Page 59 of High Velocity

I throw myself in his arms, and start crying all over again.

I know it’s silly, it’s just a brush, but to me that piece of plastic is worth more than my clothes, my laptop, and my Honda combined.

“You found her,” I hear Alex’s voice from behind Jackson. “Good. Let’s get you guys back to the ranch to get cleaned up. The sheriff says he’ll meet us back there later.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m in a shower the size of my apartment in Kalispell, and Jackson is shampooing my hair. I try not to think and enjoy the sensation, but inevitably my thoughts go back to the fire.

If I didn’t leave that candle burning, then what could’ve been the cause? The investigator in me immediately wants to connect it to Jackson’s slashed tires, which is something I should’ve looked into right away. But I gave Jackson’s mental state priority last night, and pushed everything else to the background. I’m wondering if that was a mistake.

“I can hear the wheels in your head churning,” Jackson observes when we dry off in the large fluffy towels Alex left out for us. “Wanna talk it out with me?”

It’s what I would do with my fellow agents. We’d meet up, hash out details of the case, and toss around ideas. More often than not, we’d walk away with at least a plan of attack.

“The damage to your truck and the fire…I’m having trouble trying to believe that was coincidence.”

“Agreed,” he concurs. “Although, I fail to see the motive for either. Slashing my tires was small potatoes—I was actually wondering if Vallard had a petty streak—but the fire is a different level.”

“You think it was set?”

He shakes his head, sending water droplets flying. “Not a doubt in my mind.”

A sharp rap sounds on the door.

“Get your asses dressed,” Jonas barks from the other side of the door. “The sheriff is here; he wants to talk to both of you.”

That kicks us in high gear, and I throw on the sweats Alex left out for me, before helping Jackson pull the stubborn sleeve over the still-damp skin of his stump. I twist my wet hair up in a messy bun with a clip I find on the vanity, and follow Jackson downstairs.

It’s not even five in the morning, yet when we walk into the large kitchen, the place is already bustling with activity.

It’s a ranch, I’m sure they get an early start, but that doesn’t explain why Ama is already in the kitchen, working on what smells like a full breakfast, complete with bacon. Or why JD and Janey are both here on a stool at the large island. I awkwardly wave at James, Sully, and Fletch, who are sitting at the dining table, and smile back at Dan, who is pouring coffee from a large thermos into a row of mugs on the sideboard.

Janey gets to her feet and comes over to greet me with a big hug.

“So glad you’re okay,” she whispers in my ear as she holds me in a viselike grip.

“Where is Ewing?” Jackson asks behind me.

“Waiting in Jonas’s office,” Ama is the one to answer. “But grab a coffee first.”

I see she is wearing a dress, something I haven’t seen before. She’s usually in jeans. When she turns her back I notice she cut her hair. She had a long braid down to her behind before, but the hair she has tied back in a ponytail now barely reaches her shoulder blades.

“Your hair…”

She glances at me over her shoulder with a sad smile. “It grows back.”

Then it hits me, it’s Thomas’s funeral this morning. She’s dressed up and cut her hair to honor him. That’s why people are assembling so early.

I turn and face Jackson. “You should stay and have coffee with your brothers. I’ll handle the sheriff.”

“Good luck with that,” Janey mutters under her voice as the guys collectively chuckle.

All Jackson does is shoot me an intense look I can’t quite decipher, grabs my hand, and starts marching down the hallway to the office, dragging me along. We’re going to need to have a word about that later.

“The fire was set,” Ewing confirms moments later what we already suspected. “Fire inspector found some large blister charring around the dryer and the roof vents. Not sure what was used yet, but he suggests some kind of liquid accelerant was sprayed into the vents and set alight.”

“Someone has it in for you,” Jonas directs at me.

“Or me,” Jackson suggests. “My tires were slashed earlier in the evening.”

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