Twelve
Trevor leaned against the cold metal table in the interrogation room, watching Denton through the one-way glass.
The man sat rigid in his chair, eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched tight.
Even now, caught red-handed with evidence that practically screamed guilt, Denton hadn’t cracked—not a word, not a confession.
Lark shifted at his feet, the dog’s ears perked, sensing the tension. Trevor reached down and scratched behind her ears. Denton had been in there for nearly an hour, and the jerk hadn’t so much as flinched when they’d laid out the evidence.
Trevor knew Denton’s fingerprints on those license plates were enough to tie him to the victims, especially since the plates hadn’t been burned—proof he’d taken them before torching the cars.
They’d found other evidence, too—bottles of pool shock and brake fluid.
Yet it still wasn’t enough to link him directly to Bruce’s death, Alicia’s or the attempts on Helena’s life.
And he wanted him for all the murders if he was guilty.
His mouth dried up at the thought. The brake line on Helena’s vehicle being cut wasn’t just reckless—it was malicious. Meant to kill. And Denton had known Helena would be the one driving. The realization made Trevor’s blood run colder as the other attempts came to mind.
When he finally pushed off the table and stepped into the interrogation room, Denton didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, his expression carved from stone. Trevor took the chair opposite. He sat down heavily, letting the silence stretch between them.
“You know we found enough evidence to put you away,” Trevor said evenly. “Your prints on those plates—trophies you kept. Brake fluid and pool shock. It’s not a question of if you did it. It’s why.”
Denton didn’t even blink.
Trevor fought back his frustration. He wanted to rip into him, demand answers, but that would only give Denton more power—more satisfaction. Trevor wouldn’t give him that. Instead, he leaned back and kept his voice calm.
“We’re gonna keep digging,” he continued. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. We’ll find more. And if you had anything to do with Bruce’s death or trying to take Helena out, we’ll find that, too.”
Denton’s lips twitched, almost a smirk.
Trevor’s jaw tightened. “You think this is funny?”
For the first time, Denton turned his head, his eyes cold and flat. “I don’t think anything,” he muttered. “You got no proof I killed anyone. Those plates? I found them. People leave junk all over this town. Maybe I just thought they’d look good on the wall.”
Trevor forced himself to breathe evenly. “So, you just happened to collect plates from every victim’s car prior to them going up in flames and store them in hidden vents in the ceiling? And the pool shock and brake fluid—those just for hobbies?”
Denton shrugged. “I work construction. You think I don’t have chemicals lying around? And those plates—you’ll never prove where I found them or when. I don’t know how they ended up in the vent.”
It took every ounce of restraint for Trevor not to lunge across the table. He saw the way Denton’s lips pulled into that smug little smile, and he knew Denton thought he’d walk out of there.
Trevor leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper.
“You think you’re smarter than everyone else?
That you can just burn away every trace?
We got you, Denton. And I promise, you’re not clever enough to worm your way out of this.
No jury on earth will believe all those girls lost their license plates prior to their deaths, without even noticing. ”
Denton’s expression didn’t change, but Trevor could see a flicker of something—doubt, maybe fear—behind his eyes. It was enough to give him hope.
As he left the room, Lark at his side, Trevor’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Helena.
Found something in Dad’s old files. Need you to see this.
Trevor’s heart thudded as he hurried down the hall. They had Denton, but nothing felt settled. Until they could prove Denton had tried to take out Helena too, it wasn’t over.
He pulled up outside The Purple Torque. Helena’s truck was parked out front, the new one the shop had loaned her after the brakes failed. He jogged up the path and found Helena inside.
Hunched over her father’s desk, a stack of old files spread across the surface, her brow knit in concentration. She barely glanced up as he stepped in.
“What did you find?” he asked, moving to stand beside her, the faint scent of motor oil and grease filling his nose.
Helena shoved a stack of yellowing papers toward him. “Look at these,” she said, her voice strained. “They’re old work orders, dated years apart, but they all have the same name on them.”
Trevor frowned, flipping through the pages. Denton Wiley’s name appeared again and again, scrawled in Bruce’s cramped handwriting. Repairs, inspections, construction work. And then, near the bottom, a final note in Bruce’s writing: “Arsonist? Killer? Keep looking. Might have been wrong initially.”
