by Mary Burton
“Silver pieces that look like they belong in the family.”
“No. Yard sale finds. They can go.”
Maura rummaged in the box. “Earrings in the kitchen drawer. Look like real pearls.”
A gift from Clarke. “No, they can go.”
Maura looked a little surprised but kept going through the box. There was a small photo album featuring all Nate’s visits to Santa. In the first he was eleven months, but in the second, at twenty-three months, he had learned stranger danger and would have nothing to do with the big guy in the red suit. Clarke had offered to hold him, and the photographer, who had dozens of children waiting, had snapped a picture of a stressed-out Santa and a grinning Clarke holding a red-faced Nate.
In the end, she kept the photos and the bear, but everything else she let go. “Thanks, Maura.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Would you like to visit?” Ann offered. “I don’t have much yet, but I have pasta I’m heating up, and we can eat on the couch in the living room.”
Maura checked her watch. “The charity center closes in an hour, but the truck is covered with a tarp, so it can sit until morning.”
Each settled on either end of the couch with a paper cup of wine and a bowl of penne pasta covered in marinara sauce.
“This is amazing pasta,” Maura said.
“It’s from a little out-of-the-way place called Tony’s. When I want to treat myself, I go there.” Ann slipped off her shoes and curled her feet up under her.
“I should have all the closets, cabinets, and bathrooms cleaned out by the end of the week,” Maura said as she finished off her pasta.
“You’re efficient. At the rate I was going, it would have been years before the house was sold.” Ann found a clear spot on the coffee table for her bowl and retrieved her wine.
“Easier when you’re on the outside looking in. Outsiders don’t take time to ponder or second-guess.”
Ann had done more than a lifetime of each. “I think you’re right.”
“You teach forensic psychology.” Maura sipped her wine. “Do you solve cases with the cops?”
Ann laughed, not willing to discuss any of her work with the state police. “I grade papers and hand out homework assignments.”
“If I wanted to take a class at the university, could I still sign up?”
“Yes, at the registrar’s office. I’ll be in my office the next couple of days, so if you want a tour, I’d be happy to give you one. I can also introduce you to the registrar.”
“I might take you up on that. What kind of class would you recommend?”
“Come and see me, and we’ll figure it out.” Ann finished her glass and discovered she wanted a little more. It felt good to relax and have a normal conversation, even if it was superficial. “Would you like a little more?”
Maura glanced into her empty cup. “I better get going. Tomorrow’s a long day.”
“Of course.” Ann followed Maura as she made her way around the boxes to the door. “Maura, remember there are people who are still really curious about me. What’s in that house is for your eyes only. I’m not feeding anyone’s morbid fascination with my life.”
“Of course,” Maura said quickly. “I understand the importance of privacy.”
“Good.”
Ann stood at the door and watched Maura load the box and then get back in her truck. As she backed out of the driveway, Ann noticed that Maura’s truck sported Wyoming plates. She had said she’d worked back east for several years but had not mentioned when or where she had arrived out west. She would not have been the first to put off a visit to the DMV.
Ann walked to her mailbox and retrieved a handful of ad flyers and bills. Her father always said salesmen and bill collectors were the most efficient at finding a new address.
She returned to the kitchen and poured the last of the wine in her cup as she stared at Montana Mac. “Sorry, big fella. I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”
Mail and Montana Mac in hand, she went to her office and sat at her desk. Sipping her wine, she settled the bear on the couch behind her and then opened the Helena murder investigation file.
The gruesome pictures reached past the haze of the wine and reminded her that there was a monster in town. And as much as she wanted to get on with her life and find happiness, or whatever, it would all have to wait. She would search every detail in this case, and maybe make up for all the warning signs she had missed with Clarke.
As she flipped through the mail, a handwritten envelope fell out. It wasn’t stamped, and the address was simply “Ann.”
Curious, she pulled out the note card and opened it.
Ann, it’s time we met and talked.
Find me or I will find you.
Elijah.
Her office chair squeaked as she sat back and studied Elijah’s bold, direct script. Finding her here would not have been a difficult task, especially for someone as smart as Elijah. A call would have been more efficient, but a note carried greater impact. It was a tangible reminder that he knew exactly where she lived.
She crumpled up the note and tossed it toward the new small brown trash can. The unwieldy ball bounced off the rim and hit the floor, rolling back toward her. The note refused to be tossed away, just as she suspected Elijah was not going away easily.
PAUL THOMPSON’S CRIME FILES
The woman across from me is successful, attractive, and poised. She is the kind of woman most females envy and most men want. And she has been writing to a man locked behind bars in Montana for four years. If you guessed the man was Elijah Weston, then you would be correct.
“You must be wondering why I started writing him.” The Realtor is dressed in neatly pressed black slacks and a red shirt that offsets her shoulder-length blond hair. Her nails are manicured, and a charm bracelet given to her by her grandmother dangles from her wrist and complements discreet gold hoop earrings.
