Shirlee McCoy - Falsely Accused

Now, though, the nosy neighbors and small-town gossips might come in handy.

He ran to the garage and climbed in the Chevy pickup he used to haul wood. It was ancient but functional, the engine roaring to life as soon as he turned the ignition. His gun had been taken and then returned. He had it tucked into the holster, and he grabbed a jacket from his emergency pack in the back of the truck and shrugged into it. No sense wandering around town with his gun visible. People in Hidden Cove hadn’t trusted him when he was a kid. He had been an outsider with an attitude, a teenager who had no understanding of small-town life. His mother’s drug addiction had been well known, and he had been her son—a young man who had a chip on his shoulder and no reason to want to fit in.

It had taken a while, but eventually he had proven that he was more than a product of his mother’s mistakes. His job as a police officer in Boston had helped solidify the town’s impression of him as hardworking and honest. When he had returned for his high school carpentry teacher’s retirement party and had been given an opportunity to take over his restoration business, he had jumped at the opportunity. He had worked with his teacher for two years before stepping in as owner and operator. The town had seemed happy enough with the transition, but Wren had left town to go to college, and she had only returned for brief visits. Unlike Titus, she was still considered an outsider. The fact that she was an FBI agent might make people more willing to trust her, but whether or not she’d have any allies in a town that was close-knit and tight-lipped when it wanted to be remained to be seen. She did have Abigail, though, and Abigail had a lot of influence in Hidden Cove. She’d been born and raised there. She’d taught elementary and middle school. She’d fostered kids who’d had nowhere else to go. Never married, she’d devoted her life to helping others and supporting the town she loved.

The town loved her for it.

Although he hadn’t been to see her at the farm since his return, they’d spoken at church and at town meetings. She’d supported his efforts to save some of the oldest homes in town, and he’d appreciated that. She’d broken her hip a month ago, and, according to people who supposedly knew, she planned to move into a retirement home once she finished rehab.

The fact that she was giving up the property that had been in her family for three generation made his stomach churn, but it wasn’t his business, and when he’d heard that the for-sale sign had finally gone up, he’d kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

Abigail would be devastated when she heard the news about Ryan. She’d loved him like a son. Her two last foster children had been her two best. That’s what she’d often said when he was visiting Wren at the farm during their high school years.

He glanced in his rearview mirror as he pulled onto Mountain Road. It had been too long since he’d been out to Abigail’s property. He should have visited before she’d broken her hip, but he’d been avoiding the memories he knew it would stir up.

He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life.

Accusing Wren of lying about his ex-wife? That had been one of the biggest. He’d known her almost as well as he knew himself. He’d known how honest she was, how much she cared about him, how deeply it had hurt her to have to tell him she had seen Meghan with another man.

Yet, he’d been more willing to believe she was lying than he had been to accept the truth.

He’d tried to apologize, but by that point it had been too late. The damage had been done.

“Water under the bridge,” he muttered, accelerating as he headed toward town. The sun had just risen, golden rays of light tipping the tree canopy with gold. The sky was pristine blue. No clouds, but he caught a whiff of something in the air.

Smoke?

He rolled down the window, inhaled fresh cool air and the unmistakable scent of a fire. He glanced in his rearview mirror, saw black smoke billowing up from the valley.

Surprised, he turned the truck around and sped toward the plume of smoke. It was too big to be coming from a trash pile. Was someone’s house burning? He called 911 but, without an address, could only be vague about the location. The road wound its way down into the valley, the forests opening into farmland. He drove several miles, his attention on the road and the smoke wafting across the sky. It took him too long to realize where it was coming from, and by the time he did, he was almost at the gates that opened onto Abigail’s two-hundred-acre property. The old farmhouse stood on a hill in the center of a lush green lawn. Gray siding. White shutters. Wraparound porch.

The smoke was coming from behind the house.

Or from the back of it.

He drove through the open gates, speeding up the gravel driveway and giving the address to the 911 operator as he parked. If he didn’t do something, the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse would be consumed by flames before help arrived.

He raced to the backyard, hoping an outbuilding or trash pile was on fire. Flames shot from the roof of the kitchen addition that had been added in the fifties. Abigail loved to tell the story of how her father had surprised her mother with the extraordinary gift of a modern kitchen. In the years since, nothing had been changed. The subway-tile backsplash, the Formica counters and glossy pink cupboards were all exactly as they had been. The oven, the refrigerator, the old icebox. They stood exactly where Abigail’s father had placed them.

He bounded up the porch stairs. The back door was open, the room beyond filled with smoke. He could see flames lapping at the floor and moving toward the dining room, which was part of the older building.

All the aged and dry wood would be kindling for the inferno. He grabbed the garden hose that Abigail used to water the flower beds and turned on the water.

It wasn’t much, but if he could wet down the wood, he might be able to slow the fire. He aimed for the interior of the kitchen, listening as the fire hissed and steamed, moving into the room as the flames diminished.

There was a trail of liquid on the floor, and the flames followed it, shooting along through the pool of what had to be accelerant.

He aimed at that, spraying water across the floor and into the dining room, skirting past smoldering floorboards and making his way deeper into the house.

He could smell it now—gasoline.

And he could see it, splattered on walls and on the floor, just waiting for the spark to get it going.

Someone had been trying to burn down the farmhouse.

Who?

Why?

And what did it have to do with Ryan’s death?

Titus didn’t believe in coincidences, and he didn’t believe the two things weren’t connected.

He sprayed the floorboards, stretching the hose as far as it could go. Once he’d reached its limits, he headed back into the kitchen. The flames were out there, smothered by the deluge of water, but the damage was massive. He doubted the addition could be saved, but the fire marshal would make that determination.

He caught movement in his periphery vision and turned as a figure lunged from the doorway that led to the back stairs. Something glanced off his head, the pain less immediate than his need to stop his attacker from escaping.

He dropped the hose and tackled what looked like a scrawny teenager. They fell into a puddle of gasoline-tainted water. Titus had the kid pinned, his forearm to the boy’s throat.

“Let me go!” the kid whined.

“Not until the police arrive.”

“Police? I was trying to put the fire out!”

“You can tell them all about it,” Titus said.

The kid’s gaze shifted. Just a little. Just enough that Titus had a millisecond of warning. He dove to the side as something whipped through the air. It hit his shoulder, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs.