Page 8 of Fear of Flames
A cold chill scurried over Michelle’s arms as she found her phone and contemplated calling her mother. Surely, Mom was awake with all the activity. Then again, Michelle didn’t want to wake her if she wasn’t.
Instead, she sent a text. “Mom, something happened in the neighborhood.”
* * *
Misty lived only a few blocks from Michelle’s house.
* * *
A second text. “If you’re awake, let me know what you know.”
* * *
Michelle looked up at her friends. “Maybe Mom heard something from Dad?”
* * *
Fletch opened a director’s chair and set it facing Michelle. “Your mom’s death was eventually ruled an accident. Initially, you were blamed.”
Michelle’s chest ached at the memories, the accusations, and even the questioning by the police. Her dad tried to intervene, but Michelle was nearly twenty years old and, according to the law, an adult. The conspiracy theories ran the gamut. The most believable was that Michelle accidentally, or intentionally, hit a burner on the gas stove. Without a flame to ignite it, the gas accumulated.
“I was cleared,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Your mother died in a house explosion, attributed to an accumulation of methane, yet no construction had occurred in the area. And now your father will be declared deceased due to an unexplained fire.”
She sat taller. “My father was already dead. I heard the gunshot. When I went downstairs, he was on the floor. There was blood.” She shivered. “The flames…someone started a fire to cover up the crime. You mentioned accelerant.” Her eyes opened wide as she scooted closer to the wall. “Was it you?”
“No.” Fletch’s gaze narrowed. “Why would your parents be targeted?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. My mom was a librarian—a great mom but as boring as they come. Dad was a policeman, thirty years with IMPD. Sheriff Perkins or that deputy with him killed my father or knows who did.” She shook her head. “Dad’s house is miles outside of Iron Falls. They were there too fast. I think they know what happened.” Her gaze narrowed as she recalled her previous question. “Wait a minute. You were there fast too.”
“I didn’t hurt Denny.”
“Why would anyone target him?”
The percolating coffee exploded in the glass top of the coffee pot, their bubbles interrupting the conversation. As Fletch stood, he pulled the hoodie over his head, further ruffling his hair and revealing a tight black dri-FIT shirt, the kind that hugs each muscle, each indentation and bulge.
She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Maybe she should have trusted Sheriff Perkins instead of Fletch. Without conscious thought, Michelle scanned from his messy hair to his boots. The way his shirt hugged his toned abdomen and biceps made her realize why he had no problem carrying her through the woods. Either Fletch worked out religiously, or he was simply created to near perfection.
Noticing the obvious rise in temperature from the hotplate and lantern, Michelle unsnapped the large coat she was still wearing. Leaving it draped over her shoulders, she asked, “Am I safe with you?”
“I’m not a threat. Your safety is up for debate.”
“You don’t by chance see any spare clothes around here, do you?”
Fletch turned her way with a curl to his lips before turning a complete circle. “I don’t see any clothes here. After dark, we’ll move. He took a step and lifted his eye to a peephole near the door; one she hadn’t noticed earlier. “The snow is falling heavier than before. That’s good. Along with the wind, our tracks should be difficult to follow.”
“Are you a cop? You don’t work with Sheriff Perkins, do you?”
“I’m not employed by the sheriff’s department.”
“Private eye? Some kind of survivalist?” she questioned as he handed her the steaming cup of coffee.
“Sorry, no cream or sugar.”
Michelle sighed. She liked both in her coffee. “The warm mug feels great on my fingers.” She took another look around. “Seriously, how do I know I can trust you?”
Fletch retook his seat across from her. “I’d say that’s up to you, but at the moment, your choices are rather slim.”
