Chapter 5 Fire On Forsythia Lane #11
He gives me one, too—hooking me hard on the jaw by dumb luck.
It’s enough to throw me off guard for a second.
Enough for him to trap my arms behind my back.
I writhe on the floor, rolling over and thrusting a knee where I think his groin is.
When he lets go with an animalistic moan of pain, I know I hit my target.
I clamber to my feet, trying to get away from him while I have the chance—but his hand reaches out and yanks my metal ankle joint, making me trip and fall on my face. Panic fires through me as I try to drag myself away.
Downside of having no feeling below my knees: I don’t know how tight a grip my attacker has around my fake leg.
Upside: my fake leg is removable.
Thinking fast, I reach down and press the release on my left prosthesis, disconnecting the socket from my stump. I leave Marcus holding my leg while I crawl away like a madman to the safety of the printer room.
I slam the door shut as soon as I’m inside, reaching up to twist the lock.
“Weston! Oh my god.” Tessa crashes to her knees beside me. “The police are on their way. Are you hurt? You’re bleeding. Where’s your leg?”
Despite everything, I almost laugh as I slump back against the door. “Marcus has it.”
Tessa is breathing hard as she cups my face in her hands. “You stupid, stupid idiot—you could’ve gotten killed!” She brushes away the trail of blood on my lip with her finger. “You’re lucky I was here to save your neck.”
The distant wail of sirens grows louder until I see police lights blinking under the crack in the door. Moments later, chaos erupts outside—voices barking orders, footsteps pounding into the office.
“I am lucky to have you,” I rasp, squeezing Tessa’s hand and smiling through my split lip. “Partner in crime.”
We’re stuck at the Chronicle for what feels like the rest of the night—and this time, Sheriff Walker doesn’t give me a tongue-lashing for being found in the middle of a crime scene.
I watch as the police lead Marcus away in handcuffs. I don’t know what’s more satisfying: to know that he’ll pay for what he did, or to know that I’ll never have to make his pitiful ass a Keurig ever again.
Tessa and I take turns explaining to the sheriff what happened and the files we found on Marcus’s computer. We hand over the printed email forgeries, but the police end up seizing the whole computer hard drive for further investigation.
Meanwhile, first responders put me through the Spanish Inquisition of medical questions, and it takes a while to convince them that I ripped my leg off on purpose—and that, despite the blood on my lip and the hole in the ceiling, nobody was shot.
(Unless you count the nutshot I delivered to Marcus’s groin when we were grappling on the floor.
It makes me smile to know that he’ll have sore balls while he sits in jail, awaiting trial.)
When Dad shows up at the Chronicle, he rushes over and hugs me so tight I think my ribs might break—and I hug him back just as hard.
We don’t get time to talk about everything until after the commotion has died down and Tessa has gotten a ride back home.
The police are still poking around, taking photos and gathering evidence, but they’ve stopped asking us questions.
That’s when Dad shakes his head in dismay and says, “I’m sorry, Wes. I should’ve taken your suspicions about Marcus more seriously… I should’ve paid closer attention to him. I should’ve noticed…”
“You have a lot on your plate, Dad,” I assure him with a shrug. “And you weren’t wrong—I did let Marcus piss me off. But it was more than a personality clash. More than rivalry.”
Dad nods. “I know. And I’m sorry I misread the situation.”
I give him a weak half-smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going tonight. I know I shouldn’t have been… investigating. I know it’s not my job here. And I understand if you want to fire me.”
Dad laughs unexpectedly, his hand on my shoulder. “I think I’ll let you off with a warning this time.”
TESSA
Arson Verdict: Local Businessman Guilty of Insurance Fraud; Accomplice Convicted for Forgery
ROCKFORD – Rockford found itself at the center of a riveting courtroom drama on Thursday as Harrison Montgomery, 57, the owner of a once-stately residence, was pronounced guilty of insurance fraud after deliberately setting his own house ablaze.
The incident unfolded on April 17 when Montgomery, facing a city-issued stop-work order and an estimated $200,000 in mandated hazardous material remediation, opted for a reckless solution: burning his house to the ground.
The motivation was a dubious attempt to claim insurance rather than address the costly repairs that stood in the way of selling the property.
Montgomery orchestrated the arson by dousing the attic in accelerant and igniting a candle, subsequently leaving town under the pretense of an early-morning flight to Los Angeles.
However, Montgomery’s plan took an unexpected turn as he attempted to shift blame onto the previous property owner, Jonathan Boone.
