Page 1 of Fire Fight
prologue
. . .
ASPEN
I wasa sucker for a sob story.
I’d been taken advantage of once or twice before because of it. But I’d gotten a lot better at recognizing when someone was fucking with me, and when someone was genuinely looking for answers.
Leigh Lee and her husband, Harold, fell into the latter category.
My private detective business was a one woman show, so I personally monitored all of my digital and physical mail correspondence. My office was a shitty little building in a borderline bad neighborhood of Denver, and I called the shitty little apartment above it home. Most of my time was spent on the road anyway, making it nothing more than a landing place between cases.
My last one was two months ago, and I’ve been itching to get back out there ever since.
When Mrs. Lee’s email came through, adrenaline shot through my veins.
I’d never heard of the Prom Night Arsonist, but in the two weeks since receiving that electronic missive, I’d done enoughresearch to become well-versed—latching particularly onto the fact that the local police had barely any leads, much less a viable suspect.
This guy was a fucking ghost.
Even before I’d officially spoken with Mrs. Lee, I knew I wanted to tackle this case. The small town wasn’t flashy enough to attract national media attention, but the murders were devastating to the people who lived there. With a killer who had been active for decades, it was the kind of case I most enjoyed. There was a lot of meat on its bones, and I was ready to take a big bite.
Mrs. Lee’s voice held such…rawness and despair when I’d reached out that my heart damn near cracked in my chest. While I’d long since gotten good at marshaling my emotions and constructing a cage around my heart to protect myself from getting in too deep on my investigations, there was no shielding yourself from a mother still reeling from the loss of her child.
I understood that with stark, unending clarity.
The pain in her voice—it was the same I’d heard in my own mother’s for years.
For that alone, I’d find the fucker who’d done this to them.
one
. . .
ASPEN
What an adorably quaint little town.
That was the first thought I had as I navigated Black Betty, my beat up, rusted out old Chevy Suburban, down the main thoroughfare. I had a reservation at the motel back on the highway, but I wanted to get a feel for the place before I settled into my room.
My head was on a swivel as I attempted to take everything in on one pass, a feat I knew would be impossible. My feet itched with the desire to park, get out, and strut up and down the sidewalks, seeing all this map dot had to offer. My nosy, curious nature tended to get the better of me in moments like this. I needed to feel, touch, smell, and taste. I needed to awaken all of my senses and fully immerse myself in the locality.
But I resisted the urge, for now, settling for an optical perusal.
The residents of Dusk Valley clearly took pride in the presentation of their home, because there wasn’t any chipped paint to be found or a decoration out of place, and the streets remained clear of any unwanted debris. The storefronts were an eclectic but somehow cohesive mix of craftsman and brick, eachdistinguished by a shingle rocking on the gentle breeze or a merrily striped awning. Flowers overflowed from hanging baskets and window boxes.
The whole facade was quintessentially Small Town, USA.
Unfortunately, it also masked a dark history.
I wasn’t delusional enough to think I was capable of tracking down a killer when over forty years of law enforcement professionals hadn’t been able to, but something about this one had my bones humming with an unnameable energy.
This guy was living right under these people’s noses, a true testament to the duality of human nature that everyone went about their daily errands and jobs like there wasn’t a killer walking among them.
I was making it my personal mission to root this fucker out and bring him to justice.
With that thought, I reached the lone stoplight, which didn’t shift colors, merely blinked yellow in caution, at the intersection of two perpendicular roads. I glanced in my rearview to confirm no one was waiting behind me, then lifted my phone to plug the address of my motel into my maps app. As soon as I touched it, however, it rang.
