Up in Flames

He frowned. “You were inside when the fire broke out?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, his voice harder now. “We were questioning everyone at the scene.”

She couldn’t quite look at him. “I don’t know. I was upset. I just wanted to escape.”

“Did you see anything suspicious inside the café?”

“No.”

He studied her for a long moment, and she willed him to leave, not to push her anymore. Her head ached, her eyes hurt and grief for Natalie clogged her throat.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll be back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

She nodded, miserable, still shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to curl up and cry for her friend, wanted to be alone in her sorrow.

Yet she didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want to be alone. She’d been alone all her life.

But he stepped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving her with her misery and the memory of her friend’s face to haunt her.

His question echoed in her head. Had she seen anyone suspicious at the café or the bar? Had someone set that fire intentionally?

If so, then he had murdered Natalie…

HIS BODY SWELLED with arousal as he lingered in the shadows across from the Pink Martini. So much chaos. People panicking. Crying. Screaming. Gawking in horror and awe at the amazing fireworks display he’d started.

The firefighters had worked so diligently, sweating and shouting orders, hacking away fallen debris to save the injured and extinguish the mountainous blaze. They’d done their best to drown out his handiwork, but they had been too late. Too late to save the woman and man who’d died.

Death…such a nice perfect ending to a dull day. Except neither had actually melted into the fire because their bodies had been rescued first.

Adrenaline fired his blood at the thought of watching flesh and skin sizzle, and he realized that the high from watching wood and plastic burn was no longer enough to satisfy him.

He wanted, needed more. Craved the deeper, more exhilarating euphoria arousing him now at the thought of a body being consumed by the flames.

Yes, next he wanted to see a human burn.

Maybe the redhead…

Her hair was the same rich red, orange and yellow of the flames. He was drawn to her. Wanted to touch her. Make her quiver with fear. Elicit a scream from her pale throat as he turned her body into a playground for his pleasure.

He had seen the terror in her eyes when she’d been trapped in that bathroom. But she had shown amazing courage by running through the blaze.

Then she’d gone down, and a surge of excitement had seized him. She had been trapped beneath the fiery beam of wood. The fire would have eaten her alive in seconds.

Had it not been for that cop. The one man he hated.

It was the second time tonight Bradford Walsh had shown up and ruined his fun. Pretending to be some kind of savior…

But he knew the real detective Walsh—Brad boy he liked to call him.

Brad boy, the traitor.

Soon everyone else would see him for the weak failure he was.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. Brad boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Or the power he possessed.

He had the gift of fire in his fingers. He would use it again and again, make each mark more impressive.

And no one could stop him.

Chapter Four

Rosanna Redhill’s tortured, tearstained face haunted Bradford as he drove back to the bar. The firefighters were still battling the remnants of the blaze, the arson investigator from the county surveying the scene.

He strode toward Adam Black, the captain of the department.

“How’s Kilpatrick?” Black asked.

Bradford shook his head. “Alive, but critical. Burns, a crushed leg and lung.”

Black frowned, anger darkening his eyes. “How about you?”

“Pissed.” Bradford gestured toward the ashes and embers of the bar, then around at the crowd still watching. “This one can’t be accidental.”

“I agree, that’s why I called the CSI team out here immediately. I think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist. And he just upped the stakes.”

Bradford nodded in agreement. So far, he liked Captain Black. He was fair, smart, commanded respect and knew the innerworkings of Savannah and the Coastal Island Research Park. “You’re right. And he’s going down for murder,” Bradford said, thinking about Rosanna’s friend Natalie.

“You’re done tonight. Go home, get some rest,” Black ordered.

“No, I want to help here. I have to.”

Ignoring Black’s scowl, he joined the other officers questioning the spectators, and spent the next two hours trying to get a lead on what had happened. But everyone he questioned shared the same story. They hadn’t seen anyone set the fire. Flames had suddenly shot up from behind the bar. Then near the doorway, and on the stage.

Possibly faulty lighting? He didn’t think so. Someone had set the fire; he just had to figure out who and how they’d done it.

The owner of the bar, a big guy named Benny, looked shaken and furious. “I can’t believe this damn mess. I just opened the bar this month.”

Like Hazel, the man had invested all his money into the establishment. He was insured, but the labor costs and time spent rebuilding would mean more money lost.

If Benny had intentionally set the fire for insurance purposes, why do so when the bar was filled to capacity? He would have waited until it was empty, wouldn’t have chanced injuries or deaths, which would stir more questions and bring more serious charges against him if caught.

Two hours later, Black informed him that they had everyone’s contact information and again ordered him to go home. They would meet in the morning with the CSI team, then officers would be dispersed to requestion the people who’d been in the bar.

Exhausted, the adrenaline and anger that had fueled Bradford to keep working waned as he drove toward Tybee Island.

He’d thought living near the ocean might provide a few days of relaxation in between shifts. That the sea air and warm weather might improve his mood swings and help him regain his control over a temper that had nearly cost him his job back in Atlanta. But so far he’d yet to have a day off to enjoy the beach or to go fishing.