CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hours later, after the fire has been put out and the proper officials have begun investigating (much to Lesley’s chagrin), we find ourselves back at the town house, collapsed on the front steps in a dazed silence.
We have so many more questions than answers, even with the bits and pieces Lissa has managed to tell us from her state of shock.
She never saw the source of the explosion, only heard distant beeping right before it happened and was knocked flat by the force of it.
It was a miracle she escaped the death zone, at least physically.
Mentally, she hasn’t quite come back to us yet.
“There’s no chance it was an accident?” I ask, knowing the answer. “A furnace problem or bad wiring or something?”
“’Fraid not,” says Lesley. Grant casts a grim glance my way, confirming my fears. It was time for something like this. It’s the beginning of the end.
I swallow painfully, my throat still dry. “It was Mr. Page,” I surmise. “Trying to take out Alistair, or us, or all of the above.”
“I think so,” Grant says softly. “Unless Alistair was luring us there to blow us up.”
“He couldn’t have,” says Lesley. “We searched him before we locked him up; he certainly wasn’t rigged with explosives. Hideous shoes and a criminal amount of pomade, yes, but nothing incendiary.”
Lissa takes a shuddering breath, her eyes brimming.
“I was going to let him out,” she hiccups. “Alistair. I know he was evil, but no one deserves to die like that. But the fire was … I couldn’t get to … I couldn’t—”
Lesley gives Lissa’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she falls into hushed sobs.
“You did your best,” he says. “What matters now is that we’re all safe.”
“You’ve got a funny definition of safe,” growls a voice from the street. Even standing below us, the imposing figure has the effect of blocking out the sun.
Jesus. Just once, could Wally enter a scene by saying something normal, like hello or excuse me?
“Ah,” says Lesley with a tight smile. “Nice of you to finally show up. I was wondering why you left this morning’s fire investigation to your inferiors. Oversleep, did you?”
“My colleagues are perfectly well qualified to respond to a standard house fire,” says Wally. He takes a slow, dramatic step closer, his big arms crossing menacingly. “But you and I both know this was no standard house fire.”
“Oh, we do, do we?” says Lesley. “And here I thought you were the genius and I was just the nuisance.”
“Ordinarily, yes. But today you’ve got the chance to be helpful for once.” Wally pulls a small notepad from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions about the incident.”
“Wish I could,” says Lesley. “Only I’ve been told to stay out of official police business.”
Wally chuckles darkly. “I think we can make an exception, just this once. How about this: You tell me what I want to know, and I don’t take action on the list of punishable offenses you’ve committed over the years?”
As the two of them glower at each other, Grant leans over toward me. “Why do I get the feeling Anna is writing this while some corny cop show plays in the background?”
The loaded stare-down shows no signs of letting up.
“That or a bad porno,” I mutter, before getting to my feet to open the front door. “All right, you two. Let’s get this tough-guy showdown over with.”
· · ·
HALF AN HOUR later in the study, Wally and Lesley are facing off across the coffee table while Grant and Lissa and I stand around the fringes of the room.
The futility of the whole thing has been almost physically painful to watch; Wally’s intimidation tactics are nothing compared to Lesley’s knack for unhelpful answers.
It’s like watching two people play tennis, only if instead of hitting the ball back one of the players kept catching it and throwing it in the garbage.
“What were you doing when the fire broke out?” asks Wally.
“Trying not to get burned,” says Lesley.
“Did you have anything to do with the fire?”
“Yes, if you count almost getting burned.”
“The building in question was described as your second residence. Tell me, what is the purpose of having more than one residence?”
“So I have a backup in case one explodes.”
Wally’s smirk gets a little tighter with each question, his posture growing ever so slightly more rigid. Still, his composure is impressive.
“Is there anything you expect investigators will find at the scene of the fire?” he asks. “Anything damning you’d like to get off your chest?”
“Possibly the remains of my silver medal from the Stupid Questions Olympics,” says Lesley. “But don’t worry, the gold is still safe with you.”
Wally leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to hide something?”
“Are you trying to hide something?”
Wally clicks his pen and starts scrawling in his notepad. “Suspect refuses to cooperate,” he says without looking at the page. “I could arrest you for that, you know.”
“Could he?” I whisper to Grant.
“Probably not,” he murmurs back. “But I don’t think anyone’s expecting procedural accuracy from Anna Matthews.”
