No, damn it, she didn't have time for this. She had too much to do in the here and now to get caught up in the past again. She owed it to this case—and to Logan—to keep moving forward. She couldn't afford to miss a thing.

Parking the bike in front of a 7-Eleven at the edge of the Nevada border where the casinos took over, she quickly purchased a disposable cell phone, then headed into a Starbucks to charge the phone in a free outlet and force herself to eat and drink something while she waited. She'd never felt less like eating, but she needed to be smart and keep her strength up.

She grabbed a seat in the back corner of the coffee shop, a spot she'd specifically chosen to make sure she could see everyone who entered the store. She couldn't forget that her life was in danger.

Thirty minutes later she hadn't seen anyone she recognized, let alone anyone who looked remotely shady. When the phone was ready to go, she pulled the telephone number Logan had given her for his friend Eddie Myers, who used to own the Bar & Grill, out of her pocket.

When he didn't pick up, she left a concise message that she was an arson investigator working with the state and she had some questions regarding his old restaurant. She called information next and had them connect her with the urban fire chief, Patrick Stevens.

“Patrick Stevens's office,” his secretary said, “how may I help you?”

Maya had spoken with Cammie a handful of times during the past few months. “Cammie, it's Maya Jackson.”

“Hi, Maya. Has the new chief gotten back to you yet about your brother's case?”

“Actually, I'm calling about yesterday's fire at the motel. It was in my room.”

Cammie made a soothing sound. “I'm sorry, honey. I saw that note. You must be so scared.”

No question about it, the note that had been left for her in a firebox had been incredibly creepy. But she wasn't about to admit fear to anyone. Not even herself.

“I'm fine,” she insisted. She'd been repeating the words all day, saying she was fine, when she wasn't. Maybe if she said it enough times she'd start to believe it. “Is Chief Stevens in? I'd like to see if he's learned anything more about the fire.”

“I'm afraid he's at another fire right now, but I'll be sure to tell him to call you the minute he walks in.” After she wrote down Maya's new cell number, she said, “I sure hope we find out who did that to you.”

Maya managed a soft “Thank you,” then hung up and called information and had them connect her to the Flights of Fancy office. Finally, good news. Dennis was due to return from doing water drops in the next half hour or so.

She was going to be lying in wait for him when he arrived.

Dennis lived in a new tract house not far from the Starbucks. His smooth white stucco walls struck Maya as the polar opposite of Joseph's rustic cabin. But unlike the other, picture-perfect properties, Dennis's landscaping was nonexistent, his lawn a sickly yellow.

Shortly after she arrived, Dennis pulled into his driveway. Stepping out of his truck, he looked thoroughly confused.

“Maya? What are you doing here?” He took a step back. “Oh shit, you want to ask me more questions about Logan, don't you?”

“Actually,” she said in a slow, steady voice, “I'd like to conduct a property search. Of your house.”

He frowned. “I don't get it.”

“There was an explosion today near one of the housing developments. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me into your garage.”

“I still don't get why you're here. I'm not a suspect, Logan is.”

“No,” she said, “he isn't. Not any longer.”

At that, Dennis's face went beet red, as if a hand were squeezing him tightly around the neck. “Are you f**king kidding me? What the hell are you looking at me for? I haven't done anything! He told you I did this, didn't he, so that you'd stop accusing him?”

“You've got it backwards,” she said firmly. “He's been defending you up and down all day long to me.”

But Dennis's anger continued to grow. “All my life I've treated him like a brother. I should have known that this is how he'd repay me. I hope they pin this on him and he rots in prison. I'm sure the other inmates would love to feel up a hotshot.”

“Dennis,” she said again, in the level, reasonable tone she often used to speak to frightened fire victims, “he didn't sell you out.”

“Like hell he didn't! He wrapped my dad around his little finger, just like he's done with you. Once he moved in with us I became invisible. The only time my father bothered speaking to me was when he wanted to brag about something Logan did. I got so f**king sick of hearing his name. I'm not telling you a goddamned thing, and you're not getting into my garage. Not without a warrant. I watch T V. I know you can't take any of that without a search warrant. Now get the f**k off of my property.”

Quietly, she corrected him. “In arson cases, a warrant is not necessary. And I'm afraid I do need to ask you some questions before I leave, Dennis.”

Nearly apoplectic, he said, “You think you're so smart. So important. But you're just like the rest of them. I'll bet you don't have any idea how many chicks he's banged. You're just another stupid slut who wants to f**k a hotshot.”

Maya took a step toward Dennis, her expression menacing. “You need to calm down, Mr. Kellerman, and answer my questions: Where were you last weekend and the following Monday through Friday? Who were you with? And why did you bail out of the camping trip with Logan and your father?”

All at once, Dennis deflated like an emptying balloon. “Jesus, is that what this is about?”

She frowned. “Where were you? What were you doing?”

He slumped down on the edge of the curb, his head in his hands. When he looked up at her his eyes were bleak.

“I was driving all over the state talking to doctors.”

“Are you sick, Dennis?”

“No. My dad is.”

Dennis's answer completely blindsided her. She knew how devastating it was to lose a family member.

Dennis hadn't been lighting fires. He'd been trying to help his father.

“I met Joseph yesterday.”

He looked up at her in surprise. “You did?”