Читать книгу Deadly Obsession - Maggie Shayne - Страница 10

3

“So when are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Mason sat in the passenger side of Rachel’s hot little yellow T-Bird while she drove him home from his endless stay in the hospital. The top was down, and her hair was whipping like a flag in a hurricane. She drove way above the speed limit, despite the fact that her passenger was a cop. Driving usually had her smiling from ear to ear. Not so today. Today she was all nervous and jerky.

She glanced sideways at him. “You’re almost as good at it as I am, you know.”

“What? Reading people?” He shook his head. “Only criminals and you, babe.”

She crooked one brow at him but kept her focus on the road as she zigged into the fast lane to pass a jacked-out Mustang, then zagged back in front of it again. She didn’t even taunt the driver with a wink or flip him off or give him a cutesy little wave. Something was definitely wrong with her, he thought.

“So what is it?”

“Nothing. I just... Okay, there’s something.” She drew a deep breath, and her shoulders rose with it. He knew that look. She was preparing to blurt it out, whatever it was. He braced himself.

“Why don’t you stay at my place for a while?”

And there it was. He watched her face closely. She didn’t have the same opportunity to watch his, but he didn’t figure she needed to. The stuff she “got” didn’t come from anything she could see with her eyes. In fact, most of the time when she was trying to read people she had to close those gorgeous baby blues.

“You want me to stay with you,” he repeated without inflection.

“Yeah. I mean, why not? The boys are already there, and it really hasn’t been as bad as I expected it to be.” She bit her lip on one side, glanced sideways at him. “I mean, it’s been great.”

“You mean not as bad as you expected.”

“Which is great.”

“I think you need to look up the word great in the dictionary. Aren’t you supposed to be a writer or something?”

She shrugged. “Look, you need to take it easy, and you can’t run a houseful of boys and take it easy at the same time. Come to my place. Just for a couple of weeks, until you get your strength back.”

He tried to weigh his words before speaking them. He did not want to screw things up with her, but her invitation was weak. Or maybe he was just still stinging from that unrequited “I love you” he’d dropped on her a few weeks ago. She hadn’t said it back. And he hadn’t said it again. If she wasn’t ready for serious feelings, she sure as hell wasn’t ready for cohabitation.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, slowly and carefully, “that if we ever decide to...live together, I’d just as soon it not be because I’m too weak to be on my own.”

She looked disappointed. “Oh.”

“Jeremy and Josh will be a ton of help. My mother will probably want to move in. And there will be a home care nurse.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Sure, okay.”

“And you. You’ll be in and out all the time, too.”

“Sure,” she said again.

He was quiet for a long moment. She was upset. Dammit, she’d asked him in a way that was a lot like a person pulling off a Band-Aid. Grit your teeth, close your eyes and get it over with. He didn’t think she’d really been hoping he would say yes.

“I just don’t want to risk messing up—”

“It’s fine, okay? It’s fine.”

It wasn’t though. Crap.

“You hungry?” she asked at length. “We didn’t have lunch before we left, and there’s a Nice N Easy off the next exit. They make the best wraps.”

“There’s a Mickey D’s, too,” he said, having seen the same road sign that she had.

“Yeah, but you need to heal. Junk food isn’t gonna cut it right now. And I’m sure your mother and the nurse would agree with me.”

He nodded. “Okay. Wraps sound good. And a Coke.”

“Or water.”

“Or Coke.”

She heaved a sigh, but nodded as she exited the highway and pulled in at the gas station slash convenience store.

* * *

So he didn’t want to stay with me. Fine, he could fucking stay by himself and take twice as long to heal if that was what he wanted.

I was sitting on my living room floor, working on my second vodka and Diet Coke, my poor blind bulldog lying with her head on my lap. “It’s actually kinda nice to have the house to ourselves again, isn’t it, Myrt?”

Myrt’s reply was a great big sigh. She’d been heaving them every few minutes, in between pacing the house looking for Joshua. Her buddy. She couldn’t stand that he wasn’t here. It was mean, that’s what it was. Mason shouldn’t be mean to a poor defenseless bulldog. Myrtle had gotten used to having the kids around. Every afternoon we’d make cookies or brownies or something, so when they got off the bus and came in the door they’d have a snack. I mean, I remember always being hungry after school when I was a kid, so why would they be any different, right?

Myrt would hear that school bus coming a mile away and jump to the door and stand there wiggling from her nose to her stump of a tail, waiting for the boys to come through.

It was heartbreaking to see her so dejected.

Poor dog.

I hadn’t packed up the boys’ stuff yet. I figured I’d tell them they had to do it themselves. That way they’d have to come back and spend some time, and Myrtle could get her groove back. I’d phoned the school from my car to let them know the boys would be taking the bus back to their old place from now on, and to drop them off there starting today.

When I drove Mason home I’d gone in for a few minutes to make sure he had everything he needed. He asked me to stay for dinner, but I said no, that he’d want to get acclimated and stuff. His mother had already filled his freezer with meals. I’d seen her several times while the boys had been my roomies, because of course she had to come by a couple of nights a week to try to talk them into staying with her instead.

Poor Angela. She was kind of stiff as grandmothers went, kind of cold, but she loved the kids in her way. I hope I’d managed to convince her that they liked my place better simply because of the lake out front, the dog they adored and the super short ride to school. They could’ve taken their bikes, if they’d wanted to. (They hadn’t.)

Anyway, I knew Angela had stocked Mason’s freezer with casseroles, lasagnas, meatballs, mac and cheese, and God only knew what else. So I got him home and kissed him goodbye, then made my excuses and headed home.

I’d pretty much been moping ever since. He’d really hurt my feelings by not wanting to stay with me, and I was really good and pissed at myself for being such a fucking whiny ass.

Sighing, I got up and poured myself another drink. Myrtle followed me, then left my side to wander from one room to the next again. She paused at the stairs, sniffing, but didn’t go up. Not only was it not in her nature to exert herself unnecessarily, but she probably knew the boys weren’t up there without climbing the stairs to find out. Her other senses were as sharp as mine. She sighed again, plodded back to our spot, and together we sat down. I grabbed the remote, flipped on the TV.

A news crew was ambushing some guy who was trying to get out of his pickup and into his front door, and the female reporter and her camera guy were apparently doing their best to keep him from getting there.

“If you didn’t set that fire, then who did?” said the reporter, who then thrust her microphone into his face and I was pretty sure bonked him on the nose with it.

Wait a minute. Fire?

“No comment.” He pushed the mike away with one hand and sidestepped the camera. He was an average-looking guy, beer belly that overhung his belt, typical blue work pants, plaid shirt tucked in nice and neat. He had a ruddy complexion, like he was outside a lot in rough weather, and a thick shock of black hair that looked as if he was wearing an animal pelt on his head.

“That guy? That is the guy who damn near killed my detective?” I turned up the volume.

“What evidence do the police have against you, Mr. Rouse?”

Yep, that was him all right. Rouse the Louse.

The man lowered his head, shook it slowly. I narrowed my eyes on him, but I couldn’t feel him. I wasn’t close enough. “No comment.”

“Mr. Rouse, again, if you didn’t set the fire that killed your wife, do you have any idea who did?”

His head came up fast and he opened his mouth, clearly about to blurt something. But then he clamped it closed again, and I could see he really regretted his almost-slip. “My lawyer says I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to wait for the trial.”

“But you want to tell your side of the story, don’t you, Mr. Rouse? I can see you do.”

He stopped walking, and I thought he was going to do it. Spill his guts. She was good, this reporter. What the hell was her name? I knew it. I’d seen her on the local news often enough. Trisha Knight. That was it.

She was holding her breath, and so was I. And then he pressed his lips tight, shook his head. “No comment. Now please let me go into my house.”

He pushed past her, not giving her much choice about “letting” him.

I located the remote, hit the back button and watched the entire story again, pausing it every few seconds to try to read the man visually. But visuals were not my strong point. I had to be near someone. I had to feel them.

Or, you know, dream about them. At least, it had happened that way a few times. I always tended to think that gift of dreaming about things was just going to vanish and never come back, but it hadn’t, not really. It had morphed instead, turning into some kind of a sixth sense that I didn’t like admitting I had.

