Chapter 27
Marco
Dorothy’s niece lives in a ranch-style house on the quiet end of Oak Street.
Phoebe and I pull up at ten in the morning. Dorothy’s car is in the driveway—the old sedan she’s been driving for fifteen years. Seeing it here instead of at her own house feels wrong. Like proof that Ryan’s already taken something from her, even if he hasn’t succeeded in taking her life.
Her niece answers the door: mid-forties, kind face, and worried eyes. “You must be the investigators. Aunt Dorothy said you were coming.”
“Marco Reyes. This is my partner, Phoebe Carter.” I show my badge. “Is she available to speak with us?”
“She’s in the living room. Fair warning: she’s not taking this well.”
We follow her inside. Dorothy sits on a floral couch, hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
“Dorothy.” I sit in the armchair across from her. Phoebe takes the other chair, tablet already open.
"Marco. Phoebe." Dorothy sets her mug down. "Rachel called me last night. Said you've got a big lead on the case."
"We do," I say carefully. "But before we discuss it, I need to ask—are you comfortable having your niece present for this conversation? What we need to tell you is sensitive."
Dorothy reaches for her niece's hand. "Miranda stays. I trust her completely."
Miranda nods, squeezing her aunt's hand. "Whatever you need to tell her, I'm here to support her."
"Dorothy, the lead we have points to someone close to you. Someone who had access to your schedule, knew your routines, knew when you'd be at specific locations."
Her face doesn't change, but her grip on Miranda's hand tightens. "Who?"
"Ryan."
The name hangs in the air like smoke.
Dorothy goes very still. "My grandson."
"Yes, ma'am."
"No." She shakes her head, immediately and firmly. "Not Ryan. He's—he wouldn't—"
"Aunt Dorothy." Miranda's voice is gentle but not coddling. "You need to hear them out."
"He's irresponsible, I know that. He's made poor choices. But setting fires? Trying to hurt me?" Dorothy's voice rises slightly. "That's—that's attempted murder."
"I know this is difficult—" I start.
"Ryan has always been trouble," Miranda interrupts, looking at her aunt directly. "Ever since he was a teenager. Remember when he forged your signature on that loan application?"
"That was years ago. He was young—"
"He's thirty now, and he's still making the same choices." Miranda's tone is firm but loving. "Aunt Dorothy, I love Ryan too. He is my cousin. But I wouldn't put this past him. I really wouldn't."
Dorothy's face crumples slightly. "But why? Why would he want to hurt me?"
I pull out the file Phoebe compiled. “Your grandson has gambling debts totaling over fifty thousand dollars. He’s been fired from three jobs in the past year. His landlord started eviction proceedings last month.”
“And you’re worth just over two hundred thousand,” Phoebe adds gently. “Between your house, savings, and life insurance policy.”
Dorothy’s face crumples. “You think he’s trying to kill me for money.”
“Yes.” No point softening it. “All three fires were at locations you frequent. Locations Ryan knows you visit regularly. He was counting on you being there.”
“But I wasn’t. Not at the café. Not at the library.”
“No. You left early both times. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.” I lean forward. “Dorothy, we need your help to catch him. Before he tries again.”
She presses a tissue to her eyes. “He is my grandson. I raised him. How could he—”
“Desperation makes people do terrible things,” Phoebe says. “And Ryan’s desperate.”
“What do you need from me?” Dorothy’s voice is steady despite the tears.
“We need you to make an announcement. At church this Sunday.” I explain the plan carefully. “You’ll say that after surviving the fire, you’ve decided to leave your entire estate to charity. That you’re changing your will this week.”
“You want to provoke him.”
“We want to force his hand. Make him panic. Make him act rashly enough that we can catch him.” I meet her eyes. “This will work, Dorothy. But only if you’re willing to help us.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “What happens after I make the announcement?”
“We set up surveillance at this house. Undercover officers, hidden cameras, the works. When Ryan comes—and he will come—we’ll catch him in the act.”
“You’re using me as bait.”
“We’re using the threat of losing his inheritance as bait. You’ll be protected. I give you my word.”
Dorothy looks at her niece, who nods encouragingly. Then back at me. “All right. I’ll do it. But Marco? When you arrest him, I want to be the one to tell him why. I want him to know that I know what he did.”
“Deal.”
***
First Baptist Church of Millbrook Falls sits on the corner of Main and Church Street.
Built in 1847 by the town’s founders, it’s the oldest building still standing in Millbrook Falls.
Red brick exterior weathered by time, white-painted wooden trim that gets repainted every five years by volunteers, steeple reaching toward the sky with a bell that still rings every Sunday morning at nine.
Inside, dark wood pews worn smooth by generations of congregants. Stained glass windows depicting biblical scenes filter colored light across the sanctuary. The altar is simple with no elaborate decorations, just a wooden cross and fresh flowers donated by members each week.
Small congregation. Maybe seventy people on a good Sunday. Everyone knows everyone, which makes Phoebe and me stand out despite our attempts to blend in.
I’m wearing khakis and a button-down shirt that doesn’t quite fit right. Phoebe is in a conservative dress she borrowed from her sister, hair styled differently than usual. We sit in the back pew, trying to look like visiting relatives.
