2

“I APPRECIATE YOU being here on such short notice.” Miranda Wilson, the bar’s owner and his contact, slid a longneck microbrew across the glossy-finished wood bar.

“No problem. Thanks.” Jackson Elliott, disavowed Navy SEAL and Trident, Inc. team member tipped the bottle in appreciation before taking a sip. Honkytonk blared while a crowd of at least a couple hundred rednecks danced, laughed, shouted and in general grew drunker by the minute. “Is there anywhere we can go that’s quiet?”

She winced, nodding toward a door to the right of a beer cooler. “My office.”

Jackson had to turn sideways to escape the crowded bar. His red vinyl stool was instantly taken by a brunette with giant 80s hair and too much red lipstick.

Sidling up to the nearest of three bartenders, a shaved-headed hulk with more tattoos on his arm than bare skin, Miranda stood on her tiptoes to whisper something. The guy appraised Jackson, giving him a wary nod before pouring a customer’s Fireball shot.

“Come on…” Miranda met Jackson at their appointed spot.

She fit a key into the door’s lock, then opened it for him, gesturing him through to a cramped vestibule that was maybe three-by-four. Beige walls were decorated with various state workplace safety notices. Once she closed the door, there was nowhere for him to go but up the narrow staircase. He didn’t like having her behind him, but with no other option, he dealt with it, warring with the uncomfortable heat radiating up his spine.

At the top of the stairs, he found a simple rectangular office that would be unremarkable save for the strip of windows all the way around. It had been dark when he found the place, and with all the noise and traffic, he hadn’t noticed, but by day, it must resemble an architectural crown with a view for miles. On one end of the room stood a feminine cherry desk with matching credenza and two guest chairs. At the opposite end, a blue-striped sofa and matching armchair formed an L-shape around a glass coffee table. In every corner and atop most flat surfaces lived plants. Palms and ferns and orchids and lush tropical species he didn’t recognize. Aside from the faint smell of soil, fresh paint and new furniture told a story he already knew.

The floors were highly polished cherry, covered in plush white rugs—one for under each defined area. A bathroom door stood open near the desk.

Music and muted conversation still reverberated through the floor, but the noise level was considerably better.

“Plants are kinda my thing,” she said, aiming for the sofa. She kicked off her cowboy boots, then curled into the corner nearest a brass lamp. “They don’t talk back or complain they’re not getting paid enough or working too many hours. As long as I treat them with respect, they repay me with beauty.”

“Sounds like a fair trade.” Jackson took the armchair. It sat like a cloudy dream. Pricey?

“So…” Eyes closed, she leaned her head back against the sofa cushion and sighed. Was it wrong to find his client’s throat sexy? Yes. Which was why he squashed the urge to bridge the distance between them. “I imagine you’ve heard about how this place was burned to the ground a year ago? And I just now got it rebuilt?”

He nodded. “Aside from your bar, the arsonist took out a half-dozen derelict outbuildings, a drydocked shrimp trawler, and most recently the WWI statue in front of City Hall. But nobody’s been injured, correct?”

“Right…” She hugged herself.

“But there’s something else you or your dad didn’t tell Harding?” Harding was the beating heart of the Trident, Inc. family. He’d been in charge of their unit when they’d still been in the Navy and he still called the shots now. Jackson thought of him as a brother. If Harding believed Miranda had a serious problem, she did. The same gut instinct that warned Jackson before stepping on a landmine told him there was a whole lot more going on that remained to be seen.

“This will probably sound silly, but—”

“Tell me. Anything. No matter how small.”

“Right. Okay, well…” Head raised, eyes wide open, she licked her full lips while twisting her long honey-toned hair into a bun.

Jackson caught himself holding his breath. Down, boy. Lord, she was a sight to behold.

“There’s no way I can prove this—it’s more of a feeling. But lately, I always feel like someone’s watching me. I look, but no one’s there. It’s the oddest sensation. Even when I’m home alone, I feel like I’m not. My mom says it’s Confederate ghosts, but I’ve never been a fan of the paranormal.”

“I didn’t know there were Civil War battles this far south?”

“Brutal Bayou got its name from what old-timers say was a particularly nasty, downright brutal fight. There was supposedly so much blood that Moxey Creek ran red for days. Back to my uneasy feeling, I can’t explain it, but sometimes I feel like this arsonist is waging a personal vendetta against me.”

