Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,45

hand, he found Poppy—no, Ms. Wick—bent over a student project, her burn already covered neatly.

At his arrival, she glanced up at him, but only for a moment before turning back to Amanda’s diorama-in-progress. Which appeared, upon first glance, even more grisly than the murder scene on the table beside him. God help them all.

He settled in his usual spot, beside Ms. Wick’s diorama. His heartbeat no longer echoed in his skull, and his hands were almost steady enough to create his own miniature crime scene. Not that he would ever employ his limited free time in such a disturbing manner.

Yes, fifteen minutes spent locked in his unlit room and mentally multiplying had accomplished wonders, as always. Outside his colleague’s orbit, the impetus behind his urgent concern for her well-being had become clear, clear and comforting.

The rules of professional and gentlemanly conduct required him to assist a colleague in distress. Accordingly, he’d done so.

No need for either panic or anxiety.

In fact, he’d emerged from his classroom certain he could find rational solutions to all the mysteries cluttering his brain. With a little effort, he’d explain Mildred Krackel’s disappearance, solve the miniature murder in Ms. Wick’s diorama, and pinpoint precisely why the woman herself fascinated him so much. To accomplish the latter, he merely needed to determine the precise equation governing her behavior and the workings of her mind.

Then, solution in hand, he’d relegate her to the appropriate slot in his life.

Wick, Poppy. Talented but impertinent colleague. Best avoided for peace of mind.

Similarly, once he’d solved the other mysteries, he’d dismiss them from his thoughts. Simple as that.

And he could make progress this very moment, with the miniature crime scene. Given ample opportunity to observe the diorama and its clues more closely, surely he could discover the arsonist and murderer. Besides, P—Ms. Wick had dared him to solve the case. Doing so would prove his intelligence, and thus his ability to mentor her effectively.

Any professional would do the same.

With the help of a magnifying glass, he studied the blackened living room again. The shriveled corpse. The half-burned recliner. The bar cart, complete with tiny, tiny glass bottles full of amber liquid. The bookshelves. The overturned television. The ashtray. The neat row of shoes just inside the door. The charred jackets on a metal coat rack.

So much detail. She must have set those books on the shelves and positioned those sneakers and shiny Oxford shoes on the floor one by one. A jacket’s sleeve was inside out, as if stripped off in a hurry. The laces of the shoes were all untied. The books seemed shoved into place with a careless hand.

Because of her meticulous labor, Simon could picture it clearly. Two young brothers coming home from a jog or a day’s work, hanging their coats, unlacing and removing their shoes before relaxing into their shared home. Going about their typical evening.

They’d settled onto the recliner and the couch, drinks in hand. Kaden had lit a cigarette, tapping its burning end into the ashtray. Together, they’d watched their favorite show and read timeworn paperbacks.

Finally, Barron had gone to bed. Kaden had stretched out in the recliner and inadvertently fallen asleep. Then: disaster. Arson.

Murder.

Simon tried not to shudder.

Inside the bedroom, he didn’t spy anything remarkable other than Ms. Wick’s artistry. Singed walls. Two narrow beds, their covers smoke-darkened. Two nightstands, with more paperbacks set atop them. Two dressers. A desk with scattered papers. The open window, where Barron had escaped in a panic. A closet filled with both professional and casual clothing, only a laundry hamper cluttering its floor.

The brothers had lived neatly, it seemed.

Which made the pile of glistening hair at the bottom of the bathroom sink—the cramped space otherwise spotless—rather odd.

Were they saving money by cutting their hair at home? Had Barron been doing some impromptu manscaping?

Flipping through the witness statements, Simon searched for an explanation.

There wasn’t any. Huh.

As he scrutinized the outside of the home—the green bushes, the faux-dirt under the windows, the suspects clustered around the police officer—the bell rang, and Poppy’s students rushed out of the classroom.

Silently, he helped her sweep the floor and sponge down the work stations, doing his best to stay across the classroom from her whenever possible.

“You don’t have to do this, Simon,” she said after a minute, her voice cautious.

He didn’t look up from an intransigent smear of brown paint. “I understand that, Ms. Wick.”

“Ms. Wick,” she repeated, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

After that, she didn’t speak either. Instead, brow puckered in