“Right.” Jake’s eyes linger on me for a second too long. “Derek called the house phone. Left a message about filing for emergency custody.”
“I know. He called me too.”
“We need to get you a lawyer. A good one.” Jake looks at me again. “You guys should probably head out. It’s getting late, and we’ve got some family stuff to deal with.”
It’s a dismissal. Polite but firm.
“Yeah, of course.” I stand up. “Rachel, if you need anything—”
“I know where to find you.” She gives me a small smile. “Thanks for the water. And the company.”
I head back inside, where Cole and Marco are already gathering their stuff. Tommy’s asleep on the couch, dragon book still clutched in his hands.
We say our goodbyes and head out to Cole’s truck.
Nobody speaks until we’re halfway down the block.
Then Marco says, “Jake knows.”
“Knows what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
“That something’s happening between you and Rachel. The way he looked at you on that porch. He’s suspicious.”
“He’s protective,” Cole corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Not much of one.” Marco looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You need to be careful, Park. If Jake figures out what’s really going on before we’re ready to tell him, this whole thing explodes.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not being careful. You’re being obvious.”
“She needed someone. I was there.” I lean my head back against the seat. “I’m not going to apologize for caring about her.”
“Nobody’s asking you to apologize,” Cole says. “Just asking you to be smart about it. For everyone’s sake.”
I close my eyes and think about Rachel on that porch. About the way she looked at me when I told her she wasn’t alone. About the way her hand felt in mine.
Smart would be walking away. Smart would be keeping my distance until this custody battle is over, the fires are put out, and Jake’s safely in Alaska.
But I’ve never been particularly smart when it comes to the things I care about.
Chapter twenty
Chapter 20
Marco
The library storage room is colder than it was three days ago.
I’m standing in the same spot where the fire originated, camera in hand, documenting everything one more time. Phoebe is with me, taking measurements of the burn patterns with her tape measure and tablet.
“Same accelerant,” she says, not looking up from her notes. “Lab results came back this morning. Matches the café fire perfectly. Same brand of gasoline, same amateur application method.”
“Same perpetrator.”
“Most likely. Unless we’ve got two different arsonists in Millbrook Falls using the same technique and buying their gas from the same station.” She photographs the floor damage. “Which would be statistically improbable.”
I crouch near the pour patterns. The lines are clearer now that the debris has been cleared away. Someone stood right here, splashed gasoline across the floor in deliberate patterns, then lit it and walked away.
