Chapter 5 Fire On Forsythia Lane #8
“Don’t get too close, Wes,” I warn him, my head on a swivel as I check to make sure we’re truly all alone. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be nosing around here.”
“I’m not going to go in there,” he says, gesturing towards the rubble. “I’m just looking for anything… out of the ordinary. Keep your eyes peeled.”
I stay in the driveway, too nervous to go anywhere near the yellow tape. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on the gravel beneath my feet, searching for any left-behind clue the fire marshal may have missed. I don’t know what I’m looking for until I see a glint of something shiny in the light.
Strange.
I reach down to brush aside a clump of dirt, picking up the shiny brass object. At first, I think it’s a ring, then I realize something is hooked around the ring.
A key.
“Weston,” I call to him, catching his attention. He squints when he sees what I’m holding up. “I found this at the edge of the driveway.”
We meet each other at the crime scene tape. He’s standing on the opposite side despite the bold message printed in black letters: DO NOT CROSS.
“A key?” he rasps under his breath, turning it over to get a closer look. “What do you think it unlocks? The house, maybe?”
I shrug. “I guess there’s no way to find out.”
Weston thinks about it for a moment before glancing over his shoulder at the charred remains of the Montgomery house.
I know exactly what he’s looking for: the front door.
Surprisingly, it’s one of the only parts of the house still intact—though it’s blackened by smoke and lying facedown in the rubble of the front porch.
Weston takes the key and heads straight for the crime scene.
“Be careful, Wes. We’re not supposed to be here—”
“Shh, it’ll just take a sec. Don’t you want to know if the key fits?”
I groan at his stubbornness, ducking under the yellow tape and following him—because if he gets hurt or disturbs something that shouldn’t be disturbed, I’m not letting him face the consequences alone.
We carefully pick our way through charred boards and broken glass until we reach the fallen front door.
Weston crouches down and slides the key into the antique knob.
“It fits,” he announces, turning the handle and causing the metal bolt to slide out of the lock. “And who else would have a key to this house… besides Montgomery?”
I swallow, a chill racing down my arms as I watch Weston slide the key in and out of the lock. “Well, I don’t think Jonathan Boone would’ve had a key.”
“No. He wouldn’t.”
“But why would Montgomery have left it behind?”
“He probably dropped it by accident,” Weston muses, pocketing the key and glancing around for any other clues lost in the rubble.
“It was dark. If you only had thirty minutes to get to your alibi before your house burst into flames, would you waste any time looking around for a key to a door you’re never going to unlock again? ”
I shake my head, about to respond when—
“Hey!”
Weston and I both whirl at the sound of a gruff man’s voice. My heart sinks into my stomach as soon as I see the unmistakable green sheriff’s cruiser parked beside Weston’s truck in the driveway.
A mustached man stands beside the cruiser, his arms crossed over his chest as he levels a frigid look at us. “I think you kids had better come with me.”
Weston curses under his breath.
WESTON
I’ve always wondered if I’d wind up in the back of a sheriff’s cruiser someday. The odds seemed likely, given how many times people have told me to stay out of trouble. But never did I ever imagine Tessa would be sitting beside me in the back of that sheriff’s cruiser.
She’s shooting daggers at me the whole ride back into town, her face as red as a tomato—righteous anger blazing in her eyes.
Honestly, I’m more worried about her punishment for me than the sheriff’s. He and my dad go way back—one of the perks of living in a small town. Tessa, on the other hand, has never been caught doing something illegal before.
“I should be taking you two down to the station right now,” Sheriff Walker warns us from the driver’s seat. “Disturbing a crime scene could be considered tampering. And as I’m sure you both know, tampering is against the law.”
I swallow stiffly, the Montgomery key burning a hole in my pocket. “But we weren’t tampering with anything, sir. We were just looking. We were curious.”
Sheriff Walker meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Curiosity can be a crime.”
“Are you arresting us?” Tessa blurts beside me, anxiety swimming in her eyes.
Sheriff Walker grunts a dry laugh. “I’m giving you both an escort back to where you belong. But if I catch you kids snooping around the Montgomery place again, I’ll have no choice but to charge you with disturbing a crime scene.”
