Hunting an Arsonist (Colorado K-9 Unit #6)

One

He was dead. And she’d never hear his voice again.

Now all that echoed in Helena Rutherford’s ears were his screams—raw, jagged—as he fell from the rugged cliff to his death.

Finality. Silence where love used to be.

Except Uncle Rick.

She didn’t really know him. Her dad hadn’t spoken much about his older brother—only in passing, and in hushed tones behind her parents’ bedroom door when they thought she was asleep.

She’d collected bits and pieces. Phrases and words.

Nothing that made sense to her as a child, or even now, but she’d gotten the impression Dad didn’t want to be a part of his life. Though it had appeared maybe Mom had.

Helena wandered through the house, switching off lamps until only the microwave’s soft yellow glow lit the kitchen.

Her dad had remodeled this room a decade ago, proud of the new cabinets and the stainless-steel appliances, but it needed a little TLC after Mom passed.

He’d planned to do an overhaul and was placing bids on a construction crew but then everything spiraled and she’d lost him.

His mechanic shop—The Purple Torque—had become a staple in Lavender with enough employees that he’d overseen it until she was old enough to manage it, as he’d been the town’s fire chief until he retired a couple of years ago, filling his days at the shop with her, passing on any knowledge she might not have learned before.

Fair prices and integrity, that was his motto. “Anything extra,” he used to say, “is God’s gift.”

He’d passed the family business down to Helena.

She now employed six mechanics, though most of her hours went to the Lavender PD, overseeing their fleet and impound lot.

It wasn’t easy being in a male dominated field—at her garage and at the PD.

Finding a man who could handle some grease under her nails and the fact she could change a tire faster than most men was intimidating or off-putting.

She’d dated and been vulnerable only to later be dumped.

They may not all have been honest about why, but it was in the murmured rumors around town and at the PD.

If she wasn’t the oddball, she was a challenge. And that made life pretty lonely.

Helena put a kettle on for Sleepy Time tea and checked the clock.

Midnight.

As a child, her dad used to tap on her door on his way to bed, hooting like an owl just to make her laugh. She’d roll her eyes—but she secretly loved it. She’d give anything to hear one of those ridiculous dad jokes again.

But her late nights had little to do with nostalgia.

On top of Dad’s passing two months ago, her latest assignment as a forensic mechanic with the PD had been keeping her up at night. A string of disturbing arsons. Four college girls burned alive in their cars. Three in Lavender. One in Colorado Springs.

She was working alongside Officer Trevor Slate and his arson dog, Lark, trying to make sense of it. She wasn’t sure who she trusted more—Trevor or the dog.

Trevor was solid. Smart. Committed. He was also chasing leads on a suspected illegal adoption ring stretching across the state, which had required his time over the past few months.

But his help on this case—her case—was personal.

The pattern of the murders was beginning to whisper at them. Something disturbing.

This case—the flames, the silence, the girls who didn’t scream—brought back the one thing she’d spent years trying to forget.

Alicia.

Her best friend. The girl who’d vanished on a hot July night from this very house.

One moment, they were dreaming about the future. The next, Alicia was gone.

Back then, Helena was supposed to go outside to talk to Denton Wiley—a boy with a crush who couldn’t take a hint, and it had ended in him tossing pebbles at Helena’s window.

But she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, and Alicia…

Alicia had never hesitated to protect the people she loved. She’d gone outside to set him straight.

She’d never returned.

Denton was questioned, of course. Swore he hadn’t done anything. No evidence, no body, no arrest. Alicia had run away once before, after her brother was killed in the line of duty—but this wasn’t like that. She’d left behind everything. Purse, clothes, plans.

Only a yawning void remained. Almost twenty years of it.

Some nights, Helena still looked out her old bedroom window, hoping to see Alicia climbing the trellis, grinning and daring her to sneak out into the woods like they used to. But the woods weren’t the same anymore. Neither was she.

The kettle screamed. She poured the hot water, added honey and headed upstairs—careful to avoid the primary bedroom downstairs. She couldn’t sleep there. Not yet.

She passed through the turret alcove at the top of the stairs, where three tall windows framed the night like a watchful eye. Her mother used to sit here for hours, wrapped in a throw, mystery novel in her lap, the woods stretching behind her like a painting.

