Page 20 of Over the Flames

“I know.” His voice rumbled through her chest before he pulled away, and her traitorous body instantly yearned for the connection between them. With one large hand pressed against her hip, Lawson raised his fingers and grazed the undeniable pattern their suspect had left across her neck. A distinct fire raged in his gaze before he focused on her. “Sheriff Sanders sent deputies to Jacqueline Day’s and Baldwin Webb’s homes to collect handwriting samples and compared them to the notes we recovered in Phil Anderson’s basement. You were right. They’re a match like you said. All three victims were working together to uncover the identity of the Arsonist and planned to publish the article under a pen name once they were finished. And we can prove Brent Hayward knew about it. I found pieces of the same draft—a copy—in a trash can in his basement. He’d somehow gotten his hands on it and tried to destroy the evidence before fleeing. Right now, it looks as though he was trying to protect himself from spending the rest of his life in prison.”

Disbelief snacked through her, and she cleared her throat to ease the pain. “Baldwin never said a word to me about any of this. Not about the plagiarism charges, the fact he’d been fired from the paper, or working with the other two victims.” She dug her thumb into the circle of puckered, raised flesh at the base of her palm. “He had to know he was a target. He wouldn’t have heard from Phil Anderson for two months after Phil had disappeared, and Jacqueline Day had been killed right outside the venue for the awards ceremony. He knew he’d attracted the Arsonist’s attention, and he never said a word.”

“Could be he was trying to protect you,” Lawson said. “He didn’t want you to get involved in something that would lead to you becoming the next victim.”

“Too late for that.” A humorless laugh escaped from between her lips, and Lawson’s gaze dipped to her palm. She couldn’t hide behind half-hearted humor through. Her pulse ticked up a notch. “Baldwin was at the cemetery on the one-year anniversary of Rey’s death. I was a mess. I could barely stand there and read the inscription on her tombstone without screaming. I’d never been so angry in my life. At our daughter for leaving me here, at you for not fighting the divorce. I was so…alone, and Baldwin… He set his hands on my shoulders, turned me into him and just hugged me. A complete stranger.” She shook her head. “He never told me what made him come over to me that day, and I never asked. He gave me his card and told me I could call him anytime I needed someone to talk to. I didn’t believe him. I mean, who in their right mind means that when they say it? He didn’t want to hear about my problems. He didn’t know me.”

Lawson didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe, his touch light on her hand.

“I didn’t call him, and when he called me, I didn’t answer. He was reaching out to help me, but I couldn’t see it through all the pain and grief and anger, but he never gave up.” Arden suctioned as much air into her lungs as she could stand. “He called me every day. He’d ask about her and what she was like. He’d bring me meals and eat with me so I didn’t have to be alone. After a few weeks, he started telling me about his writing and the stories he was working on. He’d listen to me when I theorized possible angles and ask questions, and I guess I’d impressed him enough in those early days for him to offer me a job as his research assistant. He taught me how to become an investigative journalist after that. He gave me a purpose I’ll never be able to repay him for.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You helped find Baldwin’s killer, Arden. If it hadn’t been for you, we might not have uncovered the connection between all three victims. He saved your life, and you stopped a killer from getting away with taking his.” Lawson intertwined his fingers with hers, his thumb pressed over the scar she’d bear for the rest of her life. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, and that I couldn’t see how much you were hurting. You had every reason to be angry and to want to be as far from me as you could get. Because you’re right. I didn’t fight when you filed for divorce. I didn’t know how to when all I could think about day in and day out was making it through the next hour, and you deserved better. You deserved better than me, but I give you my word, I’ll never abandon you again.”

“Don’t do that, Lawson.” The traitorous connection of muscles behind her ribcage threatened to tear right there in the middle of the damn hospital. Pulling her hand from his, Arden struggled to control the optimism begging for recognition.

