“Uh-huh.” She dug some ibuprofen out of her bag and handed it to him. The fact that he accepted them without protest gave her an idea of how the burns really felt. He swallowed them with a swig from the travel coffee mug in his cup holder. Mercy tried not to think about how old the cold coffee might be.
“What are your thoughts on one of the arsonists being a woman?” she asked him.
“You mean one of the murderers?”
“That too.”
“I don’t see why not. I’m more hung up on the fact that Clyde saw them sprinting through his orchard. The body I saw this morning hadn’t done any sprinting in decades. And he was definitely not of average size.”
“Maybe we’re looking at more than two or three people.” Mercy let that idea simmer in her thoughts. A group of people starting fires? She’d been under the impression that arson was generally a single-person crime, unless it was a case of a radical group like the Animal Liberation Front or the Earth Liberation Front. “I can’t see the motive yet,” Mercy said slowly. “In a case like this, I have to ask, ‘Who benefits?’ And so far I haven’t seen benefits for anyone. No one’s getting rich. No one seems to be the focus of revenge.”
She’d read Truman’s reports on the three small fires. None of the victims had any ideas about why they’d been targeted. There’d been no associations found among them; the arsons had seemed extremely random.
According to what she’d read about arsonists, they loved to see the flames and feel the power of destruction. They could target their fires to hurt someone, but more often it was about self-gratification. And they typically didn’t shoot the first responders. They liked to watch the responders in action.
Their arsonists—murderers—were still a mystery to her.
“I can’t see the benefit either,” Truman said. “The fire at the Brass farm changed it up. You know as well as I do that there’s been a backlash against law enforcement in several cities in our country. We can’t ignore that.”
She couldn’t ignore it; it was in her thoughts every day.
His focus was on the road, his profile to her, so she took a long moment to savor the sight of him. Was it wrong that she was thankful he rarely wore a uniform? His badge was on his belt along with his weapon, but at first glance Truman Daly did not look like law enforcement. To her he seemed safer not wearing a uniform that announced his profession. The same went for her. Unless she was wearing an FBI jacket with the letters emblazoned across her back, no one could guess what she did for a living.
Am I a chicken?
Appreciating the anonymity of their jobs when many good men and women in uniform put their lives on the line every day made her feel sick to her stomach.
Who am I fooling? Truman Daly has COP written on his forehead.
“I really hate the theory that the fire might have been set for that purpose,” Mercy said.
“You and me both.”
“That doesn’t happen out here.”
He lifted a brow at her unlikely claim. “It can happen anywhere,” he stated.
I know. It doesn’t mean I like it.
A long silence filled the vehicle. Pines and rocks and sagebrush flashed by as they sped down the highway. Mercy waited until they rounded a bend in the road and then leaned forward to look out Truman’s side of the vehicle. The Cascade mountains were glorious. The sky was a hazy gray instead of the intense blue of summer, but the peaks were loaded with snow, looking much more white and full than when she had arrived in September. She never tired of looking at them.
She’d considered buying a home, but hadn’t rushed into it. The reasonable person inside her wanted to see how things played out with Kaylie, her job, and Truman. Neither she nor Truman talked about the future; it was way too early in their relationship. But she had a good feeling about him. He hadn’t raised any red flags for her. Yet.
Sometimes he seemed too good to be true.
He had demons. But he worked to keep them at bay. Who doesn’t have a demon or two under their bed?
Even she had a few. Ones that made her chop wood half the night and obsessively watch the international stock markets.
She hid nothing from him. He knew it all. Every worry and burden.
But do I know all of his?
For the most part the man was an open book. With Truman, what you saw was what you got.
But she still watched him, waiting for the bottom to fall out. She couldn’t help it; it was part of who she was.
“Have you made Thanksgiving plans?” he asked in the silence.
“When is it?”
He gave her a side-eye. “Next Thursday. Tell me you knew that.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had Thanksgiving plans.”
“Are you kidding me?” The Tahoe swerved slightly as his gaze left the road and he gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Are you anti-American?”
That stung. “No, I haven’t been around family in fifteen years,” she snapped.
“Thanksgiving isn’t only about family. I’ve celebrated Turkey Day with all sorts of people during the last decade. It’s been pretty rare that they’re related to me. Usually I don’t have the time to fly to see my parents for the actual day.”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. Holidays were awkward. And a bit of a sore spot that she preferred not to poke.
“My department in San Jose had a sign-up sheet for people who were looking for something to do on Thanksgiving. It was a different crowd every year and it was always a blast.”
“My Portland office had something like that,” Mercy admitted. She’d never signed up. Thanksgiving had always been a rare four-day weekend for her, and she’d spent it working at her cabin. Alone.
“I assume you haven’t heard from any of your family about the holiday?”
“No.”
“Then let’s make our own plans. I don’t suck as a cook, and we can do it at my house.” Enthusiasm filled his voice and the vehicle. “Kaylie might have a friend or two that she’d like to have join us. I can smell roasting turkey already. That’s the best part of Thanksgiving . . . the way the house smells all day.”
She remembered that smell, triggering memories of the holiday with her four siblings and their parents around a crowded table. Would they celebrate together this year? Would they even think to invite me?
They hadn’t for the last fifteen years. Why start now?
“That sounds good,” she told him, feeling a tiny degree of his excitement for the day. “Kaylie would love to bake the pies.” Dirty footprints in her kitchen popped into her head. “Crap.” She’d forgotten her plans to confront the teen.
“What is it?” Truman asked as he turned off the highway and down the road to the Brass farm.
She told him about the footprints in the kitchen, the makeup, and the perfume.
“You think she snuck out last night?” He sounded skeptical.
“Of course I do. And I assume it has something to do with a boy, since she wore perfume and a ton of eye makeup. I didn’t even know she owned perfume.”
“Hmmm.” He scratched his jaw.
“What? Am I overreacting? I’m sorta new to this parenting thing, you know.”
“Didn’t you ever sneak out as a teen?”
“No!”
He shot her a look that said he didn’t believe her.
“I didn’t! Are you saying all . . . or most teens do?”
“You might have been a very good girl while growing up, Mercy Kilpatrick, but I guarantee those two brothers of yours probably snuck out of the house a dozen times or so.”