Still, I had a feeling about that guy. I backed up the action and watched again, paying attention to the surroundings this time around. I noticed the house number: 117. Now if I could just get a glimpse of a street sign...

I probably watched that clip until my eyes bled, until Inner Bitch cuffed me upside the head (you know, figuratively) and said, You about ready to look the guy up online yet or what?

I rolled my eyes. It was another classic “duh, Rachel” moment. But at least no one was there to witness it.

Why the hell did I catch myself wishing that someone was? Three someones, to be exact.

* * *

I searched Peter Rouse, found his address, jotted it down, took my bulldog upstairs and went to bed. It was way too late at night to be paying impromptu visits to murder suspects. Besides, I had to figure out how to approach him. He was being hounded by reporters. He wasn’t going to just open the door and let me in. And also, I had to figure out how to keep myself from kneeing him in the balls the second I got within reach. There are pills to make you happy when you’re sad, pills to make you chill when you’re stressed. Why the hell hadn’t anyone invented a pill to make you less likely to assault a person who sorely deserved it?

Myrt followed me upstairs, but not into my bedroom. She went to Josh’s room instead. Sighing, I followed her, stood in the doorway and watched her sniff around the entire perimeter. The bed was still unmade. His pajamas and a used T-shirt lay on the floor, even though I’d bought each kid a big plastic hamper to put their laundry in. Myrtle found that pile of clothes, smelled them, pawed them into a perfect little bulldog nest, and then, sighing, collapsed on top of it. As always, she was snoring before she even hit the floor.

Broke my damn heart.

I tugged the blanket and pillow off Josh’s bed, tossed them down beside Myrt and curled up next to her. She snuggled a little closer. And that was where the two of us spent the night. She was missing her guy as much as I was missing mine.

You’re fucking doomed, you know that, right?

Yes, Inner Bitch. I know it. I hadn’t intended for it to happen. I’d tried real hard to keep this—God, I hated the word—relationship in perspective. Don’t get too close. Don’t use the L word. Don’t need him, because if you do, then when you don’t have him anymore, it’ll hurt.

Too late. Too late for all of the above. Except for the use of the L word, of course, but that was on my to-do list. I just needed the right moment. And it probably ought to be one when I wasn’t as pissed off at him as I was right now. Damn him for not being here with me.

Damn him for taking the boys back.

Wow. If you’d told me a year ago that those words would whisper through this brain, I’d have called you a dirty liar.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful, and Mason was up, showered, dressed and halfway down the stairs before he smelled the coffee. His heart took a little leap in his chest. Was Rachel here? Had she come over bright and early to make them breakfast and assure herself that he wasn’t overdoing it?

By the time he entered the kitchen, his grin was a mile wide. But Rachel wasn’t there. Just the boys. Joshua was setting the table, and Jeremy was making French toast and a lot of smoke. The coffeepot was full and calling to him, though, so he grabbed a cup off the table.

“Morning, boys.”

They were so focused on their work they hadn’t seen him. “Morning, Uncle Mace! We’re making breakfast,” Joshua said.

“I see that.” He moseyed to the coffeepot and gave the burner a sneaky downward turn underneath Jeremy’s pan before filling his mug. “Mmm. Looks great.”

Jere shrugged. “You’re supposed to take it easy. We figured we’d help out.” He turned the burner back up, but not as high as it had been.

Josh ran behind his uncle to pull out a chair, and Mason sat down. “Don’t feel like you have to do this every morning, guys. I’m fine. I really am.”

He wasn’t. His lungs still felt as if they’d been scrubbed on the inside with steel wool. And his arm still hurt like hell. It was healing, but he was pretty sure there were going to be lasting scars.

Jeremy brought a plateful of charred bread to the table. Mason helped himself to a couple of slices, and applied liberal amounts of syrup to help it go down. “Nice job, Jere. Thank you.”

Jere shrugged. “It was no big deal.” He stabbed a slice for himself.

Josh looked at the stack. “Is it s’posed to be so black?”

“It’s fine, Josh. Try it—you’ll see,” Mason told him.

