Dear Editor

by Emily Sharpe

  "Yes, s—yes. Yes, we can. May. Yes, we may," she said.

  Worth's eyes narrowed a little, but they were not angry. "Good. And kudos for that little stunt in the meeting—if I had been planning to let anyone go, you've foiled me, at least for now." He switched gears, enjoying the fact that she was squirming a little in her chair. "I wanted to see if you've come up with an idea for your inaugural column. You've got a few weeks to deadline, so no pressure. I just wondered." He sighed. "Mostly I wanted to talk to you again privately."

  Oh, God, another apology. To head it off, she sat up straight. "I'd like to do some research into the arson story—not a news item, per se, but apparently there's some history in the area. I plan to talk to some long-time residents, dig into a possible connection, that kind of thing. More human interest, less facts and figures." Worth nodded with a sudden, surprising grimace that made her heart sink. When he said nothing, she blurted, "I have a personal connection to the topic. My father was a firefighter. He died on the job a year ago. Anyway, that's what I was thinking."

  Worth's frown deepened. "I am so sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is always difficult. Is your mother still—"

  Jessica nodded. "Still very much alive. She was excited when I told her about the columnist job, too." Even more excited, I'll bet, when I told her Eric had broken up with me, she thought. Relieved, anyway.

  Worth smiled. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. "What you were thinking. What you were thinking." He leaned forward, arms on the desk. His eyes were soft. "That's commendable, Jessica. Because what I have been thinking has been quite a bit more singular and unsettling."

  Uh-oh. Here comes that apology.

  Jessica was surprised when he stood up and began to pace behind his desk. Not frantically but driven. He must really be torn up about his transgressions. Or he's afraid that I'll run to HR and report him now that I know he's my boss. Maybe he'll convince himself it was somehow my fault. Some guys are like that. She kept her eyes forward even as he came up behind her chair and put his hands on the seat back, inches from her shoulders.

  "Do you have any idea how much I want to touch you again right now?" he whispered hoarsely. "I've thought so much about that night. How I made it through that lunch on Monday, I'll never know."

  Still facing forward, her shoulders tensed. "I don't understand. You apologized. Several times. The flowers—"

  Behind her, she could sense his defeat. "Which you graciously accepted. Thank you." Worth walked around to his desk and sat down. "The more I think about it, about this, about us, the more I realize that it may be uncomfortable for you, working with me. You thought I was your boyfriend, but I knew that I was about to be your boss. Completely inappropriate of me. Better men than I have gotten into incredible trouble over less than that. I did ask, but in retrospect, I understand now that you weren't telling me yes, but your boyfriend. If you need a letter of reference, I will give you high marks—all completely sincere—"

  She couldn't take it anymore. "Are you kidding me? You're firing me?"

  Worth was horrified. "Of course not! But I thought that you may—"

  Jessica closed her eyes. "File a complaint? Is that what you're worried about?" She was fuming. "You apologized for kissing me," she hissed. "Something, I might add, that I enjoyed immensely."

  Worth drew in a breath. "You're not mad that I—"

  Jessica frowned. "I did think it was Eric in the bathroom. I wanted it to be him because—because he'd never kissed me like that before. He never wanted me that much." Jessica was mortified to feel a tear rolling down her cheek, which she quickly wiped away.

  Jessica drew in a breath to compose herself. "Mr. Vincent. Worth. It may be uncomfortable for you, to have me work here. Knowing that…" Oh what the hell. He said he'd write me a reference. Jessica leaned forward in her chair and looked at him directly. "…knowing that, what I would really like to do right now is turn back the clock to October thirty-first."

  Chapter 7

  Fires of a Different Sort

  For a few seconds, Worth stared at her without speaking while she prayed for a hole to appear in the floor and swallow her alive. He's probably the last real gentleman on earth, and that was definitely not ladylike. Then he smiled—an incredibly handsome and grateful smile. "We can't turn the clock backward, but we can certainly move forward. Let's start over, Jessica. I want to do this the right way."