Montgomery alleged that Boone had sent him malicious emails, which he claimed revealed the motive behind the crime.
Investigations, however, revealed these emails to be cunning forgeries, the handiwork of an accomplice in the crime, Marcus Verne, a 22-year-old implicated in the scheme.
Rockford’s chief of police, Sheriff Walker, expressed his disdain for the ruse, stating, “Montgomery’s actions not only endangered lives but also attempted to destroy the reputation of an innocent man.”
In the verdict delivered yesterday, Montgomery was found guilty of insurance fraud and arson. He now faces a significant prison sentence and has been ordered to make restitution for the damages caused by the deliberately set fire.
Marcus Verne, the accomplice responsible for the forgery of evidence, will stand trial for multiple charges, including fabricating the emails to frame Jonathan Boone. Verne faces legal consequences for his complicity in this case.
I lower the newspaper when I finish the article and look at Weston, who’s sitting beside me on the couch, a smile of admiration spreading over my face.
“You did it,” I say, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. “You solved the mystery.”
“We solved it,” Weston murmurs, brushing a lock of hair off my cheek and kissing me back. “I might be dead right now if it weren’t for you.”
“About that…” I smirk, holding up the paper. “There’s nothing in here about Marcus pulling a gun on you and wrestling your leg off.”
Weston tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t think my dad wanted The Rockford Chronicle to sound like a potentially life-threatening place to work. Might scare away new hires.”
I laugh, folding the newspaper in half and studying the two mugshots at the top of the article. Montgomery, with his wrinkled brow and flat line of a mouth; Marcus, with his whole life ahead of him, now shadowed by a reputation he’ll never be able to escape.
“I don’t feel bad for him,” I say decisively.
“Which one?”
“Both of them. But especially Marcus.” I toss the paper onto the coffee table. “What sort of legal consequences is he going to face?”
Weston shrugs. “He made things more complicated by threatening me at gunpoint. Plus, he’s guilty of more than just forgery.
He’s also facing charges of defamation, filing a false police report, blackmail, obstruction of justice, malicious persecution…
He got a lot done for a guy who was too lazy to make his own coffee. ”
I stifle a smirk. “And Montgomery?”
“Up to ten years in prison. Maybe more because he tried to frame Boone for the arson.” Weston shakes his head.
“I want to believe the police would’ve gotten to the bottom of all this if we hadn’t intervened…
but I’m glad we did. A guy like Boone couldn’t afford the fancy lawyers Montgomery had in his pocket.
And I know he’s messed up in the past, but you can’t judge people based on what they look like on the outside. ”
I nod slowly, tracing my fingertips over the back of his hand. “That’s very true. And I’m sure Mr. Boone will be grateful to see his name cleared in the paper—to see the sheriff calling him an ‘innocent man.’”
A little smile tugs at Weston’s mouth, and he sighs out a breath he seems to have been holding for a long time. “Now what? Life goes back to being boring again?”
I laugh, smacking him playfully. “I like boring. Boring doesn’t get you killed.”
“That’s why it’s so boring.” Weston reaches over, snatches the still-unsolved Rubik’s Cube from the coffee table, and begins fidgeting with it.
Blue and orange are the only two sides yet to be put in their proper places.
“You know, a position is open at the Chronicle now. We could really use a new writer.”
I roll my eyes, tipping my head against the back of the couch. “I told you, I’m no good at writing about local events.”
“You wouldn’t have to write about local events,” Weston volleys back, spinning the cube at different angles. “You’re good at other things. Like… giving people advice.”
“Advice? On what?”
“Everything. Life, love, dating, marriage, that kinda stuff. People could write in to your column, and you’d pick the best questions and answer them.” Weston shrugs. “I could totally get my dad on board with the idea. He needs something to appeal to the old ladies in our readership.”
My eyebrows rise. “The old ladies?”
“Yeah, you’re good with them,” Weston says, nodding convincingly. “Look how much Mrs. Atwood loved you. It’s because you’re an old soul. Plus, you love bossing people around, telling them what they should and shouldn’t do. You’d be great at giving life advice.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
Weston laughs, grabbing my hand and kissing my knuckles. “Think about it?”
I let him wait for a long moment before tipping my head indulgently. “I’ll think about it. I do rather like telling people what they should do.”
Weston seems satisfied that I’ve proven him right—again. He spins the Rubik’s Cube one last time and stops, a smile dawning on his face. “Well, what do you know?” He tosses the cube into the air, catches it, and holds it up for me to see, a victorious twinkle in his eyes. “Solved it.”