“Ooookay.” Josh speared a slice with his fork, looked at it doubtfully, then dropped it on his plate. Before he did anything else, he broke off a corner of the crust with his fingers, and looked down at the floor. And then he sighed. “I forgot. Myrt’s not here.”

“You miss her already, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Mason nodded slowly. “Well, maybe it’s about time we talk about getting you a dog of your own, Josh. We have the room here, and you’re old enough to handle the responsibility now.”

Josh nodded slowly. “I guess. It won’t be the same, though. I want Myrtle.” He looked up. “You think Rachel will bring her over today?”

“I’ll call her and ask.”

Josh’s answering smile was as bright as the June sunshine.

June. Gosh, it was June, Mason realized. “Jeremy, about your graduation...”

“Don’t worry about it. Misty and I have it all planned.”

“You mean Rachel and Misty’s mom, don’t you?” Joshua asked him.

Jere made a face. “All of us. It’s gonna be at Rachel’s. We’re renting a party barge, and a big tent for shade.”

“Or in case it rains,” Josh said.

“Rachel ordered a cake, and Misty’s mom is taking care of decorations. And I’m making a playlist for the DJ.”

“There’s going to be a DJ?”

“Rache asked if I wanted a DJ or a band. I said DJ.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Saves more money for the present.”

Oh, God, Mason thought. He needed to do something about a present. “What about the rest of the food?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Rache said something about catering. I don’t know.” Then his smile faded. “Don’t be mad at her, Uncle Mace. You were in the hospital, and graduation is only a week away.”

“Mad at her? I think I’ll buy her a present.” A week. Hell.

There was a knock at the door, and Mason started to get up, but Jeremy sent him a “don’t you dare” look that reminded him of himself, so he sat back down and let his all-grown-up nephew open the door.

“Hello. I’m looking for Detective Mason Brown.”

It was a woman’s voice, and not one he knew.

“He’s here. Come on in.”

Mason did get up then, as Jeremy opened the door wider to admit a blonde who was within a year, one way or the other, of thirty. She had rivers of hair, all wavy, flowing halfway down her back, pretty blue eyes and an infectious smile.

“I’m Mason Brown,” he said, offering a hand. “You are...?”

“Your new nurse, I hope,” she replied, taking his hand. She clasped it firmly, still smiling, smoothing her white and sunshine-yellow floral-print sundress with her other hand.

“I...” He drew out the syllable. “I haven’t even posted the ad yet. How did you know?”

“I have friends who work at Saint Joe’s,” she said. “I just left my job to move into a home care position in Binghamton. But it’s going to be a few weeks before I start.” She lowered her head, shook it slowly. “I misunderstood, thought I would be starting immediately. My own fault, but the gap leaves me in a little bit of a lurch. I have rent and a car payment and...well...” Her head came up again, and she replaced her bright smile. She was like little Mary Sunshine, he thought. “You don’t need to hear my woes. The thing is, when my friend told me about the hero cop who was being discharged and would be needing home care, I figured I could be the first one to apply for the job.”

“I was going to go through an agency.”

“This is my résumé, work history, et cetera,” she said, thrusting a folder at him “I’m really good at what I do, if that’s not too immodest a thing to say.” Then she blinked. “Maybe it was. It was, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Mason said. He was getting a kick out of her, revising his estimate of her age back three or four years. She had a very young, bubbly personality. Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven. “I just wasn’t expecting...” He shook himself, looked back at the boys, shrugged. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat? I’ll pour you some coffee and—”

“Oh, no!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “No, I can’t possibly stay. If I don’t find something soon, I’m doomed. Besides, I’m clearly interrupting your breakfast.” She waved at the boys and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, guys.”

“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, beaming.

She looked at Mason again. “Just take a look through my credentials and give me a call if you like what you see,” she said brightly.

“All right, I’ll do that. I just want to be clear with you, though, that I’m not going to need a lot.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with burn victims plenty of times. You need a daily dressing change. Twice daily, maybe. And a thorough listen to those lungs of yours. It’s as much the heat as the smoke that affects them, you know.”

