Karen Rose - Count to Ten

His brows lifted in challenge, his gaze still fixed on hers. "Dinner?"

She swallowed. "I thought we were going to stop someplace close to the precinct."

He looked away, severing the invisible thread that had connected them. He pulled a glass casserole dish from the refrigerator. "I like to eat real food when I can."

Real food Mia could appreciate. "So what is it?"

He peeled back the foil. "Looks like lasagna."

"You didn't make it?"

"Nope." He slid the dish in the oven. "My sister Lauren did. She's a good cook."

So his sister was the one who watched Beth when he had to work late. Mia had wondered. Now she was relieved. And annoyed that it mattered at all. Casting her eyes aside, she watched him rummage in the fridge for lettuce. "Do you want help?"

"No, thanks. I'm not the cook my mom was, but I can manage a salad."

Was . "So she's dead? Your mother."

"Five years ago. She had cancer."

"I'm sorry." And she was. From the wistful tone of his voice, he'd loved his mother and obviously missed her. She thought about Bobby and wished for just a fraction of Solliday's grief. But there was none and would never be. "What about your dad?"

"He remarried and retired to Hilton Head. Plays golf every day." The words were tempered with affection and she felt a pang of jealousy that made her ashamed.

He set the salad bowl aside and pulled a pitcher of tea from the fridge. "I called for my messages while I was waiting for you back there at… Well, back there. Ben left me the analysis on the accelerant from Hill's house. It's ammonium nitrate, the same as in Doughertys'. It's commercial grade, could have been bought in any feed store. I hate to send Ben off chasing wild geese until we have something more to go on."

"Once we've gotten some leads from the files we can show some photos around. See if any of the local fertilizer distributors remember anything. What about the plastic eggs? I've been trying to remember the last time I saw a panty hose egg in the store." She made a face. "Not that I go looking for such devices of torture myself."

He smiled as he sat down with two glasses of iced tea. "I Googled them Sunday. The company changed from plastic eggs to cardboard boxes in 'ninety-one."

"But our boy had at least three of the eggs."

"The sites I checked said that they're used for arts and crafts, but again, without a suspect, we're looking for a needle in a haystack. I did have Ben call all the area arts-and-crafts stores in the area, but he came up empty. The eggs do come up occasionally on eBay so his source might not even be local. All we really have is some blood and hair, both belonging to the victim and shoe prints that could have belonged to anybody."

She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Give Jack some time. If our guy dropped anything, he'll find it." She checked her watch, concern nagging at the back of her mind. "It'll be midnight soon. You think he'll strike again?"

"If not tonight, then soon. He likes the fire too much to stay away."

Mia bit at her lip. "Why fire? Why does he like fire?"

"Fire can be fascinating, hypnotic. It can destroy with seemingly effortless ease."

"It's powerful," she said and he nodded.

"And wielding that power makes the arsonist invincible, for just a little while. He can create chaos, bring trucks full of firefighters speeding to the scene. The arsonist commands the actions of others. He sees it like making puppets dance on a string."

"It's a compulsion," she murmured and watched his eyes flash.

"No. That makes it sound like they can't help it. They can. They just choose not to."

Mia remembered his words to Miles. "You don't believe in compulsions?"

"People say that they have compulsions when they really mean gratification means more to them than the people they'll hurt. When they don't want to be held accountable."

She frowned. "You don't believe in mental illness?"

He frowned back. "Don't put words in my mouth, Mia. I do believe some people are mentally ill. That they truly hear voices or think they're being pursued. I've never met an arsonist that wasn't declared mentally competent. It's not compulsion. It's choice."

There was something there. Something very deep. Right now, she was too tired to see it clearly so she let it go. "You've done this a long time," she noted quietly instead.

He visibly forced himself to relax. "About thirteen years."

She traced a pattern in the moisture on her glass. "You were a firefighter before you joined OFI. If I asked why you changed, would you say it was none of my business?"

"I'd say I owe you one secret revealed, Detective. Christine asked me to change. She was afraid I'd get hurt. I'd always been interested in the investigation side and I'd just finished my degree. The time seemed right and it made her happy."

Christine must have been his wife. Again jealousy pricked, which was irrational. "I assumed it had something to do with your hands."

"That would be two secrets. But okay. It's not something I'm particularly proud of. I lost it for a little while after Christine died. Drank too much. One night I was working on my car. I shouldn't have been drinking but I was, and I dropped the battery. It cracked and acid leaked on my hands, damaged the nerves in my fingertips. Stupid, really."

Stupid she could understand. "We all do stupid things when we're distracted."

He met her eyes, held them for a long quiet moment. "What's distracting you, Mia?"

She opened her mouth, unsure. Disturbed because she suddenly wanted to tell him everything. All her secrets. But she was saved an answer by a sleepy voice.

"Reed?"

A woman stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and clutching a videotape. Mia looked at the woman, then rapidly back at Solliday. To say there was no family resemblance would have been the understatement of the year.

The woman walked across the kitchen, her hand extended, her smile bright white against her ebony skin. "You must be Detective Mitchell. I'm Lauren Solliday."

Mia shook off her surprise and shook the woman's hand. "It's nice to meet you. I hope I'm not imposing, coming in so late."

"Not at all." She sniffed. "You found the lasagna?"

Solliday nodded. "And I made a salad."

Lauren's lips twitched. "Domesticity in a male. Can you beat it?"

"His domesticity trumps mine," Mia admitted.

"We grew up in a big family. Everybody had to cook. Even Reed." She handed him the tape. "I set it to copy the whole show in case I fell asleep. Which of course, I did."

"What did you tape?" Mia asked.

"Lauren told me the fire at Hill's house made the news. Let's take a look."

He led them into the living room, popping the video in the machine while Mia scanned the room. It was elegance without intimidation, a delicate balance, Mia suspected. She wondered if Lauren or Christine had done the decorating. The mantel over the fireplace was packed with photos and a half dozen framed cross-stitched works of art. The one on the end was of wild roses with "CS" stitched in the corner. So this room was Christine's. Solliday caught her looking, mistakenly thinking her attention focused on one of the pictures that looked like a UN photo.

"That was the last reunion before Mom died," he said. "My parents… and all of us."

Mia blinked as she took a quick count. "Holy shit," she breathed.

He chuckled. "We were an intimidating bunch."

"So I take it that your parents did a lot of adoptions."

Lauren's smile flashed. "They adopted six of us formally. Reed was the first."

Mia pushed the wistful feeling away. "My best friend is a foster mother."

"The friend whose kids named your goldfish Fluffy," Solliday said dryly.

"She's the one. This is what Dana wants to build. You had a happy family."