I have a headache to beat all headaches, but I think I’ll be just fine. What we need are the police.”
“Based on the number of sirens I hear, I’d say they’re on the way,” Radley said.
Wren could hear the sirens, too, their warning muted by walls and glass. Once the police arrived, she might not have a chance to retrieve the photo album. The sheriff’s department was small and had limited resources. It could be days before the house was processed and cleared.
She didn’t want to wait days.
Not when Abigail was so upset.
“I’m running upstairs for something. Meet me out front.” She tossed the word over her shoulder as she sprinted into the wide hallway that led to the front staircase. Functional rather than ornate, it had thick newel posts and dark wooden stair treads. None of it seemed to have been touched by the fire.
“Wren!” Radley called, rushing after her. “You know better. This is a crime scene.”
“And my prints are already all over it,” she replied, jogging up the stairs, her wrist throbbing dully with each movement.
“It’s not about your prints. It’s about contaminating evidence and disturbing the scene.”
“From what I can see, the perps didn’t go upstairs.” She hit the landing at a near run. She couldn’t bring Ryan back for Abigail, but she could at least do this.
“You may not be seeing everything.”
“She’s seeing enough. No gasoline trail up here. No burned carpet. No sign that they were trying to set it on fire.” Titus cut in, following right on Radley’s heels.
“That doesn’t mean they weren’t here,” Radley reiterated.
“No, but I’m fairly certain the sheriff’s office isn’t going to have their investigation ruined by an FBI agent walking through the house she spent half her childhood in.” Titus reached the landing and bounded up the stairs after Wren.
She could have joined the conversation, reminded them that she could handle herself and the situation. Under normal circumstances, she would have. These were not normal circumstances. Ryan’s murder had pulled the rug out from under her, and she was still trying to regain her footing.
She walked into Abigail’s room, trying not to notice the layer of dust on the once-immaculate dresser. She’d known that Abigail was getting older. She’d seen small changes in her at every visit. Less energy and verve. Less concern for keeping the house as spotless as it had once been. Overgrown lawn and weed-choked flower beds. Wren had told herself Abigail was busy with her church friends, her clubs and her volunteer work.
She had worried that it wasn’t true.
But she hadn’t visited more. She hadn’t extended her stays. She hadn’t asked Abigail flat out if she was able to handle the farm on her own.
She should have.
Just like she should have kept her mouth shut about Titus’s wife. It was too late now. She couldn’t change the past, but she could make certain that Abigail’s future was secure, and that she had everything she wanted and needed.
She opened the closet, expecting to have to search the shelves for the album Abigail wanted. To her surprise, it was sitting on the floor near Abigail’s shoes, Ryan’s school pictures filling little oval slots on the cover. She tucked it under her arm and turned to leave the room, nearly bumping into Titus.
Surprised, she stumbled back.
“Careful,” he said, grabbing her arm to steady her.
“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, determined to keep distance between them. She didn’t want to fall back into the trap of caring. She didn’t want to be hurt like she’d been before.
“Is that the album?” Radley asked.
“Yes.”
“Album?” Titus eyed the thick book.
“Abigail heard about Ryan’s death. She wanted me to bring this to her.”
“Heard about it?”
“The sheriff broke the news to her.”
“He couldn’t have waited for you to do it?”
“Considering I’m his prime suspect, I’d say he probably wanted to ask questions about our relationship.”
“You and Ryan got along well most of the time.”
“We did, but he was encouraging Abigail to sell the farm. I wasn’t as excited about it.”
“That doesn’t make you a killer,” Radley intoned.
“No, but it could be motive.” It’s certainly a motive she’d be considering if she were the investigating officer.
The first responders had arrived, firefighters banging on the front door asking if anyone was inside. She ran to open it, bracing herself for the chaos she knew was coming.
Wren hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said that she was the prime suspect in Ryan’s murder. Once the sheriff had arrived, he’d questioned Titus, put out a BOLO for the perps and then begun questioning Wren. He didn’t come out and accuse her of setting fire to the house to cover up evidence, but he hinted that it might be a possibility. Titus listened silently, leaning against the mailbox at the end of the driveway as Sheriff Camden Wilson volleyed one question after another in Wren’s direction.
“Sheriff, my client has already answered these questions,” the FBI lawyer Wren had introduced Titus to cut in. She’d exited a black SUV as soon as the sheriff had arrived, her blond hair and fair skin contrasting sharply with her black suit. He should remember her name, but his mind was still foggy from the hit he’d taken.
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“You have three witnesses who can all testify that Agent Santino was not here at the time the fire began—”
“She could have hired someone.”
“Before or after you questioned her? During or after her wrist was set? At what point do you think she had access to a phone and the ability to make a call without being noticed.” She crossed lean arms over her waist and eyed the sheriff dispassionately. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, fine lines near the corners of her eyes and a few strands of white mixed with her dark blond hair. She wore minimal makeup, a conservative suit and a half smile that Titus knew was getting under the sheriff’s skin.
“What I’m saying is that she could easily have set all this up ahead of time.” He glanced toward the house, frowning as he spotted the fire marshal moving toward them. “We can take up the conversation later. I need to speak with the fire marshal.”
“I’m assuming my client is free to go?” the lawyer said.
“For now. Are you planning to leave the scene, Titus?” he asked. They knew each other from church but didn’t run in the same circles. On a first-name basis but not friends.
“Yes.” He hadn’t put any thought to it. He’d been too busy trying to figure out why the sheriff would think Wren had murdered her foster brother. Now he was certain he wasn’t sticking around. Not if Wren was leaving.
Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good, and she seemed to be right at the center of it.
“Can you come to my office tomorrow to make a statement?” the sheriff asked.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he pointed out.
“Crime has no favorite day of the week, and my office stays open 24/7 all year long. If you’d prefer to wait until Monday, that’s fine, but we can move the case along more quickly if we have