Page 17 of Over the Flames

“The suspect wasn’t in any of these downstairs rooms, but you’re going to want to see what we found, sir,” one of them reported.

Anticipation coiled through him as he followed both officers into the hallway and to the right. The odor grew thicker at the back of his throat as he stepped into the room at the end of the corridor. Lawson covered his nose and mouth in the crook of his arm. Blackened scorch marks climbed the walls leading up to a drop tile ceiling with patches of smoke damage clinging to every other inch in the room. Empty bags of cat litter were piled in the corner as wisps of fresh smoke tendrilled from the source. What he’d believed to be pet odors had been burning cat litter. Fresh air battled with the evidence of a small, contained fire as he approached the metal garbage can. Crouching, Lawson tried to keep the burn out of his eyes in order to get a look at what Brent Hayward had been desperate to destroy before fleeing his own home. Lawson thrust his hand past several inches of cat litter—presumably used to contain the flames before Hayward had fled—and rummaged through the debris. He pulled a large section of white paper from the depths, a piece that had been stuck to the edge of the garbage can, and set it on the floor. “Looks like a piece of paper.”

Black type-written ink had smeared with added heat, and Lawson squinted in an attempt to make out the section of a sentence. If Brent Hayward was desperate enough to destroy this as SWAT closed in, it had to have been important. He smoothed his glove-finger over the words. “…police were unable to narrow down a suspect in the string of fires, but evidence points to Marshal Hayward himself…”

Understanding hit.

“It’s the same article.” Brent Hayward had known all three victims were investigating him for the Arsonist fires.

“Sir?” one of the officers asked from behind.

“Get Sheriff Sanders down here.” Lawson stood. “We have a suspected serial killer on the run.”

Chapter Fifteen

Doubt coiled through her as Arden pulled Baldwin’s tablet from her bag. How long had he been working with Jacqueline Day and Phil Anderson to identify the Arsonist? Why hadn’t he told her?

She tapped the corresponding numbers to unlock the device and turned it on its side in her lap. She and Lawson had already gone through Baldwin’s messages, email, and article drafts. While there was a chance they’d missed something in their initial search, each of the victims had taken a good amount of precaution not to be connected to the others by publishing under a pseudonym. Baldwin wouldn’t have left a trail if he’d wanted to keep the story under wraps until publication. Whether to protect himself from the Arsonist or to keep his professional life separate from the work he and the other two victims were doing together, she had no idea. She might never know.

She swiped through the collection of emails in Baldwin’s inbox. Nothing out of the ordinary aside from Rose Hindley’s accusation. Payment reminders, direct deposit notifications from The Times, some spam. She read through the back and forth correspondence with his editor concerning a class-action lawsuit against a company called Vashon Chemical dated a week ago, but there didn’t seem to be anything that would’ve gotten Baldwin killed. The information had been made accessible to the public. She scrolled down to the trash label and waited for the deleted emails to load. Then froze. Tapping the first email at the top, she collapsed back into her seat. Rain ticked against the windshield in heavy waves as the wind shook the SUV. “Notice of termination.”

Rose Hindley had been telling the truth. Baldwin had been fired due to accusations of plagiarism despite his responding claims he’d never stolen a word from another journalist. He’d been fighting back. She hesitated at the mention of her name in one of the last emails he’d received from the paper. “Arden Olsen is the most creative, diligent, and ambitious journalist I’ve had the pleasure of working beside. You want someone who’s going to change the world on your investigative staff? Don’t let her slip through your fingers.”

Baldwin had recommended her for the promotion to full-time investigative journalist before he’d died. He hadn’t given up on her, even at the end. She brushed away the single tear that’d escaped down her cheek as his final words came into focus and brushed her thumb over the tablet’s screen. Streaks of oil from her fingers smeared across the broken glass.

Baldwin had believed in her, supported her, cared about her when everyone else in her life had disappeared. What’d started as a complete stranger mourning the loss of his own loved one that day in the cemetery had turned into one of the most important relationships of her life. He’d given her a shoulder to fall apart on at Rey’s gravesite on the first anniversary of her daughter’s death. He’d called her day after day to check in, brought her books to read and desserts to make herself sick with. He’d showed her what had gone into his work, hired her as his research assistant, and had ultimately handed a new purpose in life. A chance meeting between grieving strangers had changed everything.

The tears dried as Arden hit the power button on her mentor’s device and removed her phone from her bag. She swiped the back of her hand under nose before she opened her word processor app and started typing. She wasn’t going to let the FBI’s investigation—Lawson’s investigation—ruin Baldwin’s legacy. He deserved better, and she had the power to make sure he got it.

The words poured from her fingers, one after the other, and time distorted into a warm, liquid fluid. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there in the front seat of Lawson’s vehicle or how much time had passed from when he and the SWAT team had breached Brent Hayward’s home, but when the quick burst of inspiration fizzled, she was left exhausted and slightly cold. She’d promised Lawson she wouldn’t make his investigation into these murders public for her own benefit, and she wouldn’t. Not until enough time had passed after he’d closed his case, or she was able to get permission from the director of the Violent Crimes Unit. One way or another, the world would know the truth about Baldwin Webb. The public would know who they’d lost.

