“I couldn’t sleep, so I was at my window seat at about two thirty. I saw an odd light coming from the left top window of the empty house across the street, number 304, and I realized it was flames. I called Ian, but he didn’t answer, so I tried Rory, who called it in. After that, I called Chris. Right after I got done talking to him, I saw something move on the far side of the burning house.”
That got both men’s attention. “What exactly did you see?” the sheriff asked.
“Not much,” she admitted. “Just something moving next to that funny-looking, squatty pine tree. I kept watching the area after I saw it, but that was it. Chris was taking pictures over there, though, of someone’s shoe print in the mud.”
The two men glanced at each other, and Daisy locked her teeth together so she didn’t start defending herself. She’d seen what she’d seen, and there was nothing she could do if they didn’t believe her.
“Ms. Little,” Coughlin said, “how much sleep have you gotten over the past few nights?”
“About the usual amount,” she lied. “Why?”
Instead of answering, he asked another question. “When you saw the flames, why didn’t you call 9-1-1?”
Since she didn’t think it was a good idea to tell them that the sheriff would have wasted too much time if she’d called Dispatch directly, she shrugged. “I was a little frantic, so I just started going down my recent calls list. Ian didn’t answer, so I called Rory.”
“Why have you been calling Walsh?” Coughlin really knew how to inject accusation into his even tone. “Aren’t you and Deputy Jennings a couple?”
Her tired brain couldn’t make the connection of why he was asking her that. She was tempted to say that she’d tell him the answer as soon as she’d figured it out herself, but she reminded herself that smart-assery was not going shorten this interview.
“Ian called to see if our training group was meeting last Wednesday,” she said instead.
Both men looked at her blankly.
“There’s a group of”—she counted quickly in her head—“eight of us. We work out in my home gym a couple of times a week.” Shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear it, she shifted her weight again. Her legs were so tired that they were starting to feel rubbery. “I’m sorry, but what does that have to do with the fire?”
“Just trying to get all of our facts straight,” Chief Early nonanswered. “Did you see anyone before you saw the fire?”
“No.” She mentally reprimanded herself for not paying more attention, instead of freaking out about the unlocked door. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault.” The chief smiled at her again. “Thanks to you, we were able to save most of the house, so it was a good night.”
Although she returned his smile, the very last of her adrenaline was leaving her, and she was starting to sway. “Is that everything you needed?”
The two men exchanged another one of their cryptic glances, and she resisted rolling her eyes.
“That should do it.” The fire chief was the one who answered. “We’ll stop by or call if we think of anything else.”
“Okay.” When they didn’t move, she turned and walked to the door, hoping they’d follow. They did, although they stayed several steps behind, talking in low voices that she couldn’t overhear. “Do you think this is the work of the arsonist?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Coughlin’s eyebrows drew together in a fierce scowl. “How did you know about the arsons? Did Jennings tell you?”
“Just because I’m stuck in here,” she said with attempted ease, trying to pretend that her stomach wasn’t jumping around like crazy at his menacing look, “doesn’t mean I’m not still in Simpson. Everyone gossips here, except for Chris. He never shares the details of his cases with me.” That wasn’t quite the truth, but he’d only told her about the minor, harmless calls, like the missing tire cover, and he never mentioned anyone’s name. Besides, he wasn’t the one who’d brought up the arson cases. The information had flowed to him, but not from him.
Early gave a wry grimace when she mentioned the gossiping, but the sheriff returned his expression to his typical emotionless mask, which gave Daisy the impression that he didn’t believe her. Mentally apologizing to Chris for even bringing up the arsons, she opened the door, hoping to encourage the two men to leave before she said anything else that caused more trouble.
“Next time something happens”—the sheriff stepped close to her—too close—“call 9-1-1. That system is in place for a reason.”
“I’m hoping this is the last time I’ll need emergency services,” she said, intentionally not agreeing to his command. “At least for a while.”
“We hope so, too,” the fire chief said. “Be safe, Daisy.”
“Thank you.”
After a final hard glance, Coughlin followed the other man out. Closing the door behind them, Daisy fought the urge to throw every last lock and then hide under her bed. Before she could follow the impulse, though, her cell chirped. When she dug the phone out of her pocket, she saw it was a text from Chris.