Born in the Valley. Tara Quinn Taylor
was frowning. “I wonder how on earth a fire got started in that closet. There’s not even an electrical outlet in there.”
“Someone set it.” Keith did the dirty work, after all. This was the part they’d known would upset her the most.
“You mean arson?” She peered back and forth between the two men. “Who would do a thing like that?” Then after a long pause, she added, “And why?”
Keith was still waiting for that gasp. For Bonnie’s usual intensity. For some kind of emotional reaction. Anger. Sadness.
Bonnie was perplexed.
And that was all.
“I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on who might’ve done this,” Greg told her, taking a notepad from his pocket.
Bonnie didn’t know.
They talked for half an hour, considering and dismissing one possibility after another. No matter what angle Greg took, Bonnie had nothing for him to go on, no leads to pursue. She gave her attention to the matter, answering every question thoughtfully, but with an almost unnerving calm.
Where in hell was Keith’s emotionally exuberant wife?
Greg finished. Eventually left. And Bonnie went in to shower.
Keith stood at the kitchen window, replaying the past hour in his mind, trying to make sense of a world he no longer recognized.
Bonnie, his protective, mother-hen wife, had just had one of her life’s dreams vandalized and had shown not the least bit of outrage—or hurt.
It was as though she didn’t care at all.
EVERYTHING WAS WET and charred, and there was a choking stench in the air. Bonnie pulled out a mop she’d used the week before to clean up an orange-juice accident in the classroom for the three-year-olds, while Alice, their teacher, had wiped off the children who’d been caught in the fray. The mop was wet again, but no longer white or orange-stained. Its synthetic fibers were more than half gone, the remaining strands dark gray and smeared with soot. One side of the long handle—the side that’d been burned—was splintery and coal-black.
She held it carefully.
“I can help with that.”
Her back to the door, Bonnie turned when she heard the voice of the landscaper and handyman. Shane Bellows was employed by the owner of the building in which she leased space.
“Hi, Shane,” she greeted the man who’d once made her teenaged heart throb—before he’d shattered that heart.
Shane might still look like the high-school quarterback who’d broken up with her their senior year because she was too nurturing and “not enough fun.” But the dark-haired man taking the mop from her wasn’t even a shadow of the boy he’d been.
The skiing accident that had changed Shane’s life forever had left him brain-damaged. His memory was somewhat impaired, and he’d become unable to process more than one thing at a time—which made it difficult for him to make decisions. Or to figure out little everyday details, such as the nuances in people’s words or facial expressions.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night to clean up for you.” Her emotions were touched by the little-boy tone of voice. He wanted so badly to please. “I’m sorry it had to stay like this all day.”
She handed him some crusty metal hangers to put in the industrial-size trash can she’d wheeled up to the door of the supply closet. “At least it’s out here, away from the kids’ rooms,” she told him. Her tennis shoes sloshed through puddles on the slippery floor as she stepped forward to clear the bigger pieces of melted plastic that had, the day before, been storage bins, from the now-warped metal shelving unit. “We were able to have school as usual today.”
Shane carefully took the plastic, turning completely, holding it over the container before dropping it in—as though making sure he’d aimed right.
“Besides,” she added, “it’s not your responsibility to clean up my messes.”
“I know.” He nodded, frowning slightly as he surveyed the charred remains and started on a shelf that was too high for her to reach without the discolored and misshapen stepstool next to the shelving unit. “I just want to help.”
“You are helping,” she told him, going to work on a lower shelf. “A lot.” She wasn’t even sure what exactly she was clearing away. There’d been a foot-high metal cabinet with twenty or thirty plastic drawers for screws and picture hangers and other little essentials. The drawers were melted shut. Bonnie tossed the whole thing.
“And, anyway,” she told Shane, “no one was allowed in here until the investigators finished up their work this afternoon.”
“Okay.”
They worked silently until the shelving unit was nearly empty. Having Shane around calmed her. She didn’t have to keep up appearances with him.
And being with her seemed to calm him, too.
“This is going much more quickly than I expected, thanks to you.”
He grunted, looking embarrassed, and then slowly smiled. “I’m glad I can help you.”
Bonnie turned back to the job at hand with a twinge of guilt.
Keith had offered to come and help with clean-up duty after work. Beth had said she’d take Katie home with her and Ryan. Wednesday night was macaroni-and-cheese night, and Katie loved it almost as much as Ryan did. Bonnie had sent Katie home with Keith, instead. The little girl had missed her bath the night before and had had a long day.
And Bonnie had needed a break from them.
She would rather die than have Keith know she was dissatisfied with the life they’d built together—a feeling that had been oddly exacerbated by the events of the past twenty-four hours.
She just needed a little time to get herself back in line.
“Do you know who started the fire?” Shane asked, each word spoken deliberately.
Shaking her head, Bonnie shrugged. “People from the sheriff’s office said somebody threw a book of lit matches in through that vent up there.” She pointed to the outside wall of the closet.
Shane stared blankly toward the ceiling. “How do they know that?”
“Because it landed on the wet mop and didn’t completely burn.”
He took a full minute to process that. Then, “Do they know who did it?”
She felt a surge of pity at the obvious struggle he was having. Conversation was difficult for him.
“No,” she said. “I guess there was too much fire and water damage for fingerprinting. It was probably just kids, playing a prank.”
“Why would someone play a prank on you, Bonnie?”
“After looking at things today, my brother, Greg—who’s the sheriff now—doesn’t think they were going after me. There’s not much chance they knew that the vent led into the Little Spirits supply closet.”
“Oh.”
Yeah, and an even bigger “oh” was the fact that Bonnie had been a tiny bit disappointed that Greg hadn’t seen the fire as a premeditated act aimed at her. She’d almost had an excuse to move on.
Bonnie stopped, shaking, hands on the edge of the garbage can she was peering sightlessly into.
An excuse to move on? Where on earth had that thought come from?
She had nothing to move on to. Nowhere she wanted to go.
She loved her husband to distraction. Would give up her life for her daughter. Little Spirits had been a far greater success than she’d ever dared hope.
And still, she was consumed