“That’s what the doctor said.” He was impressed. “Okay, I’ll give your paperwork a look and let you know what I decide.”

“Thank you, Detective Brown.”

“You’re welcome, Miss...” He looked at her business card.

“Gretchen,” she said. “Gretchen Young.”

* * *

“Myrtle!” I said, using my “this is exciting, so listen up” tone of voice. She jumped up from her circular Memory Foam doggy bed, where she’d collapsed right after our morning walk, and cocked her head to one side, ears perked. “Wanna go for a ride? In the car?”

She said “snarf!” but I knew what she meant was, “Do you really need to ask? Do you not yet know that rides in the car are my freaking raison d’être?”

What? She’s a smart bulldog.

I grabbed her leopard-print goggles and matching silk scarf from the peg on the wall, along with my keys, and we went out the front door. We could’ve gone straight from the kitchen into the attached garage, but the steps were a bit steep for her. This was easier. I pointed at the garage and clicked one of the buttons on the key fob. The door rose slowly, and Myrt, recognizing the sound, danced around my feet, snuffing and snarfing. “Come on, then.” We walked together into the garage. She went directly to the passenger-side door and then stood as straight as a pointer, smiling a mile wide. Yes, dogs smile. Don’t question it. It’s fact.

I opened her door, and she did what she always does. Put one forepaw on the floor, just inside the door, to accurately gauge her position relative to the car. Then she placed it on the seat instead, put the other paw beside it and waited.

I, her devoted servant, scooped her backside up for her and helped her get situated. I put her special harness on her while she panted for joy. Then I closed her door and went around to get behind the wheel. It was a gorgeous morning. Not quite warm enough yet to put the top down—I was leaving early and hoping to beat the press to my destination—so I lowered her window. She loved the wind in her face. Sitting on her ass, like a little person, leaning back slightly against the seat, she didn’t need to put any weight on her front paws. They were up. Think kangaroo pose. And her round, pink Buddha belly was fully exposed for all to see. She had no shame.

We drove to the end of our narrow dirt road, which was edged by the giant lake-like Whitney Point Reservoir. Myrt couldn’t see the way the sunlight was dancing on the water’s surface like liquid gold, but I knew she could smell the water. She loved the water. Mainly because, now that it was summer, she’d discovered that froggies lived there, and she loved few things more than trying to catch froggies. Even hearing the word froggy sent her into paroxysms of pleasure.

At the end of the road we took a left, putting us onto Whitney Point’s main drag. We did not pull in at the McDonald’s, because Myrtle needed to watch her waistline, and we’d already had a healthy breakfast. (Chicken breast for her, oatmeal for me.) Instead, we kept going all the way to the other end of the village, hung a right, followed by a left onto the on-ramp, and sailed onto I-81 south with the wind blowing in my hair and flapping Myrtle’s jowls. We got looks, waves, smiles and a few beeps from at least half the cars we passed. A bulldog wearing leopard-print goggles and a scarf, sitting up in the seat of a classic Inspiration Yellow T-Bird, was an attention grabber.

My pleasure faded just a little when we passed the Castle Creek exit, just a few miles down. I couldn’t see Mason’s little farmhouse from the highway, but I knew it was there, almost within shouting distance, and my heart clenched a little. I missed him. And I missed his rug rats, too.

But he was not my morning’s mission. Peter Rouse, the man who’d damn near killed him, was. And he was down in Endwell, not far from where Amy lived.

Amy. I hadn’t told her I was going to be out when she arrived at the house for work this morning. Not that it mattered. She knew her job. She’d busy herself answering fan mail, updating my fan page and reading over the latest set of galley proofs until I returned.

How would I ever get by without her?

I wouldn’t, that was how. I’d curl up and die.

Before long we were pulling into Rouse the Louse’s driveway. It was still only 8:00 a.m. No reporters were camped out. Yet.

I put up the windows, left the AC on and took the extra key with me so I could lock the running car with Myrt inside, leaving her safe, secure, and nice and cool. Then I went up to the house. It was a cream-colored ranch, with a matching one-car garage beside it. The driveway was paved, like most of the houses nearby. He had brown shutters, a white front door and a two-step concrete stoop with a tiny roof over it, supported by black iron filigree posts. There was an attached mailbox with the digits 117 on it in fake gold. And a doorbell right next to that.