Tonight the windows were black mirrors. The pines beyond them tighter, darker than she remembered. On stormy nights the glass would rattle.

She paused.

Something moved at the edge of the woods.

A shadow. Quick. Then still.

Her breath caught. Heart thudding, she leaned in—but the shape had vanished. Maybe just the clouds shifting, her tired brain chasing shadows again. That’s what she told herself, anyway. But in her gut, something cold began to settle.

The girls in those cars hadn’t screamed, either. The coroner said they were likely unconscious before the fire started. And still…they hadn’t died from smoke inhalation. The fire itself had consumed them. Intentionally.

Whoever did this wanted them erased.

Shivering, Helena pulled the curtains shut and turned back to her books. Maybe not a murder mystery tonight. Maybe something lighter. She picked up a Susan L. Tuttle romance with a bit of mystery and adventure, then crawled into bed, tea warm in her hands.

By 1:00 a.m., her eyes were heavy and the words began to blur. She switched off the lamp and curled into the blanket, letting the warmth of the story carry her somewhere far away.

Someplace where friends never disappeared.

Where fathers didn’t fall.

And nothing waited in the woods.

* * *

Trevor Slate wouldn’t say that running in the middle of the night was smart—or normal. It wasn’t. But lately, his mind had been too full, too tangled, and running sometimes gave him the clarity he couldn’t find in waking hours. If he needed clarity, it was now.

He glanced down at his English springer spaniel, Lark—his loyal companion and, in his humble opinion, the best arson detection dog in the state of Colorado.

She didn’t care what time of day it was.

Lark would run with him through rain, snow or moonlit silence without question. He envied that kind of purpose.

His feet pounded the worn path weaving through the woods. The loop would take him back to Lavender City Park, where he’d started. These night runs used to soothe a restlessness in him. But lately, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to break loose.

It had been too long since he’d allowed himself this outlet. He didn’t like leaving Mom alone, especially at night. Her COPD had worsened, paired now with the slow, strangling grip of Pulmonary fibrosis—a permanent reminder of what that house fire had stolen from them.

She’d gone into the burning house to save his younger sister.

And she had. At least, she’d tried.

Trevor hadn’t moved. Just watched.

He was fourteen. Andrea was twelve. The fire chief had gone in with his crew and carried out his mother, coughing up black soot and collapsing in the yard. Andrea had been carried out, as well, but never woke again. Died of smoke damage.

Trevor never forgave himself. His legs were working now, pumping harder, like he could leave that moment behind—but he never could. It clung to him like ash.

Mom had struggled with health issues related to the fire ever since.

Two days ago, he made the call he’d been avoiding for years—placing her in assisted living.

The guilt of that decision weighed on him, but she needed round-the-clock care.

The kind he couldn’t provide—not while working full-time for the Lavender PD and taking on a position with the Colorado K-9 Unit, a special task force comprised of officers across the state with one goal: to crack open a baby smuggling ring.

A group of dangerous criminals was abducting pregnant young women in the Denver area and stealing their newborns, then murdering the mothers.

They’d recently taken another victim, nineteen-year-old Mia Andrews.

Would he let her down like he’d let down Andrea?

He ran harder. Faster. Like he could outrun everything—the investigation, the past, the guilt, the way Andrea’s name still lodged in his throat.

But his mind only shifted to the other big case he was working. Lavender’s own monster. The arsonist.

Four college girls. Four vehicles. Four infernos.

Helena Rutherford was doing everything she could to help. As a forensic mechanic, she understood the fire’s language in ways most didn’t. But arson erased its own evidence. Sometimes all you were left with was a scarred frame and unanswered questions.

Trevor was losing sleep. Losing patience. The town was pressuring them for results. And meanwhile, someone out there was setting fire to the world.

Lark barked once—sharp, alert—then barked again, spinning a tight circle.

Trevor slowed. His breath hitched. “What is it, girl?”

Then he caught the scent.

Smoke.

Faint. But real.

Lark had scented on an accelerant. Someone had set something on fire. Had the arsonist struck again?

His lungs seized. He was an arson investigator with a deeply rooted fear of fire. That was the great irony, wasn’t it? The very thing that had broken his family was now what he was sworn to fight.

“Track, Lark. Track!”