Burn You Twice - Mary Burton Page 0,8
her hands over her chest. She had never seen a civil divorce, but if anyone could pull it off, it was Ann, who had earned her PhD in forensic psychology, and then lectured at the university, but also consulted with the police. “You sound very logical, Dr. Bailey.”
“Clarke and I are okay with it. Nate loves living on my parents’ ranch.”
She omitted any mention of Gideon, his wife, or son, and Joan did not ask. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” Ann said, laughing and cringing at once. “There’s not been enough time for that.”
“There’s no one? As I remember it, every male over the age of twelve had a thing for you.”
“My best offer so far is from a police sergeant to speak at the Montana Highway Patrol.”
Joan offered an undeniably sly grin. “Is this guy single?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got more in mind than forensics.”
“He really does have a genuine interest in the psychology of repeat offenders. It’s strictly professional.”
Joan plucked an imaginary hair from her jeans. “Maybe you’re right.”
“You’re laughing at me,” Ann said.
“A little. What would it hurt if he did ask you out?”
The stress visibly melted from Ann’s shoulders. “If we’re talking about love lives, what’s the status of yours?”
“Married to the job.”
“That can’t be much fun.”
“It has its perks.”
“It’s the job that brought you here, then?”
Joan’s vibe shifted from easygoing to brittle. “You know me—I was never good at social calls. Is he really officially out?”
She knew Ann did not need a detailed reference to understand she was talking about Elijah Weston. “I haven’t seen him since the trial, but my sources in the prison system tell me that the beautiful boy we knew in college has firmed up into an imposing man during the last decade.”
“Brilliant and now strong.” Elijah Weston could have been the perfect guy. If he did not have a habit of setting fires. “Where is he now?”
“He moved into a boardinghouse near the university yesterday. He and his lawyer have gone out of their way to keep his release quiet, but you know how that goes. Missoula is a small town in many respects, and people will figure out that he’s been released. The state notified me, because I was his victim. Did they do the same for you?”
“Yes. My letter arrived yesterday. Nothing like giving me time to prepare.”
“Do you really think that he would come after you or me?” Ann asked.
“I’m not going to wait to find out.”
“They tell me he still denies he had anything to do with the College Fire,” Ann said.
“Elijah sent a letter to me at my home address.”
“What? How did he find you?”
“I don’t know. Did he write you, too?”
“He sent two letters to my parents’ address years ago, but I never responded. After that, Clarke promised to run interference for me.”
“I’d think a psychologist would be all over correspondence with a guy like Elijah. How many people get a glimpse into the mind of an arsonist?”
“Elijah’s mind is one place I have never dreamed of traveling.” Ann drew in a slow, steady breath. “He’s playing a game.”
“I’m very aware.”
“What do you think you can accomplish, coming back here?”
“Other than catching up with my college pal? I don’t know.” Elijah had left an indelible mark on her life that would never be erased, even by her magic “Delete” key.
Ann regarded Joan. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
“He’s had ten years to plan his next move.”
“What makes you think there is a next move?”
“Gut feeling.”
Ann slowed at a T intersection and, tapping the brakes, took a left. Shifting gears, she pressed the accelerator. “What makes you think you can stop him, Joan? You can’t watch him twenty-four seven.”
“Don’t underestimate me. I’m a one-woman wrecking ball.” Joan scrounged up a grin, but Ann’s grim expression echoed her own sense of dread.
The arsonist stood in the shadows inside the beauty shop. It had closed three hours ago, and the space was now silent. The cleaning crew had just swept up the stray piles of hair, polished the mirrors and chrome-trimmed chairs, and dumped the trash.
The Beau-T-Shop was doing well by all accounts. It had more customers than the five hairdressers could handle, so the owner should have been making money hand over fist. But success had a way of tricking people into believing the money would always flow.
He reached for the plastic milk jug of gas siphoned from the borrowed truck’s gas tank. Though it was easier to fill up his containers at a gas station, that was a quick