Movement caught her attention from the edge of Brent Hayward’s property. Not a SWAT team member. Not Lawson. The outline kept low and moved fast across the yard and headed straight for the trees backing up to the property. Seconds passed, and she craned her neck back toward the suspected arsonist’s home, waiting for the team’s response. Only it never came. The figure disappeared into the trees. The Arsonist?

Shouldering out of the vehicle, Arden stepped into sheets of rain and glanced toward the temporary command tent Sheriff Sanders and the SWAT team leader had constructed for the operation. No one was there. She studied the trees. The man suspected of killing three investigative journalists—her mentor included—was getting away, and no one had noticed. Water pelted her face as she slammed the passenger door behind her, her bag’s strap heavy across her midsection. The longer she waited for SWAT or Lawson to respond, the higher chance Brent Hayward had of getting away with what he’d done.

She reached for her phone and called the last number she’d had stored for her ex-husband. A trio of sounds pierced through the constant pound of rain on the sidewalk followed by an automated message. “The number you have dialed cannot be reached—”

She disconnected the call, eyes on the spot where Brent Hayward had vanished into the tree line. She couldn’t wait. Arden drove her hand into her bag and wrapped her grip around her only weapon. Her baton. She pumped her legs hard in order to catch up with the suspect, cold working deep into her lungs. Her hair plastered to her face as she ran. Water collected in her boots and suctioned her clothing to her body the faster she ran. Shadows shifted ahead as she reached the thick cluster of pines. Their heady scent replaced the heavy buildup of Lawson’s spicy aftershave she’d cocooned herself inside in the SUV and isolation pooled at the base of her spine.

Without hesitation, she’d run straight into an unfamiliar section of wilderness alone in order to keep a potential murderer from escaping. She wasn’t law enforcement. She hadn’t even been able to get through to Lawson for support, but the idea of letting the Arsonist disappear for another year solidified the determination burning through her. Brent Hayward was their only suspect in Baldwin’s death, and she wasn’t going to let him get away.

Bursts of crystallized air steamed in front of her mouth as she noted deep footprints collapsing under thousands of bombarding raindrops. Extending the tactical baton in one smooth swipe, she moved alongside the prints deeper into the woods, careful not to disturb the evidence. The Cougar Mountain Windland Park stretched for miles in either direction. The only way she’d catch up with Hayward was to follow the trail he’d left behind.

She dipped beneath the low reaching trees, and warning pooled at the base of her spine. No sign of the Arsonist up ahead. The longer she chased after the ghost who’d disappeared into these trees, the less chance Lawson and the rest of the SWAT team had of providing backup when he realized she wasn’t where he’d left her. She had to take the risk. For Baldwin. For Jacqueline. For Phil. For anyone else Brent Hayward had hurt in order to keep his secret. Mud squished under boots, pine needles scratching across her skin as she closed in on a small clearing. A perfect place for an ambush if the suspect realized he’d been followed, but she was positive the rain provided enough cover to cloak the sound of her approach.

She hit the clearing, searching the ground for the next set of footprints.

They were gone.

That wasn’t possible. Swiping tendrils of water from her face, she ignored the sudden weight between her shoulder blades and studied every dip in the ground, every pool of water. Hayward couldn’t disappear. She just wasn’t seeing where the trail picked up again.

The slightest crack of a twig shocked her nerve endings, and she spun around, baton tight in her grip. Blankets of rain masked any other sound. Storm clouds had flattened into an impenetrable sheet of silk above. Not a single molecule of light highlighted the shadows between the trees. Terror raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “I know what you did, Marshal Hayward. I know who you really are. You tried to hide your secret, but those three journalists you killed were able to uncover your crimes. What makes you think no one else will?”

No answer.

Five seconds. Ten. The Arsonist was accused of killing five people, including the two innocent lives that’d been caught in the flames of his last fire, and she’d threatened him with exposure. This job isn’t for the weak, Baldwin had once told her. Some of the best articles he’d written had been drafted from facing his greatest nightmares and chasing after a suspected arsonist who’d murdered her colleagues ranked high on her list of top fears. She’d stared into the fire of self-destruction when she’d lost Rey and come out on the other side more confident of herself than ever, stronger. She’d lost everything she’d cared about to the flames of grief—lost Lawson—and no amount of physical pain would come close to the ashes left behind. Wherever this investigation led, she was ready. “You can’t run forever. The FBI, the sheriff’s department—they’ve already got a warrant for your arrest. They’ll find you.”

The continuous patter of rain against the ground formed an echo chamber of sound, and the tension in her shoulders drained. Arden stared down at the last set of footprints in the center of the clearing and craned her neck up through the trees. She hadn’t been that far behind him. How had he disappeared?

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