But what remained made the scale of it harder to dismiss.
A wide swath of blackened ground stretched across the acre, the grass between the trees reduced to ash and char, and the soil dark with moisture from the hoses.
He let his gaze move across the pattern without rushing.
He wasn’t an expert, but he did know that most fires spread unevenly. They were wind-pushed, and they followed dry patches, moving in unpredictable directions.
This one had a center. A clear, concentrated origin point near the tree line where the char was deepest before spreading outward.
He crouched near the origin point and studied the ground. The soil there was darker than the surrounding area, more saturated with heat. Whatever had been used as an accelerant had pooled here before it caught. Gasoline, if he had to guess.
Rowan wandered the perimeter while Remington drifted through the trees, his nose low and his body focused.
The canine stopped just inside the shade of the first trees, ears forward and attention fixed on a patch of ground.
Wes straightened and followed his dog. This area was back far enough from the burn that no fire crew would have had reason to come here.
It was back far enough for someone to have stood here and watched the fire without being seen.
His stomach tightened at the thought.
Wes studied the flattened vegetation. Someone had stood here long enough to leave an impression, he realized.
“Wes.” Rowan’s voice sounded quiet.
He glanced back and saw her crouched a few feet away, looking down at something near her foot. When she straightened, she pointed at something on the ground.
He leaned closer
A toothpick.
“There are more.” She pointed. “Two others. Right here, close together.”
Wes moved to where she was standing.
She was right. Three toothpicks scattered within a foot of each other.
She looked up at him. “Travis Henderson had a toothpick in his mouth when I talked to him yesterday.”
His breath caught when he heard the name. Travis Henderson.
He didn’t know the man, but he wasn’t surprised by this news either. He’d heard enough about that family.
Wes pulled out his phone and crouched, framing the toothpicks against the flattened vegetation—close enough to show the cluster, wide enough to show the sightline back toward the burn. He took three shots from different angles then straightened.
He fished a small bag from the inside pocket of his jacket—one he generally used to hold small screws—and crouched again. Using the edge of his sleeve over his fingers, he eased each toothpick into the bag without touching the surface and sealed it.
“For Sheriff Sutherland,” he said.
Rowan nodded, watching him.
He tucked the bag into his jacket pocket and looked back at the flattened vegetation. The crushed grass. The position just inside the trees, angled with a perfect sightline toward the burn.
Someone had stood here and watched the fire happen. His gut twisted at the thought of someone being that calculated.
He glanced at Remington.
The dog had gone completely still. His ears were up, and his nostrils moved in small, rapid pulls.
