He pedaled back to Taft at a slow pace. His body appreciated the consideration. His muscles ached from the hard push up the hill. It was odd that his last trip had been his fastest. How did his overworked legs make it up the hill faster when fatigued than when fresher the first or second runs? Maybe that was another blessing from God. The oddity only made the truth stand out more.

In the Taft parking lot, he loaded Travis’s bike and then headed to Duane’s office. With this new information, the good sheriff was bound to investigate further. Perhaps then, Travis would confess the truth about what happened that night.

Dusk had set in by the time James arrived at the sheriff’s office. He headed inside and found Duane sitting behind his desk working on some paperwork. As James approached the desk, he pulled his notepad from his pocket and ripped the page from it that contained his travel time record.

Duane looked up at the paper outstretched in James’s hand. “Hey, buddy. What’s this?” He took the paper from James and scanned it.

James leaned over the desk and tapped the top of the sheet. “You see, it’s all there, it’s not possible! According to the Taft coach, Travis leaves the game at 10:15. Now, Travis said he didn’t hang around like usual after the game, but he still stayed until the end, because he said he got out of there as soon as the horn went off to end the fourth quarter.”

Duane eyed him with skepticism. He shrugged. “So? That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have gotten to the farm. C’mon, Jimmy. Are we going to go ’round this again?”

James clenched his jaw in a physical attempt not to rage. Was Duane serious? Even with hard evidence staring him in the face, the man wasn’t going to change his view? He took in a deep breath and willed himself calm. “So then I try doing that ride, and Duane, I’m not in my best shape ever, but I rode that distance from the game to the Pearce place over and over, fast as I could. Twenty-five minutes was my best time. And I pushed that. Even if Travis beat me by five minutes, or ten even, you’re looking at fifteen minutes. Add it all up, and he couldn’t have gotten there by the time Ed Beaujot says that fire started. There’s no way!”

James stepped back and waited for Duane to react—to come around to logical thinking. After a few moments of thick silence, James figured he needed to go on. “Look, Ed said the fire was started at 10:26. Duane, he insisted it started precisely at 10:26. No earlier, no later. The man wouldn’t even let me say it started ‘around’ 10:26 he was so darn sure.