Confusion narrowed his all-too-compelling gaze. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t make me hope for things that aren’t possible.” She wanted to believe he meant what he’d said. She wanted to forget the pain of losing not only her daughter but her husband within the same twenty-four hours, but while the wound in her palm had physically healed, she was still bleeding inside. The cuts had gone too deep, and she feared she might never know what it meant to be complete again. She threw the sheets from over her legs and pressed her bare feet into the cold tile. Investigators had collected her clothes as evidence, but Sheriff Sanders had been kind enough to offer her a set of King County Sheriff’s Department sweats to change into afterward. She reached for the light gray outfit and pushed her legs into the pant legs. The gown rode higher, and she turned away from her ex-husband to replace it with the sweatshirt. “We both know the minute this investigation is over, you’ll move onto the next, and I’ll still be an investigative journalist you can’t trust. And no matter what happens after you close this case, I’ll still be the woman who reminds you that our daughter is gone, and you’ll be the man who reminds me I wasn’t enough for you after she left.”

“Not enough? Arden.” Her name on his lips. That was all it’d taken for his voice to soothe the fire simmering under her skin, but she couldn’t face him. Not yet. Strong hands encased the backs of her arms and turned her into his chest. “You’re everything to me.”

His heart beat against her temple as he wound his hands through her frizzed and tangled hair. She closed her eyes, and, in that moment, she realized he’d done exactly as she’d asked him not to; he’d given her hope.

Chapter Eighteen

Lawson tossed the investigation file flat onto the table standing between him and Brent Hayward. The hard smack of cardstock against metal deepened the lines around the former fire marshal’s dark eyes. “You’ve been busy since retirement, Brent.”

Sheriff Sanders leaned against the wall over Lawson’s left shoulder, arms folded over her chest as though memorizing every detail, every movement the suspect made.

Taking his seat, Lawson opened the file and lined up the crime scene photos. “First the fire in Olympic Hills, then in Pinehurst. Your last fire though, that’s where you really made a name for yourself.” He tapped the photo of the scene in Lake City. Hayward’s eyes went straight to the two charred remains, later revealed to be an older couple who hadn’t been able to get out of the building fast enough before the fire department had arrived. “I’ve got to hand it to you, you’re good at what you do, and if you’d stopped at burning down buildings, you might’ve gotten away with it.”

He recognized the weight of Arden’s watchful gaze through the one-way glass behind him. She’d insisted being present for the interrogation once she’d been discharged from the hospital, and no amount of reasoning would’ve changed her mind, even at the expense of her own health. Then again, if he was being honest with himself, after what’d happened in those woods, he wasn’t ready to trust anyone else with her safety.

Thin cheeks concaved from the edges of the fire marshal’s cheekbones to the corners of his mouth. Thick, light gray brows met dead center at the bridge of Hayward’s nose and aged the man Lawson had studied from Arden’s puff piece in The Seattle Times. The former fire marshal shoved the photos halfway across the table and interlaced his fingers together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about you being the one who set fire to these three buildings to ensure your station arrived at these scenes first. I’m talking about you worming your way toward a commendation from the mayor himself guaranteed to land you early retirement.” Heat snaked up from Lawson’s collar as his hands ached to duplicate the marks left on Arden’s neck on the suspect in front of him. “I’m talking about you being responsible for the deaths of two innocent bystanders when you lit the match in Lake City and trying to kill my partner in those woods. Is any of that ringing a bell?”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to kill your partner. She must’ve seen me running from the house, and I didn’t want her following me. That’s all.” Hayward ignored the photos spread in front of him, and Sheriff Sanders stood a bit straighter as she and Lawson both recognized the shift in the suspect’s expression. “My engine was T-boned by a driver who hadn’t heard our sirens while we were en route to that call in Lake City. I pulled the rig out from the station, and the next thing I knew, we were trying to save this guy’s life right there on our front lawn.” The former fire marshal pointed to the photo of the couple who’d burned together. “I checked that building before I set the fire. I swear to you, and if that guy hadn’t crashed into us, we would’ve gotten there in time to get those two victims out.”

