Page 7 of Raging Inferno

“It was nice to meet you, Presley,” Jed said, that cocky smile back in place. He probably thought it was sexy, and for some women, it might be, but she found it creepy.

Reggie guided her to a conference room and closed the door. He held a seat for her, and though she could do it herself, she knew his manners were ingrained. His mama had taught him right. She sat and waited until he did the same.

“What brings you home?”

“Margy Binder.”

“Oh, yeah. That was tragic.”

“She was one of my cousin Gwen’s best friends.”

“The Cheerios. I remember.”

“I wanted to see if you’d let me look at the official report, detective to detective.”

“Why? It was accidental.”

She shrugged. “Call me curious.”

Reggie’s coffee-colored eyes studied her.

Finally, she sighed and admitted, “Fine. I don’t like coincidences.”

“What are those?”

“You mean the definition? A remarkable concurrence of events—”

He chuckled. “No, with the case.”

“Margy died in a fire. So did Gwen.”

“Presley, that was, what, seventeen, eighteen years ago?”

“I know.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, he placed a manilla file in front of her. With one hand on thefolder, a twinge of guilt assailed her, prompting her to admit, “For the record, Reggie, I’m not on the police force anymore.”

“You’re not? What happened?”

Nope. Not opening that can of worms. “I took a job with a private company. COBRA Securities.”

Reggie’s brows lifted. “Well, I’m duly impressed, Presley. They’re the best in the business.”

A rush of pride washed over her. She was so fortunate to work for them.

Reggie pointed to the file in front of her. “Go ahead.”

Presley skimmed the report, which included notes from the fire inspector who had determined that an unattended candle had ignited the blaze. He or she had included a memo that stated over nine thousand fires were started by candles each year. That amounted to around twenty a day. That was a significant number.

She came to a picture of Margy’s burned body and swallowed hard. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten before she’d stopped at the station. “It looks like Margy slept through the blaze. Did she have a fire alarm?”

“Yes, but she is—was one of the millions of people around the country who don’t replace the batteries.”

“That’s a shame,” Presley murmured. She might be alive had she taken that small step. “Did she own the home or rent?”

“Owned.”

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