“You’re not what I pictured,” I say.
“I never would have seen myself doing anything like this.”
“So why do it?”
She leans back and picks an imaginary piece of lint from her slacks. “Five years ago, I was in a low point in my life. My boyfriend and I broke up, and my father died. There was an article on the internet about a prisoner in Montana. He had just earned his college degree while behind bars and was touted as a model prisoner. It was a second-chances kind of story. That appealed to me, but when I saw his brief interview, I was kind of amazed.”
“He’s a good-looking guy.”
“To say the least.” The silence settles around her. “I needed to believe in second chances then, and he was an inspiration to me. I decided to write and tell him so. It’s important to acknowledge when people try to clean up their mistakes. I didn’t think he’d write me back, but two weeks later there was a letter in my mailbox.”
“What did you think?”
“I was shocked. A little afraid.”
“Why were you afraid?” I ask.
“He now had my home address. Which I had to give in order for the prison to accept the letter.”
“What did he say?”
She reaches for a letter sitting on the table beside her. “I’ll read just a little.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
She clears her throat, crosses and then uncrosses her legs. “Dear Sarah. Your letter really touched my soul. I’m sorry for your losses and the challenges you’ve faced this last year.” She looks up. “The next part is personal, but he ends the letter with, ‘Life’s next second chance is waiting for you. It’s called Tomorrow, Firefly.’”
“It’s nice.”
“Sounds like an internet meme, but it really meant something to me. Because of that, I picked myself up. I got my real estate license, and I began building a really nice career. His words helped me. He made me realize I was a fighter.”
“And you kept writing him?”
“Yeah. He became a friend. A confida
nt.”
“When did you first hear about the Fireflies?”
She smiles. “Not until last year, when that woman in Montana died. The press called her a Firefly. I didn’t realize Elijah had been writing to twelve or thirteen different women.”
“There were thirteen in total. How do you feel about the others?”
“It made sense that there would be other women who were drawn to him. And I understood he needed more contact with the outside world than I could give.” Her smile widens a fraction. “I like to think, though, that I was his favorite, and that no matter what, we would always be connected.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
CHAPTER TEN
Missoula, Montana
Friday, August 20
6:15 a.m.
Whatever plans Ann had for an early-morning run were canceled as soon as her phone alarm buzzed and she sat up. Her stomach rolled, her head pounded behind her left eye, and her mouth felt like she had eaten a sock. Finishing up the bottle of wine had not been a genius move.
Her first impulse was to push through the sickness and check on Nate. And then she remembered he was camping. She was alone. There was no agenda.
She could fall back to sleep, but when she eased back against the pillows, her head pounded harder, and the bed swirled as the drumbeat of recrimination thudded under her temples. The wine had allowed her to doze, but it was a restless, uneasy sleep filled with images of Elijah.
Drawing in a breath, she forced herself up off the mattress and moved into the bathroom, where she grabbed aspirin, which she swallowed dry. The next fifteen minutes became a study in will as she showered, dressed, and applied some makeup to brighten her pale complexion.
Feeling a little more human, she went into the kitchen and made coffee. The machine had barely gurgled out a half pot when she poured the first cup and drank. “Welcome back from the dark side, Ann,” she muttered.
As she refilled her cup, her phone chimed with a text.
Bryce: The Kansas and Knoxville files arrived. I’ll be in Helena today.
It was a two-hour drive to the state capital. She checked her watch. If she left now, she could be in Bryce’s office by nine. That would give her a full day to review the cases. She did not need him present—in fact, it would be better if he left her alone to her thoughts in a quiet conference room stocked with more coffee. She checked her calendar. Her bed frame, along with several carpets, was scheduled to arrive by nine. As tempted as she was to have the delivery person leave them on the front porch, she needed to wait.
Ann: I can be in your office by noon.
Bryce: Here all day. If I’m in a meeting, have them page me.
Ann: See you then.
Bryce: Roger.
The chance that the other crimes back east were related to the Montana cases was slim. But a small chance was greater than none.
Elijah sat behind the registrar’s desk, ready to face the endless mundane tasks that awaited him. Most would be problems that could have been avoided with careful planning beyond the next five minutes. But no one planned, so he ended up with harried students who believed he could magically fix incomplete schedules, bestow missed credits needed for graduation, or create spots in classes filled two weeks ago.
He had taken the volunteer job not to help his clueless fellow students, but to be close to Ann. He had kept his distance this last year for strategic reasons. Not only did he have to deal with the state and get his settlement, but it always took time for media attention to die down. Both goals had now been accomplished, so it was time to reassert himself and remind her the time for reckoning had arrived.
He sensed a woman approach his desk. She stood patiently for a second before she began to shift back and forth on her feet. He did not raise his gaze immediately, denying her immediate gratification.
Finally, he looked up, knowing impatience snapped in his gaze. She was midsize, lean with light-brown hair. She was older than the average student, maybe late twenties. “May I help you?”