  Getting up from his desk, he came around to the front of it, facing her. He reached his hands out and she grasped them with her own, letting him pull her to her feet. "Forget Halloween," Worth said softly. "Forget Darth Vader and Wonder Woman. I have a feeling that Worth and Jessica will get along even better than they did."

  When Jessica leaned in for a chaste peck on his lips, he didn't flinch. Instead, his lips softened and parted. Bathroom Guy was back. Still holding hands, the only other connection was their lips, their tongues, but Jessica could feel other parts readying themselves in a sudden wave of heat. She pulled her head back just enough to whisper, "I believe that you are correct." She was about to put her arms around his neck and get as close as humanly possible when the office door suddenly opened.

  Instinctively, they dropped hands and straightened. Jessica noticed with an inner smile that in the split second before the person who was opening the door had stepped inside, Worth had grabbed a magazine off his desk to cover his obvious pleasure. Gotta love guys, she thought. There's no faking that.

  That "person" was a rather alarmed Skip. "There's been another fire," he said, breathless. "This one's the worst yet. And there's another suicide, probably the arsonist, according to the news. But it's too close to your apartment for comfort, Jessica. I wanted you to know."

  Jessica looked at Worth. Her apartment, her column—

  "Go," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the door. Their eyes locked just a moment and it was all Jessica could do to walk away from him, story be damned.

  As the daughter of a decorated firefighter, Jessica easily got permission to enter the barricaded perimeter of the blaze, an older building in an upscale section of town, a few blocks from her apartment but not dangerously close. She spoke with the lead detective on the case as well as Chief Henderson, a longtime friend of the family.

  The fire had been quickly contained and controlled, but there was still an air of danger. Maybe being in Worth's office has my senses on high alert. Her heart hadn't stopped pounding on the drive. Whew, she thought. I've got it bad. And it's going to be so good if…

  Forcing herself to focus, Jessica took in a deep breath of acrid air. It reminded her of that awful day last year when her father had died. A hot breeze ruffled Jessica's hair as she looked at the dismal building in front her, reduced now to blackened walls and wisps of black smoke. The firefighters, law enforcement officers, news crews, even the crowd—everyone's shoulders seemed to slump, heavy with loss.

  Jessica stepped away from the officials gathered inside the barricade and walked around one end to mingle with the crowd. She knew, more from television and movies than experience, that sometimes the culprit would insinuate himself into a crime scene. Maybe that woman with the camera? The man there with the scar on his face? Was she standing beside an arsonist? But, no, the arsonist had killed himself. Again. Is it a cult thing? The thought made the back of her neck prickle.

  "Are you a reporter, honey?" Jessica turned to see an elderly woman supported by a hand-carved cane.

  "No, ma'am," she answered. "I write for Our Place, the magazine. Do you live nearby?"

  The woman shook her head. "Near the last fire, not this one. They're so like the one when I was a girl, though. I asked a neighbor to drop me off on her way downtown, so I could see what-was-what before it was all through." She chuckled wryly. "Not a girl, really. Older than you."

  Jessica explained that she planned to write a column about the older fire. Would the woman mind talking with her? Soon, they were at a café across the street, Jessica sipping a
fruit smoothie, the woman stirring hot tea. Her name was Audrey Scott and she'd lived in the city since she was born. Her mother and grandmother had been born there, too. Really, all of her family. She'd seen so much growth, so many changes.

  Audrey shook her head. "When I was a little older than you, there was this boy. I'd known his mother when we were just little things. We'd grown apart because her family had money and mine didn't. Once we weren't in school together anymore, I never saw her. But this boy was her only son."

  The woman paused for a few minutes, taking a sip of her tea before continuing with her story. "Police said he started the fire! They had positive identification, they said, picked out of a line up. A couple of people died, so it was tragic news, in the paper for weeks. It was a relief when the boy was caught, but his family bonded him out. Today, they probably wouldn't be able to do that, but the family had lots of money, and things were different back then."