Wally gets to his feet, tucking his notepad away.
“You know what, mate? I’ve had enough. I don’t know what’s going on here, whether this is your doing or you’ve managed to get a target on your back, but clearly you’re still causing trouble.
Congratulations, I’m fresh out of warnings.
You want to get yourself killed? Get yourself killed. Have a blast.”
He storms out, pausing only to give me and Grant the evil eye and a seriously disapproving headshake on his way.
Lissa drifts to the sofa, still hollow-eyed as she slumps down next to Lesley.
He looks around, taking in everyone’s sooty clothes and worried faces.
“Now, then. It’s been quite a day. What do you say we all decompress with some lunch and a cuppa?
My treat. You all just take a breather and get yourselves cleaned up. ”
He pats Lissa’s knee, and she drops a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she says shakily.
He gets to his feet and heads for the door, pausing only to brush ash off his purple jacket. He clicks his tongue at the mark it leaves.
“Versace,” he says with a disgruntled shake of his head, then disappears toward the kitchen.
· · ·
AFTER SHOWERING AND changing, I find Grant looking pensive in the back garden.
“You’d better not be out here solving the entire mystery without me,” I say, sitting down next to him on the teak bench.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he says. “I don’t think we have enough information.”
I would argue we have too much information; the events of the past twenty-four hours, let alone the past two weeks, are blending into a muddied jumble in my head.
“Could it be Wally?” I ask. “Mr. Page, I mean? Maybe his whole investigation is a bluff. Maybe he blew up the Fake House to throw Lesley off.”
“Maybe,” says Grant, tilting his head in consideration. “But I think it’d be a stretch to bankroll a serial killer competition on a police detective salary, even in fiction.”
“True.” I think about it, gazing out over the garden in its springtime glory. It’s lush and immaculate, probably the work of a very expensive landscape designer. A thought turns my stomach.
“You don’t think it’s …?” I tip my head toward the house, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Lesley?” Grant’s eyebrows fly up. “No. No. God, I hope not. I mean, he has the money, but …”
“He’s too lovable, right?”
“Definitely,” says Grant. “There would be angry mobs coming for Anna if she made him the bad guy.”
“Right. It’s not Lesley,” I decide, feeling a hint of relief, even if it does mean we’re still scraping the barrel for answers. “Well, maybe we don’t need to figure this out right now. For all we know, there are five hundred more murder missions for us to take on.”
Grant nods. I nod back. It’s a nice thought, the four of us together indefinitely, chasing villains and stopping crimes and never getting too close to solving them. Never getting too close to goodbye.
We’re kidding ourselves.
I let out a long breath, staring out into the quiet afternoon. “There aren’t going to be any more missions,” I say.
“No,” says Grant. “I don’t think so.”
“This is the part where it gets bad,” I say. “And it’s going to get worse.”
He nods in my periphery, looking distantly over the garden.
I always knew we’d get here. But I didn’t know it would feel like this—staring down the barrel of act three, wishing more than anything that I could reset the clock.
Wanting to turn away from the rising action and stay where it’s quiet—where it’s just me and Grant, telling each other secrets or arguing in the rain or walking around the city.
The ordinary moments, I’ve been shocked to discover, have been among my favorites in this story.
But that’s all going to change soon. The story’s almost over, and there’s no telling if we’ll get another.
“I have to hand it to you,” Grant says. “It may not have been slow-mo, but you did say we’d get an explosion.”
I think back to the day I made that prediction, seemingly a lifetime ago. How little I knew. I could never have guessed that an exploding house would be the least of my concerns.
I lean into him, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me. He kisses the top of my head and settles into silence.
As time slips by, I try not to pay it any mind.
Not to feel like every heartbeat is the tick of a countdown clock.
I wish more than anything that this, right here, could be a scene that never ends.
Anna Matthews could spend the rest of her career describing what it feels like to be here with Grant like this and never run out of things to write.
The two of us could live in this handful of moments forever.
But the fact is, writers have a way of presenting their characters with the small, fragile gift of happiness only to smash it with a hammer.
Or in this case, one blood-curdling scream from the house.
Grant and I leap to our feet and chase the sound to the kitchen. First I see Lissa, hair damp from the shower, kneeling on the floor. And beside her, Lesley—sprawled flat, glassy-eyed, and gray as the ash that still cakes his hair and clothing.