Page 92 of Love on the Line

Chapter 32

Paul tossedhis coat onto the kitchen chair and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. Sipping merlot was more his style, but the last twenty-four hours had been pure insanity, and he needed something stronger. He poured a shot and knocked it back. His throat scorched, and sweat slicked his brow.

Lynn, dead.

Devon admitting he’d sabotaged Paul’s relationship with her.

The fatal fires.

He swiped a hand across his forehead and poured another shot. Crazy as it sounded, he had to find out if Devon might be responsible for them.

Paul’s wife entered the kitchen and stopped short. “Oh, you’re home earlier than I’d expected.”

He glanced up as her gaze went from his coat thrown on the chair to the shot glass.

“What’s going on?” she asked, alarm in her voice.

He’d never mentioned the reunion, blaming business meetings for an expected late night. Didn’t matter. All they talked about was the weather, news, and where to go to dinner next. He’d stepped into the Twilight Zone now. No way he’d discuss a possibly murdered past love and potentially psycho friend.

After gulping the bourbon, he plopped the shot glass down on the countertop. His lenses fogged as the liquor flushed his face.

“Paul? You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” His wife took a step closer.

She deserved an answer, but his muddled brain couldn’t give one. He had to get to his computer to find out more about the fires. “Nothing. I’m sorry…I need to look into something.”

He walked to the study and shut the door behind him. His ready-to-explode head rendered him incapable of niceties. Her footsteps approached the door, stopped for a second, then faded away down the hall.

Tapping the mouse to life, he sat at his computer and googled apartment fires in Virginia. When he typed in the year Lynn died, several articles popped up. His stomach in knots, he scanned the information from multiple newspapers.

The stories named three people, including Lynn, who were killed in the apartment fire, with several others treated for burns and smoke inhalation. The blaze, which had started around two a.m., originated on the first floor and rapidly spread.

Investigators found evidence of an accelerant used and ruled it arson. Paul’s heart seized, and his hands shook. So, it hadn’t been an accident. At the time, there were no known suspects, and a number was listed to call if anyone had information.

For the next hour, he read every article he could find on the fire, but none of them identified any suspects or arrests. He took off his glasses and sat back, rubbing his eyes. The bourbon rolled around in his stomach, threatening to come up. No motive was ever uncovered for the fire. He knew someone with a motive all right. Sure as hell not enough of one for any normal person, but an arsonist didn’t fall into that category.

He shuddered. Earlier, when he’d mentioned Lynn to Devon, his reaction had been barely controlled anger. Flared nostrils, narrowed eyes, and the way he’d turned his back, yanking out a file from the cabinet. Way over the top for a bet he’d lost back in college.

Paul tilted his head and squinted. He’d seen Devon angry several times throughout the years, but never sad, upset, or even happy for that matter. Sure, he gloated when he won a wager, or laughed at a joke, but that wasn’t the same as expressing feelings. Was he capable of having them? Paul shook his head, put his glasses back on, and started a new search.

He knew Devon had grown up in Finksburg, Alabama, and was twelve at the time of his family’s death. After doing some quick math to figure out the year, Paul found an article about the house fire. The piece stated that Devon’s parents and brother had died of smoke inhalation and severe burns. An investigation revealed gasoline had been dumped in the second story hall between the bedrooms to accelerate the fire. Owen Blackwood, an aspiring young athlete, had died trapped in his bedroom, unable to escape due to a tampered-with window.

Paul gasped. Tampered with? Someone wanted to make sure that kid didn’t survive. Devon had never mentioned anything about arson or his brother dying that way.

The back of Paul’s neck prickled. Just like with Lynn’s fire, no suspects or motives were ever discovered. He needed to find out more about Devon’s brother. A search on “Finksburg and Owen Blackwood” brought up some links.

Owen had been some sort of small-town hero athlete. Paul zoomed in on a picture of Devon’s parents next to a coach with Owen between them holding a huge trophy. Devon appeared in the far corner of the shot, almost out of the frame. His thin, pale body a huge contrast to the muscular build of his older brother. In the picture Devon’s mouth was pursed, his eyes squinted, and face contorted with what could only be contempt. Another motive?

This time the bourbon in Paul’s gut made its way partly up, choking him. Sweat poured down his back as his heart raced out of control.

Devon did it. Deep in every cell of his body, Paul knew it. Devon had murdered his family and Lynn. That’s why his eyes had flashed with alarm for the briefest second when Paul had asked him, “Why did you do it?” Devon thought Paul was asking why he’d killed Lynn, not why he’d told her about the wager. Now it all made sense.

The man was a total psychopath, incapable of feelings or remorse. Smart enough to create a persona beyond reproach—the philanthropist who cared about children and donated to the hospital. Only Paul knew his secrets now. How had he never seen the signs?

He ran a shaky hand through his balding hair. No point in calling the police without proof. And crimes committed so long ago would make that almost impossible to get. He had to approach it from another angle.

All the years he’d worked for Devon, Paul had always kept a blind eye to the goods imported and exported. Devon handled all of the shipments personally through his antique shop. With the amount of money he made, the stuff had to be illegal. He’d only let Paul deal with the financial end of the business. At the very least, he had proof that Devon was guilty of tax fraud.

Paul took a deep breath and slowly let it out. There had to be more crimes, and he’d make it his business to find them. Time to do some investigating.

Leaning over the desk, he turned off the light. Tears slid down his cheeks. His heart ached for Lynn. Had she been asleep when she died? Had the psycho done anything to hurt her before he set the fire?

Devon would pay. Paul would nail him even if it meant implicating himself. He’d do it for Lynn.

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