I move through the dining room, checking sight lines and exit points. The café has two entrances: the front door facing Lakeshore Drive and the service entrance in the alley. Windows on three sides, all of them now blown out from the heat. Anyone walking by on the street would’ve had a clear view inside before the fire started.
Phoebe comes back in looking troubled. “Amy says she quit because the owners cut her hours to save money. She found out they were interviewing for a new part-time position that paid less than what she was making.”
“Is she angry about it?”
“Said she was frustrated, but not enough to burn the place down. Claims she was at her new job when the fire started. Night shiftat the resort, clocked in at six p.m. and didn’t leave until two a.m. I’m verifying with her supervisor now.”
I file that away and keep moving. The staircase leading to the second floor is partially collapsed but stable enough to climb. Upstairs, Rachel’s office is a disaster. File cabinets melted, computer equipment destroyed, papers turned to ash. The inventory she was supposedly doing when the fire started is gone.
Convenient. Or tragic. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
Her desk drawer is warped but still accessible. I pull it open with gloved hands and find the usual office supplies. Pens, sticky notes, and a spare phone charger. Nothing incriminating. Nothing useful.
“Marco.” Phoebe’s voice carries up from downstairs. “Got something.”
I head back down and find her in the storage room, crouched near the largest pour pattern. She’s holding an evidence bag containing what appears to be a piece of fabric.
“Found it wedged under the bottom shelf. Looks like part of a sleeve, maybe from a jacket or shirt. It’s got accelerant residue on it.”
I take the bag and examine it under my flashlight. Dark blue cotton-blend fabric, torn edge, like it caught onsomething during a hasty exit. A mistake for amateurs because professionals don’t leave pieces of themselves behind.
“Bag it and send it to the lab. Let’s see if we can get DNA or fiber matches.”
Phoebe seals it properly and adds it to the evidence kit. “You think this was targeting Rachel specifically?”
“Don’t know yet.” I look around the destroyed café one more time, trying to see it from the perpetrator’s perspective. “Could be random. Could be personal. Could be someone with a grudge against the owners who picked a night when the manager happened to be here.”
“Or someone who knew Rachel would be here and wanted to scare her.”
“That too.”
We spend another hour collecting samples and taking measurements. By the time we’re done, the sun’s fully up and early morning traffic is starting to move past on Lakeshore Drive. A few people slow down to stare at the damage, phones out, probably already posting photos online.
Small-town entertainment. Nothing brings people together like other people’s disasters.
Phoebe packs up the evidence kit while I take one last walk through the scene. The café had been here for twenty years, according to the records. Twenty years of serving coffee and pie to locals and tourists. Twenty years of paychecks for people like Rachel Morgan, who needed work.
Now it’s just charred wood and melted dreams.
“What’s the verdict?” Phoebe asks when I meet her back at the cars.
“Definitely arson. Amateur execution, probably someone acting on impulse rather than planning. Multiple possible motives, but no clear suspect yet.” I pull off my gloves and toss them in the disposal bag. “Run background checks on all the staff, including Rachel Morgan. Get me the café's financial records, utility bills, and inspection reports. Talk to the neighbors, see if anyone saw someone hanging around yesterday afternoon or evening.”
“You want me to interview Rachel?”
“Not yet. Let her deal with the immediate aftermath first.” I check my phone and see three missed calls from Cole. “I’ll talk to her later if I need to. Right now, I want facts before I start asking questions.”
Phoebe nods and climbs into her car. “I’ll have preliminary reports by this afternoon. Deep background checks might take a day or two, depending on how cooperative the databases are feeling.”
“Fast as you can. Whoever set this fire might try again if they didn’t get the result they wanted.”
She drives off toward the county office while I stay behind, staring at the ruined building. Four arsons in six months. Four different patterns, four different motivations. But this one feels different. Messier. More personal.
Someone wanted this café to burn. Wanted it badly enough to risk getting caught. Wanted it while Rachel Morgan and her kid were inside.
That kind of anger doesn’t come from nowhere. It builds over time, feeds on grievances, real or imagined, waits for the right moment to strike.
I need to figure out who was angry enough. And why Rachel Morgan happened to be in the way.