My finger moved toward the doorbell, then stopped there as another car pulled into the little driveway behind mine. A loud (in a good way, the owner had repeatedly assured me) boat-sized, black ’72 Monte Carlo that Mason called classic and I called old.

Folding my arms over my chest, I leaned against one of the filigree pillars and watched Mason defy his doctor’s orders on his first full day out of the hospital. He got out of the Beast, closed the door and looked at me like I was the one doing something wrong.

“Don’t give me that look, Detective. You’re the one who’s not allowed to work yet.”

“I’m not working,” he said, palms up as he walked toward me.

“No? What do you call it, then?”

“Visiting?”

“Right.”

“And you?” he asked. “What are you doing here, Rache? I thought I told you to stay away from this guy.”

“Maybe you should have asked me instead.” Not that it would have made a difference. “Besides, I’m an official police consultant.” I know it was lame. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.

“And they’ve hired you to work on the arson case?”

I lowered my eyes. “Not exactly.”

“Then what—exactly?”

He was right in front of me now, though, so when I lifted my head, there he was. Close enough to kiss. I was sorely tempted, too, but the door suddenly opened behind me, and I spun around like a guilty teenager at Make-Out Point, caught in a flashlight’s beam.

Peter Rouse stood there, pajama bottoms, white T-shirt, coffee mug in one hand, hair looking as though he’d combed it with an egg beater, bleary eyes. “No press. Come on, my kids are sleeping.”

Liar. Or so my NFP told me.

“We’re not press,” Mason said, flipping his badge at the guy.

Yeah, sure he wasn’t working. I’m pretty sure flashing your badge at a suspect is the definition of working. You know, for a cop.

Rouse the Louse met Mason’s eyes, and then recognition hit. He gaped a little, then said, “Shit. Yeah, I guess you would want to talk to me.” Then he looked up. “That’s it, right? Just talk. ’Cause like I said, my kids are in bed. So if you want anything else...”

My lie detector was blinking like a beacon.

“Like what?” Mason asked.

“He thinks you’re here to kick his ass. Or worse,” I clarified. “He’s not like that, Rouse.” I don’t know why I called him by his last name, but it’s just what came out. Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t slip and call him Louse. “I’m like that, but since he’s here to stay my angry hand, chances are you’re pretty safe.”

Rouse thinned his lips, nodded heavily, opened the door farther and stood aside. “Come on in. Just keep it down. The kids—”

“Are still in the hospital,” Mason said.

So that was what he’d been lying about. The kids weren’t even home. The Louse looked alarmed, but Mason just went on.

“They moved them over to Golisano yesterday before I was discharged. I checked on their condition just this morning. I’m glad to hear they’re doing better, by the way.”

Guiltily, the vermin sighed and lowered his head. “Thanks to you,” he said.

He moved aside to let us walk in, then pushed the door closed and didn’t say a word as we followed him through the living room with its beige carpet, tan sofa, and matching love seat and chair. Cheap coffee table that probably came from Walmart, and a modest 32-inch TV mounted to the wall. The dining room was stark. Dinette, chairs, a few photos of the kids on the walls. His wife must have stripped the place down when she left him. Didn’t seem like the act of a woman who thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell she was ever coming back.

He led the way into the kitchen, a cluttered little room that looked as if it got a lot of use.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Sure.” That was Mason. I didn’t want to socialize; I wanted to kick the guy in the balls. But not until I was positive he was the one who’d set the fire that had hurt Mason. I had that much of a hold on my temper, and to tell you the truth, I was fucking impressed with myself. I sat down in a kitchen chair. The table was metal with red Formica. The chairs were the same metal, with red vinyl cushions and backs. Very retro. I liked it.

Mason stayed standing, but Rouse the Louse filled two more cups and sat at the table. “I wanted to come to visit you, Detective Brown, in the hospital, but between my lawyer and your colleagues...” He lowered his head, letting the gesture finish the sentence for him.

“What did you want to do that for?” Mason asked.

