Chapter 32
thirty-two
“The fire you kindle for your enemy often burns yourself more than them.” - Chinese Proverb
Eric Ward ushered them both up the stairs, his steps and breathing steady as he followed after them. Jocelyn didn’t look back, but her awareness of his gun kept a constant tingle on the back of her neck, her pulse jumping at her throat.
Where was Cole?
The fear coiled in her stomach, and she cringed at every creak of the stairs as they walked. Maybe Cole wasn’t here. Maybe they’d lied to her, and he was out preparing for the festival that would kick off in a few days.
The hope was faint, but she fought to cling to it.
“Go in,” Eric directed as they reached the door.
Frank stumbled through first, and Jocelyn scanned the apartment as Eric pushed her in afterward.
She spotted Cole by the couch, curled on his side with his hands tied behind his back, feet bound. There was blood on the wood floor beneath him, and panic clawed through her insides, threatening to rip her apart.
Ward snagged her arm just before she rushed over. “He’s alive.”
She jerked to look at the older man, taking in the hardness of his expression. But there was also resignation and a bone weariness that made no sense.
“What did you do to him?” she demanded.
“Won’t matter soon enough.” He shoved her forward, and she stumbled, catching herself at the island to keep from falling.
Ward locked the door behind him before turning to Frank, who wiped his running nose on his sleeve. His grief and pain still marred his face with blotchy patches of red, his eyes puffy from crying.
“I did what you asked,” Frank said, his voice weak. “Now let her go.”
Ward frowned like Frank’s words disappointed him. “That wasn’t our agreement. But you did play your part nicely.”
Jocelyn looked from Ward to Frank, who refused to meet her gaze. “What is he talking about?”
The weight of Ward’s stare made her skin prickle, but she kept her attention on Frank.
Realization dawned when the two remained silent. She’d thought Lydia had started the fire, and at most, Ward might’ve helped cover her tracks. But it was him all along.
It didn't make sense. He’d never been anything to her mama. Jocelyn had never even heard of him before her investigation.
“Why?” she asked.
“I like fire. Always have.” Ward spoke through his teeth like he hated the fact. “All it took was a perfectly placed candle near a curtain splashed with a trace amount of accelerant. Didn’t know then that Bonnie’d be lyin’ half-dead in there later that night.”
“When?” Frank cut in.
Ward rolled his eyes. “Before either of you were even there, Leone. After my sister had come to me about the affair.”
So Lydia had known about Daniel and Bonnie. And it was her anger that had been the catalyst. But was she in on it? Had she begged her brother to help her get revenge on the woman who threatened to end her marriage, ruin her reputation, and destroy her family?
Jocelyn’s heart ached for Natasha. “Does Lydia know what you did?”
“No," he snapped. "And if I’d known she’d baited Frank, here—" he tipped his head—“I might’ve done things different.”
Jocelyn glanced at Frank, who seemed to get smaller the more her shock and horror grew.
“When I found out she’d died in it, it didn’t take much to figure who might’ve been responsible for her bein’ there at all.”
As if she wouldn’t be. They lived there, hardly ever stayed anywhere else. But maybe Ward had banked on Bonnie seeing the fire and getting them out before it became a problem. Or maybe he hadn’t cared at all.
Frank’s hands became fists. “Sure sat on it, lettin’ me believe it was all my fault for years.”
“It was your fault, damn it,” Ward snapped. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Didn’t you?” Jocelyn asked.
Anger flashed across his face. “It was an accident. And I covered it up nicely for you, Leone. No one’s come to bother you except your own conscience.”
“She still died because of you,” Jocelyn accused, drawing Ward’s attention back.
“I didn’t know!” He slashed at the air with his gun, then took a breath to calm himself. “If you hadn’t come back here asking those damn questions…”
The sentence hung in the air as he glared at her.
Chest heaving, he gestured at Frank with the gun. “Tie her up.”
Frank’s red-rimmed eyes went round. “What?”
“Tie. Her. Up.” Ward stepped forward with each word, pressing the gun to Frank’s temple.
Jocelyn’s stomach lurched up her throat.
Frank hesitated, then took the zip tie from the counter behind him, shoulders slumping as Ward walked with him to Jocelyn, keeping the barrel at his temple.
