Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,57
close. He’d spooked her last night, no doubt. All that heat, all that intimacy, and he’d left her in the cold.
No matter. He knew how to draw her back to him.
“The brother did it. Barron. He set the fire that killed Kaden.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “What’s my reward?”
At that, she spun around and eyed him suspiciously. “Is that your best guess?”
“It’s not a guess. It’s a fact.” His smile was arrogant, deliberately so. “I solved your murder diorama.”
Despite the continued wariness in her expression, she strode to the table and set her fists on her hips. “Explain your reasoning.”
This victory didn’t feel small. Not in the slightest.
“The brothers came home from work.” Simon had pictured the sequence of events over and over last night, until the progression finally made sense. “Barron fixed them drinks from their bar cart. He sat on the couch, while Kaden sat on the recliner and smoked. They watched television. Eventually, Kaden fell asleep. Deeply asleep, because Barron put a few of those sleeping pills from the bathroom medicine cabinet in his drink.”
Poppy’s lips were pressed together as she tried not to smile. “Go on.”
“Then Barron sprayed the recliner and the living room with lighter fluid, set everything ablaze, and retreated to his bedroom to climb out the window and feign panic and grief.” He lifted his shoulders. “All the other suspects had reasons to dislike Kaden, but they were red herrings. Distractions from the true criminal.”
Her eyes sparkled as she edged closer. “What’s your proof?”
“The discarded bottle of lighter fluid hidden under a bush outside their bedroom window, so well placed you couldn’t see it without a magnifying glass. The papers I found on the bedroom desk, which showed how quickly Kaden was piling up debt and emptying their joint account.” He couldn’t even imagine how long writing the papers had taken, given the tiny, tiny print. “Those bank and credit card statements required tweezers and a magnifying glass to read. Which I employed Wednesday, while you were consulting with Tori about coffins.”
She sank into the seat behind her desk, only a foot away. “Good eye, Sherlock.”
“But that was all circumstantial evidence. Someone else could have placed the bottle there, and lots of families have money issues without resorting to arson and murder.” Unfolding his arms, he tapped his forefinger on the table. “The clinching detail was something entirely different.”
“Really?” She was openly smiling at him now, seemingly delighted by his observations. “Tell me.”
“Barron’s shoes,” he said with satisfaction.
Jesus, she could light the entire fucking school with that beam of hers. “I was wondering if anyone would catch that.”
“All the shoes were stored in the living room, just inside the front door, and they were all unlaced. Without exception.” He leaned forward to rest his weight on his elbows. “So if Barron woke up to a smoke-filled bedroom, saw the living room entirely aflame and realized he couldn’t save his brother, then panicked and fled out the window, how exactly did he manage to retrieve a pair of shoes? Much less have the time and patience to double-knot them once putting them on?”
Instead of answering, she waved him on with a grin.
He stabbed his finger into the table again. “The only possible answer: He wasn’t in a hurry or panicked, because he set the fire himself. He stayed in pajamas to reinforce his story, but didn’t want to go barefoot outside. So before dousing his brother’s recliner with lighter fluid and setting it alight, he put on shoes and double-knotted them out of habit.”
She applauded. “Bravo, Mr. Burnham. You’ve solved the case.”
He gave a little seated bow, his own grin nearly cracking his cheeks. “There was only one thing I couldn’t figure out. Why the hair in the sink? At first, I figured it was another red herring, meant to indicate the ex-girlfriend’s involvement, but it didn’t match her hair color. It was Barron’s, not hers.”
“Ah. The wet hair in the sink.” She plucked at her cardigan, preening a bit herself. “That clue requires a bit of background knowledge or research.”
“Which you’ve done.” All those podcasts and books and television reenactments had taught her well.
“Which I’ve done,” she agreed. “Inexperienced arsonists are often surprised by how quickly accelerants flame up once lit, and they frequently burn themselves. Their fingers, their arms—”
“Or their hair.” Oh, that was a nice touch. “In the process of killing his brother, Barron set his own hair on fire. So he