  "Did he go to prison?" Jessica asked, jotting notes into the little pad she kept with her at all times.

  Audrey shook her head. "The town was so worked up that they probably would've had to move the trial out of the area anyway. That boy wouldn't have had a prayer of a fair trial here. The people who perished were beloved by the whole town, the librarian and her husband. He worked at the post office. No children of their own, but they were always taking kids in for picnics and such, taking them to the movie on Saturday, active in their church."

  "What happened to the boy? Do you remember his name?"

  "Vince. Vincent Alexander. I think his mother's maiden name was Avery, but my memory isn't always reliable." Audrey took a sip of her tea again and then looked at Jessica, shaking her head sadly. "He killed himself before the trial was underway. Shortly after he was released into his family's custody, just days after, if I remember correctly. He went out to Beecham's Bluff and jumped."

  Audrey wiped her mouth primly with a napkin. "They never found the body, mind you, but his family was so distraught, they left the city not long after. We hadn't been in contact for years, but I did try. Even if he was a murderer, I felt sorry for her, losing him like that. I never could reach her, though. It was like she had vanished into thin air."

  Beecham's Bluff was still a popular picnic spot, Jessica knew, a beautiful, grassy, and tree-shaded park frequented by families during the day and necking teens at night. There was a sharp drop-off to the river below, the highest point in three counties. A child who jumped would have no chance of survival. More than likely, Jessica thought, he died from the fall, hitting the treacherous boulders before the current washed him downstream and out to sea. She shuddered as she envisioned the scene. At the time, they would have lacked the equipment for a more thorough search.

  Jessica laid down her pen. "How did everyone take it?" A suicide, especially that of a child, usually hit a town hard. But a child who'd burned down a building and killed the town's favorite couple?

  Audrey grimaced. "Well, they didn't hold a parade, exactly, but the general feeling was one of "good riddance". His death saved everyone a lot of time, heartache and expense, though people were hesitant to put it in those terms. Obviously, he must have been severely troubled, although no one had seen it coming. Nice boy. Very polite. His father had died when he was a toddler, but his mother had remarried. Father was a professional man, affiliated with the bank or something like that, I think. Well-known. I just don't remember."

  Jessica drew in a breath. Didn't Worth and his mother live here years ago? Worth's father had been a newspaper man, a professional. Maybe he'd known the arsonist's father? She hadn't paid as close attention during that lunch as she should have. Dillingsworth Vincent. Vincent! Vincent Avery. No, that was the mother's maiden name. But Vincent. Just an odd coincidence?

  He had paled, she was sure of it now, when he had listened to her pitch about the column. How long did he say he and his mother had been back in the area? A few months? Right about the time the latest fires had started. Were the so-called suicides a cover-up? Was there a murderer on the loose? Was Worth involved somehow? Of course not.

  She and Audrey chatted for a bit longer before Jessica looked at her watch and offered to drive her home. "Exercise is good for me, honey," the woman said, thanking her for the tea. "If there's anything else you want to talk about, just look me up." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. "I live in the artist's colony, by the river," she said. "It's not that far, really. Lessons, demonstrations, always something going on."

  "I should bring my mother sometime," Jessica said. "She's very creative; it would do her good to take a class."

  The women hugged outside, the smell of Audrey's shampoo conjuring the face of her grandmother. As she slipped Audrey's card into her purse and watched the woman head off in the direction of the colony, her mind reeled. Worth couldn't know anything about these fires. Could he?

  Jessica asked a few more questions back at the scene of the fire before heading back to the office. Grateful for the familiar smell of ink and industry, she found Donna grinning from ear to ear, talking on her cellphone. Donna mouthed Eric as she walked past. Jessica tried not to feel a stab of remorse at Donna's easy laughter. Eric had never tried to make her laugh. Sitting at her desk, Jessica frowned. People have died. Buildings laid to waste. Eric was not priority here. I should tell Worth what I found out. Or should I? I don't want to scare— As she approached his office, the decision was made for her.