“You admit to setting the fire.” Lawson shook his head, leaning forward in his seat. “You’re the Arsonist.”

“I never liked that name. Makes me sound like some kind of serial killer.” Brent Hayward pressed one finger into the surface of the table. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt, and after I learned what happened, I stopped. Okay? Starting those fires was supposed to be a way to get some recognition for the work we were doing. Yeah, it was arson, and when I was consulted to give the final word, I made sure none of the evidence pointed back to me, but I have to live with what happened to that couple every day for the rest of my life.”

“What about the three investigative journalists you burned alive for trying to expose you?” Lawson slid the photos from the scene at Phil Anderson’s home across the table, front and center, and followed it up with photos of Baldwin Webb’s and Jacqueline Day’s remains. “Because I’m not sure you living with what happened to Jacqueline Day, Baldwin Webb, and Phil Anderson is good enough.”

Brent Hayward didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. “They’re all dead?”

“Don’t try telling us you didn’t know them, Mr. Hayward.” Sheriff Sanders pushed off of her spot against the wall and wrapped long fingers around the back of the chair beside Lawson. “Agent Mitchell recovered proof from your home you knew these three victims were working together to identify you as the Arsonist. You tried to destroy the draft of the article in a garbage can in your basement, but you fled the property before you could make sure you got all the pieces. Those journalists had little evidence to connect you to the fires in Olympic Hills, Pinehurst, and Lake City other than a few details that seemed to add up, but we can sure as hell connect you to their murders. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner the district attorney will want to cut you a deal.”

“I didn’t kill them.” The arsonist leaned back in his chair, shaking his head

“You had the means, motive, and the opportunity. You had a scanned copy of the exact same article the victims were drafting, handwritten notes and all.” Lawson fixated on the pulse beating too fast at the base of Hayward’s neck. “We’ve searched Baldwin Webb’s and Jacqueline Day’s computers. There was no evidence of that article on their hard drives. Seems they went out of their way to ensure any work they did together stayed in one location. The only way you would’ve been able to get your hands on it is if you had access to Phil Anderson’s missing laptop.” He reached down into the box beside his chair and pulled the evidence bag from the depths. Setting the heavy device on the table, he gauged Brent Hayward’s reaction. “Which we happened to recover from your garbage can during the search of your home. There’s some fire damage on one side, but the tech guys working for the bureau tell me recovering the hard drive won’t be a problem.”

A combination of shame and defeat solidified his expression in place.

“Phil Anderson was killed in the field behind his home two months ago and his body moved to the shed in his backyard, out of sight. If it hadn’t been for the deaths of the other two victims, we might never have learned he’d been missing.” Lawson tightened his grip around his pen. “Somehow you discovered what Phil was working on. Afraid he’d expose you as the Arsonist, you killed him. Only when you went to get rid of the evidence, you learned he wasn’t the only one working on the article. He had partners. You tracked them down, and you killed them, too.”

“No, Phil Anderson came to me.” Brent Hayward crossed his arms over his chest, revealing a long line of shiny and wrinkled scar tissue along the underside of his forearm. Burn scars. Not unusual for a firefighter, but these looked new. A few months old, maybe less. “You’re right about the article, but you’ve got everything else wrong. Phil, Baldwin, and Jacqueline were working together on a piece about the Arsonist. About me. They were planning on submitting the article under a pen name when they were finished in case the investigation came back to bite them in the ass. Phil approached me. They knew who I was, what I had done, and they asked me if I was interested in telling the, the real story.” Hayward scrubbed both hands down his face. “They wanted to point out that I didn’t mean to kill that couple in the Lake City fire. They wanted the truth behind the narrative the media had shoved down the public’s throat—that I was some kind of psychopath with destructive tendencies—and I agreed.”

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