before she walked to her refrigerator and grabbed a beer. She twisted off the top and took a long pull. Sitting at the small round table by the kitchen window, she pressed the cold bottle to her temple and looked toward her refrigerator, where she had taped a picture of Mandy Kelso, Avery Newport’s dead roommate. The picture had been taken at an amusement park and featured eighteen-year-old Mandy flashing a thousand-watt smile. “I’m sorry. But I’ll make this right.”
The tightness in her chest twisted harder, forcing her to look away. She focused on the mail. Most of it was junk, some were bills, but at the bottom of the pile was a handwritten letter with no return address. She stared at her name printed in the familiar bold handwriting. Heart hammering, she carefully set down the beer, opened the envelope, and removed the letter.
Dear Joan,
It’s been a while since we exchanged letters, but I wanted you to know I have been following the Newport case . . .
She dropped the letter and closed her eyes. How the hell had Elijah Weston gotten her home address? She could think of nothing more inappropriate than today of all days to receive a letter from the guy who had nearly burned her alive. Karma clearly had a grudge against her.
Needing a moment to gather her thoughts, she moved to her den and sat on a blue vintage midcentury sofa angled toward a nonworking fireplace. A metal-framed mirror over the fireplace reflected the opposite wall and the low shelves showcasing biographies and classic novels. There were more antique pieces, including a coffee table and two walnut lounge chairs sporting cushions covered in a navy-blue fabric. Her decorating style was clean, clutter-free, and incorporated older furnishings not as flammable as their modern counterparts.
She regarded the envelope, again noting her home address written in his very precise handwriting. She had first written to Elijah Weston a year after the fire because she had needed to know why he’d set the fire. She had provided a PO box, never believing he would answer. But he had written back, denying that he had set the fire. She had exchanged more letters with him over the coming years, hoping he would eventually tell her the truth. But he never had told her why he’d set the fire. Five months ago, she’d closed down the PO box and had stopped writing him.
“How the hell did you find my house?” she whispered.
Dear Joan,
It’s been a while since we exchanged letters, but I wanted you to know I have been following the Newport case. I still believe that your instincts about Avery Newport are correct. She did set the fire, and she has escaped justice because she has money and privilege. I know if I had half the resources available to Avery, I would never have gone to prison. Stay strong. Avery will strike again because it is hard for someone like her to ignore the lure of fire.
I didn’t mean for this letter to be gloomy. In fact, I have very good news. The State of Montana has ruled that I have served my time and paid my debt to society. By Friday, I will again be a free man and living back in Missoula. I don’t know how often you get back to Big Sky Country, but I would love to see you again.
Cheers,
Elijah
“It is hard for someone like her to ignore the lure of fire,” she whispered.
Was Elijah talking just about Avery or offering a hint about himself? She reread the letter, trying to wrap her brain around the idea that he had found her. She let her head fall back against the couch.
The last time she had seen Elijah had been a week before the fire. The school year had been nearly over, she’d had her sights set on graduate school, and he had been wrapping up a very successful freshman year. Her roommate, Ann Bailey, stood at the top of the stairs. “Joan! Chop-chop. We have movie tickets.”
Ann’s blond hair was swept into an effortless yet attractive ponytail, and, as always, no makeup covered her peaches-and-cream complexion. A bulky cable-knit sweater skimmed above her trim jeans, proving cold weather lingered a long time in Montana. A pair of well-worn UGGs warmed her feet, and a blue-and-white cable-knit scarf wound around her neck in an offhanded yet stylish way.
“Be right there, Ann,” she said before she shifted her attention to Elijah, a freshman standing by her teaching