Her stare lingered on him, and a quiet warning rang in the back of his head. Was she a reporter or a cop, or a woman who was curious about his story?
She held up the campus brochure. “I’d like to audit a class.”
“Audit?”
“I’m dipping my toe back into academics. Thought an audited class would knock the rust off my brain cells.”
“What kind of class do you want to take?”
“Intro to Forensic Psychology. Dr. Ann Bailey teaches it.”
His interest was piqued. “You know Dr. Bailey?”
“I’m actually working for her. I have this cleaning business, and I’m getting her Beech Street house ready to go on the market. By the way, my name is Maura Ralston.”
He was not surprised that Ann was selling, and he took it as a good sign. She was moving on with her life.
Elijah studied the woman more closely. She had a wide smile, a cute face, and her long brown hair had streaks with blond highlights. Her floral scent reminded him vaguely of Ann. She looked almost familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
“Maura, the class is full,” he said. “Dr. Bailey is a popular teacher, and this is the first time she’s taught a freshman class in five or six years.”
“Damn. Does she teach anything else?”
“We have other classes like that. I know the professors, and they’re decent instructors.”
“I’m sure they are. I really liked talking with Ann yesterday.”
He leaned forward. “She teaches a graduate class, but that’s not the place to start if you’re rusty.”
“No, I suppose not.” She grinned. “Would I be considered officially enrolled if I’m auditing? I won’t take the tests or write papers. I want to hear the lectures and do as many of the readings as I can. Like I said, knocking the rust off the brain.”
“Sorry, the school limits how many bodies can be in a room at one time.”
“But not everyone always shows up all the time.”
“True.” The woman knew how to work the angles. “But I still can’t let you in the class.”
She shoved out an impatient sigh. “Well, it was worth a try. If I get enough work in town, I might be here next semester.” She fished a card from her fringed purse. “And in case anyone is asking, I’m a crackerjack cleaning lady. No job too big or too small.”
“I’ve seen your flyers around.”
“The university is a target market.”
“I’ll hang on to the card.”
The grin, which now reminded him a little more of Ann, blurred his initial concerns about her. “Good to meet you, Maura. I’m Elijah Weston.”
“Good to meet you, Elijah.” That grin brightened. “I think I’m going to like this town. I’ve only met you and Ann, but you’ve both been great. Is everyone this friendly in town?”
“Not everyone,” he said.
“Well, I like you.” She checked her watch. “Got to go, Elijah. Off to Ann’s for more decluttering.”
“What’s she doing with her stuff?” Having pieces that had been hers might make his house feel like a home.
“She doesn’t want any of it.”
“I bought a house. And don’t have a stick of furniture. Mind if I take a look?”
“She’s not crazy about strangers being in the house.”
He smiled. “I’m not a stranger. We’re old friends.”
“Okay, I don’t see why not. Ann doesn’t want anything, so if you see something, take it. It’ll save me a trip to the dump or salvage shop.”
“Understood.”
“Great. I’ll be there all day. Maybe I’ll see you.”
“Maybe.” He watched her walk away, admiring the way her ass filled out her jeans. Ten years in jail had left him with an appreciation for views like that.
His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Registrar’s office.”
He answered more uninspiring calls. But as he hung up the rece
iver each time, he was not as irritated as he normally was. Maybe it was the idea of seeing Maura’s ass. Or Ann’s old house.
Clipped footsteps drew his gaze back to the lobby as a woman in her late forties crossed the room. Her name was Edith Scott, and she was a petite woman with a slim build that made her look at least a decade younger. A gold headband tamed dark-brown hair that skimmed her jawline.
The last decade had been kind to her, and she looked like she had when she’d sat in the jury box at his trial. She had worn a smug expression as the jury filed back into the courtroom after their short deliberations. She had risen and read the verdict to the judge and court.
On the charge of arson in the first degree. Guilty.
On the charge of malicious wounding. Guilty.
Elijah had stopped listening, but he had been laser focused on Ms. Scott’s face. Her eyes had telegraphed a brightness that hinted of righteousness. She’d believed she was saving the community from him.
As Edith now crossed the lobby, he said, “Good morning, Ms. Scott.”
She stopped and faced him. Her complexion paled and her smile faded. “Elijah.”
“Good to see you, Ms. Scott.”
He was pleased his presence scared her. Eleven years ago, she likely had never considered the day there would be no bars separating her from The Monster.
She did not respond but turned toward the elevator and pressed the button with a hand that trembled slightly.
“I haven’t seen you around much,” he said.
Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn.
“Not to worry,” he said easily. “I’ll be around for a long time.”
The doors opened, but when she turned as the doors closed, her gaze was planted on her feet.
“Have a nice day, Ms. Scott,” he said.
He had heard that living well was the best revenge. That might be true, and he hoped to find out. But in the meantime, payback was also a bitch.
CHAPTER ELEVEN