Chapter 85
JAKE
Cole Turner did this.
I know it the moment I see the house—the way the fire's burning too hot, too fast, consuming everything with methodical efficiency. This isn't an electrical fire or a kitchen accident.
This is arson.
This is a message. It’s a not-so-subtle warning to stop fucking with him and sell.
Emma's crying silently in my arms. It’s more devastating than if she were sobbing loudly.
I want to kill Cole Turner with my bare hands. Want to make him suffer for every tear she's crying, for every memory he's burning to ash.
But first, I need information.
I spot Fire Chief Morrison near one of the trucks and leave Emma with Jim, crossing the yard in long strides. "Chief."
Morrison turns, his face grim beneath his helmet. "Jake. Hell of a thing."
"What started it?"
"Accelerant. Multiple points of origin—living room, kitchen, both bedrooms upstairs." He shakes his head. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Wanted to make sure the whole structure went up."
"Any chance of saving it?"
"No. We're just trying to keep it from spreading to the barn and outbuildings now." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Jake. I know Emma just lost her father. This is—"
"The cameras," I interrupt. "I’ll check the cameras to see if they caught anything."
Morrison frowns. "What cameras?"
"The security cameras I installed around the property." I pull out my phone to access the feed. "They should have recorded whoever did this."
"I didn't see any cameras."
"They're there. Mounted on the barn, the fence posts, the tree line. I’ll pull the footage." I open the app and scroll to what I’m looking for.
Morrison steps closer, watching over my shoulder as I navigate to the security system. "You got remote access to all that?" he asks, sounding impressed.
"Yeah." This is child’s play for us. I pull up the timeline, scrolling back to 0300. "Here."
The footage loads—grainy night vision, but clear enough. A figure moves across the yard toward the house, carrying something. The build is right for Cole Turner. Height, weight, the way he moves.
But the face is covered. Black ski mask, dark clothing, gloves. Professional. Careful.
I watch the figure pour accelerant along the foundation and move to the next point of origin. Methodical. Efficient. No hesitation, no wasted movement.
"Can you see who it is?" Morrison asks.
I zoom in, but the mask obscures everything. No identifying features. No visible tattoos or scars. Nothing that would hold up in court.
"No," I admit, the word tasting like ash. "Face is covered."
Morrison nods slowly. "I'll need a copy of that footage for the investigation. Shows it was definitely arson, at least. Intentional."
"I'll send it to you."
But even as I say it, I know the truth. This footage proves someone torched Emma's house. It doesn't prove it was Cole Turner.
Reasonable doubt. That's all a defense attorney would need.
And without conclusive evidence, Sheriff Garrett won't touch him.
Which means Cole Turner walks free.
Unless I make sure he doesn't.