“It won’t happen again,” I assure him with a quick nod. “Promise.”
I want to ask why he didn’t let me drive my own truck back home, if this is nothing but an escort to “where I belong”—but I know better than to debate with an officer of the law who is choosing not to charge me with a mischief crime I am in fact guilty of.
He drops Tessa off at her house, then drives to Main Street and parks his cruiser right in front of the Chronicle, in full view of my dad’s office window. I suppress a groan, tipping my head back against the seat.
“I’ll walk you inside,” the sheriff says with a sadistic grin. “Haven’t seen your dad in a while.”
Just my luck.
He doesn’t frog-march me or anything. He just holds the door open, and we walk into the Chronicle together.
It’s humiliating enough. And of course, Marcus Verne is right there to witness my Walk of Shame.
He leans against the wall with a flashy new tie around his neck and a shit-eating grin on his face.
My jaw twitches as our eyes connect, and in that instant, I know: he was the one to sic the sheriff on me. He had to be.
“Look who I found out by the Montgomery place,” Sheriff Walker announces to my dad as soon as we step into his office.
I can’t look him in the eyes. I can’t explain myself until we’re alone, so I just stand there silently fingering the key in my pocket while Sheriff Walker catches up with my dad.
After about fifteen minutes of jawboning, he makes his exit, and I watch from the window as the cruiser pulls back out onto Main Street and drives off.
Dad sinks back into his desk chair and lets out a long sigh. “What the hell got into you, Weston?”
My fist tightens around the key as I turn around to face him. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just investigating.”
“It’s not your job to investigate,” Dad shouts, anger sparking in his eyes. “That’s up to the police and the state investigators, not you. And yes, you did do something wrong when you crossed that crime scene tape that said ‘do not cross’!”
“Okay,” I hiss. “Do you have to let the whole office know? I’m sorry. I told Sheriff Walker it won’t happen again, and it won’t.” I look down, a knot of frustration tightening in my chest. My fingers still have ash on them from fooling around with the front-door lock of the burned house.
“Weston,” Dad begins, then sighs again, rubbing his forehead wearily.
“In the world of reporting, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of breaking a story—especially a sensational one like this.
But you have to remember, there are ethical rules we operate by.
All that matters is getting the truth out to the public once we know for sure what the truth is. It doesn’t matter who gets the glory.”
An indignant laugh catches in my throat.
“Maybe you should talk to Marcus about that. He’s been snooping around in this case long before I was, trying to dig up all this evidence against Jonathan Boone—he’s going around telling the police stuff he doesn’t even know for sure.
He’s the one who’s been trying to get the glory, being a know-it-all jerk—”
“Stop letting Marcus bother you,” Dad cuts in, leveling a stern look at me. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks or says or does in his free time. I’m not going to tell him how to behave because he’s not my son—you are.”
I grit my teeth, every other accusation I was about to make sinking back down my throat.
“He’s a decent writer,” Dad continues, his tone clipped.
“That’s why I hired him. Now, I know there’s a personality clash between you and Marcus, but I want you to be the better man, alright?
Rise above it. Have a professional attitude and don’t let your ego get involved.
That’s a lesson you’re going to have to learn sooner or later if you stay in this line of work. ”
I want to tell him he doesn’t really know Marcus—doesn’t know what a slippery, scheming bottom-feeder he really is when “the boss” isn’t looking. But somehow, I know anything I say will come out sounding petty and unprofessional.
And after seeing the look on my dad’s face when Sheriff Walker escorted me into his office, all I want is to make him proud of me again.
So I say, “Yes, sir.” And I leave his office.
When I pull out my phone, I find a new text from Tessa on the screen.
Tessa:
Did you get off okay?
A wry smirk tugs at one side of my mouth as I type back a reply.
Weston:
Yeah
I slipped the noose
She replies immediately.
Tessa:
Good.
Because I’m going to strangle you myself
I send her a row of kissing emojis in response to the death threat and pocket my phone, striding across the office to Marcus’s cubicle. He’s talking on the phone as I approach, his back to me, his perfectly groomed head nodding to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. I understand… I can print those off here and deliver them by the end of the day.”