Blake was the missing link? Blake connected all the fires?

Blake was the arsonist?

It made no sense, and yet…and yet in a crazy way it made perfect sense—Blake’s ongoing obsession with fire, any fire, and his need to be near it, even the bonfire from the chief’s birthday party. “Phyllis, listen to me. I need you to trust me, okay? I have to go but I’ll be back.”

“Will you bring Cecile?”

“I’ll bring you more pictures of her, I promise.”

When he got to the parking lot and into his truck, he remembered—no cell phone. Running back inside the hospital, he went straight to a pay phone and called Tommy.

Tommy listened to every word and then said, “Go home. You hear me? Get home and keep your ass right there or I’ll get it fired.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Trust me, I’ll find a way.”

Frustration beat at Zach as he drove home, feeling useless and helpless—two emotions he couldn’t resent more. God, Blake…Could it be true?

And yet the evidence was there, at least circumstantially. The blowtorch at Phyllis’s was huge. And he’d been quiet and withdrawn and secretive for months, pushing all of them from his life.

Zach had to go see him, had to look into Blake’s eyes and judge for himself.

But Blake wasn’t home, so Zach went back to his place and paced a groove into his living room floor, which did nothing for his adrenaline level.

At the knock on his door, he opened it to the one person he’d have given everything to see.

Brooke, still wearing her uniform, eyes shadowed, mouth grim, looking like the best thing he’d seen all damn day.

“Damn, are you a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said. “I forgot to clock out at work.”

“Good. Because I’m not here, either. I’m on my way to find Blake’s ass and probably get mine fired.”

“You know where he is?”

“No.”

They both stood there and stared at each other, unsure what to say next.

“I’m really not here,” she finally said again, “telling you that I take back my goodbye.”

“Then I’m not really doing this.” Hauling her to him, he covered her mouth with his.

She sighed in pleasure and sagged against him, fisting her hands in his shirt to keep him close.

As if that was necessary.

“Zach,” she murmured. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah.”

But then she nipped at his lower lip, making him groan. He stroked his tongue to hers, his hands running down her body, filling them with her glorious curves. “We’ll talk,” he promised her. “In a minute. Maybe ten.” He needed to lose himself in her before he faced the unthinkable—that one of their own was an arsonist.