Rouse lifted his head slowly, met Mason’s eyes. I closed mine and tried to open my brain. To feel him. He said, “To thank you. You saved my kids’ lives. Damn near got yourself killed doing it, the way they’re telling it.” His gaze drifted to Mason’s arm as he said it. Some of the bandages showed from under his shirt sleeve.

Mason turned away. He wasn’t good at accepting praise. “I just wish I could’ve gotten your wife out, too.”

“So do I.” Rouse’s voice thickened on those words, and I shivered a little. I picked up heartbreak. Grief. Anger. Regret. Huge regret. Waves of it that made it hard for him to breathe. “I didn’t set that fire, Detective.”

Mason shot me a look. I felt it, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted just then. I sipped my coffee. Let them think what they would about my closed eyes. Did I fucking care what an asshole who’d probably killed his wife and tried to kill his own kids thought about me? What do you think?

“I read your statement.” Mason was scary when he was in cop mode. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he knew everything and could prove it already.

“I didn’t tell them everything in that statement,” Rouse said. “I didn’t want to make myself look more guilty. But then they found that hacksaw in my truck and arrested me. My lawyer’s telling me to keep quiet, but I can’t. I just can’t anymore. She’ll kill me, too, before she’s done. And the kids. God, the kids...”

“Who are you talking about?” My eyes popped open as I asked the question. His tone, his fear, completely pulled me out of my focus. But not before I got that his fear was genuine. That didn’t mean it was based on anything real. But it did mean that he believed what he was saying.

“I had an affair. That’s why Becky took the kids and moved into that freaking dump.”

I shot Mason a wide-eyed look. This was the first I was hearing about an affair, and from the look on his face, it was news to him, too.

Mason nodded, taking a notepad from a pocket. “So you had an affair. What does that have to do with the fire?”

“It was her—don’t you get it? I told her it was over, that I wanted my family back. The fire was her revenge.”

I felt my spinal fluid turning to ice.

“This woman have a name?” Mason asked.

“The one she gave me was Noelle Baker.”

“What do you mean, the one she gave you?”

“I don’t think it was real.”

“Why not, Peter?” Mason was so good at this, I thought. Using his first name. Being his pal.

“I’ve been trying to contact her ever since that night.” He shook his head. “Everything she told me was a lie. She said she had an apartment in Johnson City, on Bleeker. But I’ve been to every building on the street, and no one’s ever heard of her. She said she worked at Zales, you know the jewelry store at the mall?”

“Oakdale Mall?” Mason asked.

“Yeah. I called them, too. But no one there ever heard the name, either. And her cell’s no longer in service.”

My head was spinning as I tried to sort out what he was saying from the emotions he was emitting. It wasn’t easy. It was better when I could keep quiet, close my eyes and just feel, but I’d let myself get sucked into his story.

“Okay, so you had an affair with this woman. Noelle Baker. Your wife found out and—”

“She didn’t just find out, Noelle fucking told her. Called her at home and ruined my life with a single sentence.” He shook his head, his mouth pulling into a tight grimace, tears welling up and spilling over. “I’d tried to end it with her. I knew it was a mistake. I loved my wife. Noelle was furious. She said she’d make me pay. And that night she called Becky and told her about us.”

I wanted to say it wasn’t the other woman who’d destroyed his marriage but his own idiotic inability to keep his junk in his pants. But I didn’t because I could feel his suffering, and it was already plenty. I couldn’t make the guy feel worse than he already did, and I found I didn’t particularly want to.

Maybe I was going soft.

“She thought I’d come back to her once Becky left me,” he went on. “She came over here, pawing all over me. I told her there was no way in hell.” He closed his eyes. The lashes were wet. “She was like a crazy person. Screaming at me, tearing up the house.”

“So you think she started the fire out of vengeance?” I asked before Mason could get a word in.

“I don’t think it. I know it. No one else had any reason.” He looked from me to Mason and back again. “And then she put that hacksaw into my truck. It’s not mine. I never saw it before.”

“Do you have a hacksaw?” Mason asked.

“Yeah. It’s out in the garage. You want to see it?”

Mason nodded, and we headed out together.