Ryan Williams sits three rows from the front. Dark hair, expensive jacket he can’t afford, checking his phone every thirty seconds like he’s got somewhere better to be.
Pastor Jenkins leads the service. Hymns, prayers, and announcements about the church potluck next weekend, standard Sunday morning routine.
Then he invites Dorothy to share her testimony.
She slowly walks to the front, using her cane. The congregation watches with sympathy—everyone knows about the fire at her house. Several people have organized meal trains and donation drives to help her recover.
“Thank you all for your prayers these past few weeks,” Dorothy begins, her voice carrying through the small sanctuary. “I wanted to share with you how God has been working in my life through this trial.”
Ryan’s attention shifts to his grandmother. Fully focused now.
“When that fire started in my home, I thought I was going to die. The smoke was so thick, I couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.” She pauses, letting the weight of that sink in. “But God sent Rachel Morgan to visit me that day. She got me out. Saved my life.”
Murmurs of “Amen” and “Praise God” ripple through the congregation.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since then. About what matters. About what I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.” Dorothy’s voice strengthens. “And I’ve decided that earthly possessions don’t matter. Not really. What matters is the Kingdom of God. Helping others. Making a difference.”
Ryan sits up straighter. His jaw tightens.
“So, I’m announcing today that I’m changing my will. Everything I own—my house, my savings, everything—I’m leaving it all to charity. To organizations that help people in need. To the church mission fund. To causes that will outlive me and do God’s work.”
The congregation erupts in supportive applause. People are nodding, smiling, and calling out encouragement.
Ryan’s face goes white. Then red. His hands clench into fists.
Dorothy continues. “I’m meeting with my lawyer this Thursday to make it official. And I want you all to know that this decision brings me peace. Real peace.”
Ryan stands abruptly. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor. People turn to look.
“Excuse me,” he mutters, pushing past the people in his row.
He storms down the center aisle, footsteps echoing in the sanctuary. Shoves through the double doors at the back. They bang shut behind him.
The congregation stirs. Whispers start.
Pastor Jenkins clears his throat. “Let’s give Dorothy a round of applause for her testimony and her generous heart.”
More applause. Dorothy returns to her seat, face composed, but I can see her hands shaking.
Phoebe leans close to me. “I’d say we’re in motion.”
“Now we wait.”
***
Three Days Later
Dorothy’s niece’s house looks ordinary from the outside.
Inside, it’s anything but.
Three undercover officers are positioned throughout the property. Two in the garage. One in the kitchen. Two more vehicles are parked down the street.
I’m in the living room with Phoebe and Detective Ramirez from the Millbrook Falls PD.
We convinced Captain Morrison to approve the operation after showing him the evidence—the financial records, the timeline, the pattern.
He wasn’t happy about using a civilian as bait, but he agreed it was our best shot at catching Ryan before someone actually died.
Dorothy and her niece are at a hotel fifteen miles away.
Surveillance cameras cover every angle, and motion sensors are on all the doors and windows. We’ve turned this place into a fortress.
Now we wait.
It’s Tuesday night, three days since Dorothy’s church announcement. We’ve been here every night since, watching, waiting for Ryan to make his move.
“Maybe he’s smarter than we thought,” Phoebe says, scrolling through her tablet. “Maybe he knows it’s a trap.”
“Desperate people aren’t smart. They’re reckless.” I check the camera feeds for the hundredth time. “He’ll come.”
Ramirez yawns. “If he doesn’t show by midnight, we’re pulling the team. Can’t keep this many officers tied up indefinitely.”
“He’ll show.”
At eleven-forty-three, motion sensor alerts on the back fence.
Everyone goes silent.
I pull up the camera feed. A grainy night vision image shows a figure climbing over the back fence—dark jacket. Face partially obscured.
“We’ve got movement,” I say into the radio. “Subject entering from the rear of the property. All units hold position.”
The figure drops into the backyard. Looks around. Moves toward the back door.
It’s Ryan. I can see his face clearly on the camera now.
He’s carrying something, a red gas can.
My pulse kicks up. “Subject is armed with accelerant. All units prepare to move on my signal.”
Ryan tries the back door. Locked. He pulls something from his pocket—lock picks. The door swings open.
He steps inside.
“Wait for it,” I murmur. “Let him commit.”
Ryan moves through the kitchen. Sets the gas can down. Starts unscrewing the cap.
“Now.”
Officers flood the kitchen from three directions. Guns drawn. Shouting.
“Police! Hands up!”
“Don’t move!”
“Get on the ground!”
Ryan freezes. The gas can falls from his hands, splashing accelerant across the kitchen floor. His face goes from shock to rage to resignation in three seconds.
“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
He complies. Slowly. An officer moves in with handcuffs.
I walk into the kitchen, badge visible. “Ryan Williams, you’re under arrest for attempted arson and three counts of arson in the first degree.”
“I want a lawyer.” His voice is flat.
“You’ll get one. But first—” I crouch down so we’re eye level.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
“I want a lawyer,” he repeats.
“That’s fine. Take him.” I stand up as officers haul Ryan to his feet and start walking him out.
Phoebe appears beside me, looking at the gas can and accelerant on the floor. “Same brand as all three fires. We’ve got him.”
“Yeah.” I watch Ryan being led to the patrol car outside. “We do.”