Page 4 of Burning Caine

Janelle came next to me. “Now what?”

It couldn’t have gone far. I scanned from the wall to the floor to the…There was something under the fallen piano. Kneeling, I felt the hard corner of an object stuck in the thin layer of sludge.

“Can you tilt the piano a bit?” I pointed to the end of the shell, where it narrowed, and she could get a good grip. I knew she had the strength to tip it, despite it weighing hundreds of pounds. Probably over her head if she was angry enough.

She hefted it, and I took a few photos for evidence before lifting the corner of the object to feel its underside. The frame of a painting, with rows of beads and flowers. This was what I was looking for.

“Hurry up,” she grunted. As I pulled it out carefully, ensuring it wasn’t caught on anything, I backed away, and she let the piano down, surprisingly gently.

“It must have fallen under the piano before the legs broke.” About three-quarters of the painting was missing, burned to ash—one million dollars of ash. The frame was fully intact, though.

“The piano must have protected some of it.” Janelle reached to turn it over, and I batted her hand. Instead, I shook it at an angle, so the soot covering the back fell away, and I lifted it over my head to check the front.

“Moving any of the debris around on it, including the soot and slurry, can damage it further.”

“There’s hardly any of it left––why does that matter?”

“Because this painting is worth a million dollars to Foster Mutual Insurance.” I ran my eyes over what was left. “Before we can pay out, we need to make sure it’s the right one. Standard procedure on something this valuable. Do you have any evidence bags we can put this in? And something sturdy to put under it?”

She rolled her eyes but left anyway. Hopefully, to get that bag.

On the front, the frame was blackened, with a few small glints of gold leaf remaining on the highest points. A portion of the painting remained along the bottom and a few other strips in the middle, creeping out like fingers from the left side. Some soot fell on my goggles, but I wiped it away.

Was that part of the signature at the bottom right corner? If so, it would be a big help in verification.

Janelle returned a few minutes later with a bag and a sheet of cardboard to brace the painting. She tagged it with the standard evidence information, including the chain of custody. From me to her. Not the other way around.

“You’re taking this?” How could I do my job if I didn’t have the painting?

“You know how this works. With a death in the fire, it’s a homicide until we’re confident it’s not. All the teams have already gone through here, but this feels like evidence.”

She was right, but the slight wrinkling at the corner of her dark eyes told me there was a smile behind her gear. It gave her more than a hint of satisfaction to make my life more difficult.

“Once we’re done, we’ll turn it over to you.”

I took a few photos to confirm I’d found it and the state it was in when the police took it. “Indicate no one should turn it over or brush the surface dirt away.”

She rolled her shoulders, narrowing her eyes. “I know my job, Sam.”

With that, she spun on her heel and headed for the door, handling the painting more gingerly than her tone would have implied.

Work was done. I should have clamped my mouth shut and left, moving on to the next claim. That was the safe approach. But instead, I blurted out, “I’m still sorry, Janelle.”

She paused, her shoulders heaving with a deep breath, not turning back to me. “And sorry still doesn’t cut it.”

My stomach dropped, and I rubbed a hand over my face, hitting cheek and respirator. Great. Whatever the soot from the painting missed was now covered. “I’m only in town for eight more months. Maybe we can grab a coffee or—”

“Friends don’t do the shit you did,” she muttered, words sharp as a knife in my gut. She stalked off toward the door, not looking over her shoulder. “Let Jimmy know you’re leaving.”

What was left to say? I let out a long, shaky breath and followed her out, our words done.

The midsummer sun hit me when I exited the house, and I closed my eyes, tilting my face up. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Relax. But it was no use. For eleven years, my best friend had shut me out. Why did I think that could change?

I shoved my goggles to my forehead and tore the respirator down to my neck, blinking away a piece of ash which fell onto my eyelash. Damn Janelle Williams. And this fire. And Bobby’s death. And that painting. This day couldn’t get any worse.

Thank god I was only in this forsaken town for the short term.

Find Jimmy. Then leave.

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