The drive to Taft was arduous. Snow fell in a thick blanket, and James wondered if he’d be able to make the ride on Travis’s bike. God smiled down, though. By the time he reached the Taft High School football field, the flurries had eased and the temperature had even warmed enough to melt the snow from the asphalt.

James parked and hauled the bike from the bed of the truck. As he straddled the seat, he checked his watch and then hit the timer. Seconds ticked away. He peddled hard at first, but then realized Travis would not have been rushing. He’d have been travelling at a steady, comfortable pace, in no exaggerated hurry to get home.

James slowed his pace, but even still, with each rotation of the pedal, his breaths became harder to take. Closing the distance between Taft and the Pearce farm wasn’t easy...and it wasn’t quick.

But Travis had also said he was a little upset. The game hadn’t gone well, even though Travis had stayed until the end. So maybe he’d peddled a little harder than normal. James picked up a little speed. His heart beat hard against his ribcage and his carotid pulsed hard in his neck. Breaths came in quick pants that seemed to do an ineffective job of filling his lungs with air.

How could Travis have raced this hard and then had the energy and wherewithal to set a house on fire?

James reached the Pearce farm and clicked off the stopwatch.

Thirty-two minutes, seventeen seconds. Good. That was good. That meant Travis could not have been at the farm when the fire was called in.

For good measure, though, James spent the rest of the afternoon riding back and forth between Taft and the Pearce farm. Each time, the journey pushed exhaustion to a new level. By the time he reached the farm for the third time, he was exhausted.

Letting the bike fall sideways, he landed in the snow. His legs felt like rubber mixed with lead and tingled with pins and needles as the cold seeped through his jeans. With a hand that was shaking from cold and adrenaline, James pulled back his jacket sleeve and checked the time. His best: twenty-five minutes, three seconds.

“Oh, praise God!” He let out a sigh of relief. Still too long for Travis to have set the fire. James sank back onto the snow and rejoiced as the damp saturated his jacket and jeans. Travis was innocent; James could prove it, and he didn’t have to race to Taft and back—ever again. All was right with the world.

Now, he simply had to convince Duane, the town, and Paula Roggin. And Travis.