“Do you have any enemies?”

“I’m the mayor. Everyone either loves or hates me. Comes with the territory.”

“I forgot. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She winced. “To better answer your question, yes. I have lots of enemies, but no one who especially stands out. The night this place burned, I was at our family’s hotel and wedding venue—Spanish Moss Inn—the place where your associate, Briggs Denton, and his fiancée India will be married, when I felt an oppressive energy behind me. It sounds ridiculous, but right after is when I got the call about the fire.”

“People do have energy. It’s possible someone was behind you. At this point, I’m not prepared to discount any lead. Anything else about that night you remember? Or any of the other fires?”

“All of them except for the trawler took place on family land. The City Hall statue was a huge part of my office view.”

“That’s significant.”

“I thought so, too. But the local fire chief says that because everyone around here is related in some way, it could all be a coincidence.”

“In the morning, I’ll check out each site. The rest of the team rolls in next Friday. Since today is Thursday, that gives me a week to work up a map showing each fire’s location, along with landowner information. I should also check your home and this place for bugs and video surveillance.”

“You mean someone could be watching me?”

“It happens. That would account for your creepy vibe.”

Lips pressed into a grim line, she nodded. “That all sounds fine. I do have a favor to ask of you.”

“Name it.”

“I have a city council meeting scheduled for early this evening. I’d like you to be there in case anyone has questions. There’s been a lot of pressure for me to seek outside help with this, but I’m not sure it’s escalated to that level, and I also don’t want to harm our reputation. In the past few years—between the wedding venue, B & Bs, and all the antique stores popping up on Clover Avenue, we’ve become a seriously popular weekend destination. Plus, there are a few larger business considerations. Regardless, we can’t afford to have our reputation tarnished all because of some deranged firebug with a grudge.”

“I understand. I don’t anticipate any surprises. With luck, we’ll have this case solved before Briggs and India take their—”

“Boss lady!” a man shouted up the stairs.

“Yes?” Miranda’s tone sounded hesitant.

“We got trouble!”

She groaned.

Jackson stood, offering her his hands to help her to her feet. She accepted, catching him off guard with not just a flood of awareness, but concern. He barely knew the woman, but wanted to protect her. This arsonist was no joke. It wasn’t too far of a stretch to believe the guy capable of snapping. His fire-starting might have so far been harmless, but what if he changed his mind and decided hurting people gave him an added thrill?

“What’s wrong?” After calling down the stairs, she looked to their still joined hands, then pulled free. An odd look crossed her face, flickering too fast for Jackson to read. Annoyance? Surprise?

“You’re not gonna believe this…” The creak of heavy footfalls rising up the stairs announced the bald bartender Jackson had seen earlier. His eyes widened to find Jackson standing alongside Miranda. Hadn’t he seen them enter her office together? If not, the guy had a lesson coming in Awareness 101. “Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were still here. I’m Lex. Been with the boss lady for what? Five? Six, years?”

“Something like that.” Though the summer air in the small space was stagnant, Miranda hugged herself as if she was cold. “Out with it. What’s wrong?”

“Well… A woman said she saw a ghost light out in the swamp, but then another gal said there was a car on fire, but—”

BOOM!

An explosion’s concussive force rocked the entire building on its support stilts.

On autopilot, Jackson dove for Miranda, shoving her toward the sofa, sheltering her with his body.

From outside, a symphony of car alarms beeped and blared.

“Everyone okay?” Jackson asked.

“I-I think so,” Lex crouched at the top of the stairs, cradling his head.

Jackson gingerly rose. “Miranda?”

“I’m good. But we need to go see what happened.”

“Absolutely.”

Jackson took the lead down the stairs, followed by Miranda, then Lex.

Upon opening the door leading to the bar’s main floor, pandemonium ruled. A third of the customers surged toward the exits, a third still sat at their tables or the bar drinking. The rest of them either danced or stood at the windows, jockeying for a better view.

Wanting to keep Miranda close, Jackson clasped her hand—not exactly professional, but he couldn’t risk her vanishing in the crowd. When she didn’t protest, he forged ahead until reaching the party deck. The air wasn’t much cooler, but at least he had enough space to safely release Miranda’s hand without fear of losing her.

He scanned the chaotic parking lot, only to get a shock.

The car that was still burning?

Jackson’s rental.