out.”
This burst of righteous outrage was a deflection, another sign of deception. Ann had also yet to deny Joan’s assertion that the boy might have played a role in the fire.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Joan asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I haven’t pressed about your separation from Clarke, but what I saw out there tells me he doesn’t want it. He really wants you back.”
“No separation is easy.”
“Is that what it is? This isn’t about your dad’s health anymore?”
“I’ve been avoiding talking about our marriage,” she said.
“Whatever you’re calling this living arrangement, it’s a huge stressor, not only for you and Clarke but also for Nate. No one would be shocked that a boy missing his firefighter father would set a fire. Nate, of all people, would know that a few flames would bring Dad running. Maybe he didn’t intend for the fire to get so big.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ann said. And then, as if noticing her cream, she poured a splash in her cup and took extra time to stir it with a spoon. The metal clanked against the earthenware mug, but Ann said nothing.
“I’m your friend,” Joan said.
“You’re also a cop.”
“Who’s on leave,” she joked. “That makes me more friend than cop.”
Ann shook her head. “You won’t be here for long.”
This latest deflection deepened Joan’s suspicion that there was something bigger at play. “Ann, Nate likes setting fires.”
“He’s a boy. His father is a firefighter.”
“When I showed up here and saw Nate, my first impression was that he did not look much like Clarke.”
“He takes after my family.”
“Not really,” Joan said.
Ann folded her arms. “This is ridiculous.”
The tension tightening Ann’s features reminded Joan of someone with a secret. “Nate is smart. Very smart.”
She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “So?”
Joan had never been afraid of making outlandish statements to provoke a reaction. “He loves Clarke, but he isn’t anything like his father.”
Ann’s body went rigid. “I don’t like whatever it is you are getting at.”
And in that moment, Joan realized she had struck a nerve. It was a good thing she was leaving Ann’s house, because if her suspicion was right, her next question was likely to get her kicked out. “Is Nate Clarke’s son?”
Ann’s eyes widened with a mixture of fear and dread. “Of course he’s Clarke’s son. That boy adores his father.”
“I’m talking about biology now, Ann. Biologically, Nate is nothing like Clarke.” She thought back to the moment in college when appreciation had shone in Ann’s eyes as she’d looked past her toward Elijah. She softened her tone, as she did when she sensed she might be close to a confession. “At first, I thought Nate just favored you. But when I saw him outside staring at the fire, he reminded me of someone else.”
Ann held up her hand, silent and staring as she shook her head. “Stop right there.”
And this was the moment, suspended or not, Joan knew she had to be a cop first. “Is Elijah Nate’s biological father?”
Confessions of an Arsonist
Fire has no bias. It has no worries. It simply consumes all that it can. The great equalizer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, September 9, 2020
12:50 a.m.
Joan waited for Ann’s wrath. But Ann remained silent, her face growing more ashen by the moment as she stared into her pale, creamy coffee. When she finally looked up, the reflected pain was reminiscent of a cornered animal.
Ann cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “I love my son. I would do anything to protect him.”
“I know that. He’s a great kid.” It was not hard to sound genuine. She really did like the boy. “You got pregnant in the spring of 2010. Tell me what happened.”
Ann glanced up the stairs and then beckoned Joan out onto the front porch. The cold night air bit and snapped, but Ann clearly did not want to take a chance Nate would hear them.
“I was tutoring at the student center with Elijah. We were working with other freshmen studying for the math finals,” she said in a voice that sounded as if it were already traveling to the past.
“Nate was born in January,” Joan said.
Ann shook her head. “We were in almost whiteout blizzard conditions when I went into labor. And Clarke was great. He was cool and calm as he put the chains on his tires. And he couldn’t have done more for me.”
Because he was getting exactly what he thought he wanted: Ann and a son.
Joan backed up the calendar nine months. “You and Clarke were on