  Skip shook his head from the outer office. "He left shortly after you did, Jess." As she turned to leave, he cleared his throat dramatically. "I may have seen something, earlier. May have. Did I? Or was that my over-active imagination? Was our new columnist really holding hands with the new boss? If so, I guess I can kiss that fantasy good-bye. He is so attractive."

  Jessica's cheeks were hot. "It was n-nothing, Skip," she stuttered, hoping that Skip didn't yet know her well enough to see through her lie. She headed out of his office, stopping at the doorway to turn back and add, "But really, Skip. I have it on good authority that Mr. Vincent prefers women," winking a little at his pout. "But don't worry—I won't tell Paul you were thinking about another man."

  Skip patted his chest. "My heart belongs to Paul. My thoughts, however…"

  Jessica walked back to her desk. Until she had talked with Audrey Scott, her own thoughts had been singular. Ever since the Halloween party, she'd been consumed by the memory of Bathroom Guy's hands, his mouth, his scent. Meeting the source of those sensations in the flesh, so to speak, was exhilarating, troubling, satisfying, exhausting. So many emotions at once.

  But now, the very same day she and Worth had agreed to start over, acknowledging their mutual attraction, she'd found out that he might have a secret in his past. Was the boy who jumped off the bluff a classmate? If both boys were well off, they might have been friends. What was he hiding? Was he hiding something? Or had her mention of the fire troubled him because he, too, had loved the local librarian and her husband?

  It felt like there was a connection. No good journalist worth her salt—"worth" again—relied on feelings, but so far, all of the feelings that man had conjured up had been pretty great. Jessica wasn't ready to bury them under a blanket of gloom and doom just yet.

  Under a blanket. What she wouldn't give to be under a blanket with him right now. For the first time since Halloween, that scenario seemed like a real possibility. No time soon, of course—darn it—but one day. Jessica closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like.

  Instead, a vision of flames and death filled her mind.

  Chapter 8

  More Fuel on the Flames

  Three weeks later, the magazine was out. The online version had multiple compliments for the newly appointed columnist, and they'd even gotten a few emails and phone calls. Readers enjoyed Jessica's account of the tragic fire decades before. It was almost as if knowing that their community had successfully gotten through all of that gave them hope that they'd get through the current circumstances. And, too
, no one but the alleged arsonists had been killed. Perspective was a powerful thing.

  Donna left Jessica's cubicle after enthusiastically regaling her with all the details of her first weekend away with Eric. Jessica had only been half listening when Donna mentioned her whip. What the what? At that point, she'd held up her hand to stop the conversation.

  "Too much?" Donna asked, wrinkling her forehead.

  "Too much," Jessica said. She was tempted to add "been there, done that" but caught herself. In truth, she'd never done anything remotely akin to whips or handcuffs. Eric had never mentioned an interest in such things. He was hardly interested in her, much less that.

  She was genuinely happy that Donna and Eric were so well suited. It was still a bit mind-boggling, but there it was—she had not been the one for Eric, and he had definitely not been the one for her. It appeared that he was making up for lost time, too. His and Donna's relationship was speeding merrily along at a much quicker pace than she had experienced with Eric. It rankled a little, but she had a feeling that perhaps her own expectations and unfulfilled desires had been some of the problem. They simply had not been on the same page about many things—and clearly, he and Donna were.

  Worth, on the other hand, had been playing things cool for those same three weeks. He had praised her column, but every time she tried to talk about it, looking for a possible connection, he would find a reason to stop the conversation or guide it in another direction. Slowly, the questions in her mind faded. Of course, there was nothing to it. The boy arsonist's father may have been known in the community or perhaps not. Audrey Scott wasn't sure of the details. The similarity in names was completely circumstantial anyway. The past was the past.