There was an apology in Frank’s eyes as he took her wrists. Then he spun her, tying them together, pulling the plastic tighter. But not tight enough. Her heart stuttered as his fingers squeezed her arm like he was communicating something. Like he’d left the tie loose on purpose.
Before she could turn around to confirm it in his face, though, the blast of the gun had her flinching as a scream ripped up her throat. She spun as Frank hit the floor at her feet. Blood sprayed her shoes, jolting her backward.
She jerked to look at Ward, stomach heaving. His mouth was pulled into a tight line of displeasure as he stared down at Frank.
When he shifted back to her, she caught the determination that edged out the desperation in his eyes. “Sadly, Frank’s guilty conscience got the better of him." His voice was flat, overly controlled. "What a sad ending to the story of that Murphy girl.”
Each word dropped into her stomach like a stone, heavy and jagged. A sad ending. He was going to kill them and pin it all on Frank. She cut a look at Cole across the room. Was he even breathing?
When she focused on Ward again, she tried to find the psychotic glint that had to be in there somewhere. But he looked resolved, grim. Burdened.
Pulling ever so slightly at her bound wrists, she asked, “So what's your plan? Make it look like murder-suicide?”
“Covered by fire. I’ve got his confession all written up.” He gestured to the couch. “Have a seat.”
Despite Frank’s body at her feet, she struggled to believe that this was really happening, that Ward would go through with it. And maybe he wouldn’t if she resisted. He didn’t seem happy to be dealing with the whole scenario. Maybe he could even be reasoned with.
He moved toward her when she remained where she was. The threat in the movement made her step back, which seemed to incite his anger.
“I’m not a violent man, Jocelyn.” The edge in his voice chilled her. “It didn’t have to come to this. You left me no choice.” His gaze flicked to Cole. “You couldn’t just let it go.”
He shuffled forward again, and she recoiled, expecting him to hit her or throw her onto the couch himself, but he’d stepped up to Cole, the gun poised at his head. Her stomach torqued as his finger shifted to the trigger, violence a prickle in the air, his intent clear.
“Sit.”
A vice tightened around her chest as she complied.
Air seemed to grind through her lungs like it was filled with gravel, and she fought for every breath.
Ward’s gaze scraped along her skin as he moved toward the door.
A bag rested on the floor there, and he crouched beside it, his eyes never leaving her as he reached inside.
A big bottle of lighter fluid came out of the bag, and it slid home what was going to happen, that this was real. That this man had killed her mama, and he was going to kill her, too.
Her chest hurt from how hard her heart threw itself against her ribs, and her blood pumped hot and fast through her.
Looking down at Cole, so still, she saw the rise and fall of his chest that proved he was alive.
Her eyes squeezed shut as she counted the seconds that ticked between his inhale and exhale, tuning herself to him.
If she didn’t concentrate on his breathing, she would hear the splashing of the fluid as Ward poured it around the room.
It helped a little, though the scent of the chemical bit at her nostrils, snapping her back to reality easily enough. She recognized that smell from downstairs, the scent she hadn’t been able to place. Oh, God, he’d already doused it down there.
She opened her eyes to find Eric standing across the room from her, pouring the fluid in one spot like he’d lost track of his thoughts.
Think, Jocelyn, she told herself. She couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let this be the end of her life, of Cole’s.
As Ward turned in a slow circle, drenching all of Cole’s furniture, she began working at the zip tie around her wrists again.
Ward looked less like a man reveling in chaos and more like someone carrying out a sentence he shouldn’t have been saddled with, but he was still her enemy, the thing standing between her and life.
He lit a match; the sound of it catching made his pupils blow wide like a shark scenting blood. They were out of time.
She yanked at her ties more violently, desperation clawing up her spine.
The plastic zip tie gave with a sharp snap against her wrists, and Ward’s face jerked to her just as she lurched to her feet. With a cry torn from somewhere deep and desperate, she slammed her shoulder into him before he could react.
Ward staggered on the slick floor where he’d poured the lighter fluid, his eyes flying wide with shock more than fear. Her stomach dropped out as they both went down.
The crack of Ward’s head against the edge of the coffee table eclipsed the sound of flame catching the accelerant coating the floor, but she didn’t miss the sight of the fire as it curled up the curtains, licking higher with every second.
She scrambled off of Eric, who didn’t stir, and crawled toward Cole.
He still lay unmoving on the floor as the blaze raced across the room, igniting Jocelyn’s panic.