“I still can’t believe it was Blake,” Cristina said very quietly. “That he—” She broke off, her voice choked. “He was a pyromaniac. In some ways we all are, or we wouldn’t do this, but he was mentally ill. Tommy said that looking back, you could see he started unraveling when the chief came from Chicago, right about the time that Lynn died.” She closed her eyes. “He needed help.”

Dustin squeezed her hand. They ate in silence, an emotional but companionable sort of silence until Cristina looked at the stack of boxes filled with the stuff Brooke hadn’t been able to make herself get rid of—the photos, the diaries—all things that had helped Brooke find the missing parts of herself. “Looks like you’ve been busy, Brooke.”

She raised a brow. “Did you just call me Brooke?”

“That is your name, right?”

“I thought it was New Hire to you.”

Cristina shrugged. “You stuck.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes, but the job’s nearly over.”

“You could apply for a permanent position.”

She’d never done anything permanent. But this, with the people she now thought of as her friends, felt very permanent. And wasn’t that part of what she’d been searching for? “I’m ready for the booze now.”

Cristina lifted a brow.

“The brown bag you brought. It’s alcohol, right?”

Cristina pulled out a bottle of bubble bath and Dustin laughed.

“What?” Cristina demanded.

“You’re so damn cute.”

“Oh, shut up.” Cristina squirmed, looking uncomfortable. “I’m new at this girl-pal stuff, okay? I thought she might want to just soak, and God, I know, it’s stupid.”

“No.” Brooke hugged her. “It’s perfect.”

They stayed for ice cream, and two more calls for info, of which they got very little except that Zach was still at the fire site.

After Dustin and Cristina left, Brooke drew herself a bubble bath and lay back, soaking.

Thinking…

A knock at her front door stopped that and her heart. It wasn’t Zach, it couldn’t be Zach. He was no doubt still with the chief and Tommy. It was probably the real estate agent, whom she’d not yet called back. Wasn’t ready to call back, not when she felt as if she’d found all her answers right here in this house—answers about her life, and how she wanted to live it. Which was pretty much the opposite of her grandmother and mother.

Brooke didn’t want her memories stuck in boxes in some attic. She wanted to share them with real people. She wanted to create new ones every day.

The knock came again. Wrapping herself in a towel, she went to the door. “Who’s there?”

“Me.”

Oh, God. She whipped open the door.