Trevor’s pulse quickened. “This…this could be it,” he said, meeting Helena’s eyes. “This could be what ties it all together.”
Helena shook her head. “I’m starting to wonder if my dad knew exactly what Denton was.”
Trevor swallowed. “One of two things might be going on. Either Bruce was onto Denton and Denton found out and killed him hiking that day. You did say that your dad still followed arson cases. Either because those arsons were his, or he just couldn’t retire fully—you can take the firefighter out of firefighting, but you can’t take the firefighter out of the man. ”
“True. What’s the other thing?” she asked.
Trevor wasn’t sure how to present his thoughts. Helena wasn’t going to like one of them and neither did he. “Or he figured out what Denton was doing and didn’t say a word. He covered for him because maybe Denton saw your dad…” He could hardly say it.
“Saw him possibly kill my best friend.” She let out a long exhausting breath. “So why come after me? If Denton did kill my father—and we have no proof his death was homicide—then he had no reason to target me.”
“Other than he had no idea if you’d seen these work orders.
Maybe he knew your dad had them. Suspected.
Truth is we may never know if he doesn’t talk.
What we do know, is you’re now safe. We got him.
” Before he thought about it, he pulled her up and into an embrace.
At first, she froze then settled into it, if only for a brief moment. Then she pulled away.
“I have to meet my uncle later for dinner. I told him we got the guy, and I want a long, nice chat about Dad. I told him what I’d found.”
“What did he say?”
“He’d be honest. For now, I’m going to keep cleaning out the garage.”
He nodded and his phone buzzed. Emmett has sent another group task force text.
Got a major break. Rhonda Goren finally cracked.
The “he” she’s been protecting isn’t Jared Leader—he’s just the right-hand man, along with Derek Rolls.
The real leader is Almanzo Diggins. They all met while working together in private adoptions in Denver.
Rhonda claims for her own protection, Diggins would drive her to different locations blindfolded and only take it off once she was inside.
She’s in custody now, and her testimony will help convict both Diggins and Rolls on kidnapping charges at the very least—once we catch them.
We’re about to put our undercover operation into motion.
Melody Rust and an undercover FBI agent are stepping in to pose as a wealthy couple looking to adopt a newborn.
We’re moving on this. We’re going to get them. I’ll call a team meeting soon.
Trevor exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. Finally, a solid lead. He quickly typed back.
About time. Be careful and keep me posted.
He tucked his phone back into his pocket, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. This was the break they needed to bring down Diggins and his whole operation and to find Mia before she gave birth and the baby was adopted out—and Mia murdered. Now, they just had to stay sharp and not miss a step.
“Everything all right?” Helena asked. “Was that about your mom?”
“No, actually. We got a big break in the baby ring case.”
Helena smiled. “That is good news. And I will definitely be praying. Get on back and find what we need to convict Denton for not just the girls but maybe my dad and Alicia.”
“I’ll do my best.” He almost mentioned seeing a movie later now that things were safe, but the last time he’d made a move, he’d had to leave for Mom.
Now just wasn’t the right time. Maybe never.
Besides, as friendly as Helena was acting, he knew he’d hurt her with what he’d said at the living center when he told her that he never should have let them get that far—the kiss on the Ferris wheel—and that he wasn’t in a place for a relationship.
If he asked her out, he’d give her emotional whiplash.
Best to not ask. Even if he wanted to. He still wasn’t in a place for more than friendship.
“Let me know how it goes with your uncle.”
“I will.” Her smile was tightlipped, and he ached to feel them on his again. That had been an epic kiss. Full of hope.
But right now, hope was lost.
* * *
Helena’s fingers brushed aside a scattering of greasy rags and worn tools as she riffled through her father’s old toolbox. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping to find—answers, maybe, or some clue to piece together the fragments of her father’s past that felt just out of reach.
Then, tucked beneath a pile of rusted screwdrivers and a cracked flashlight, something caught her eye—a small, folded scrap of paper, yellowed and creased.
Her heart thudded as she unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was unmistakably her father’s—tight, hurried script, the ink faded but still legible.