the blackened remains a few feet away, the odor of gasoline dense in her throat.

The county’s chief medical examiner had reported traces of gasoline in Day’s stomach. That was what Baldwin had said in his message when he’d asked her to meet him here. Tremors worked down her hands as she backed away from the body. Heat coming off the remains tunneled through her coat and deep into bone. This wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever’d killed Jacqueline Day had targeted Baldwin. Two journalists. Two murders. Both burned alive.

She slipped the tablet into her messenger bag and stepped farther away from the body. The police would be here in seconds. As though conjured from the deepest fear battling for control, sirens pierced through the haze of questions sprinting through her head, and she jerked toward the door. Black and white patrol vehicles with forest green lettering kicked up gravel as they skidded to a stop outside.

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