“Does that sound like a thrilling way to spend an afternoon? Pouring over old newsprint? No. You have serious things to do. You’ve got a clean-up plan to put together, you’ve got your other work, you’ve still got ice cream equipment that needs some kind of resolution, you-”

“I don’t care about any of that.”

She sighed, put her slim hand on his chest. Just like that, he felt the electric connection, the pulse between them, the beat he’d never imagined before. “Griff-go do your life. We can meet up at dinner if you want.”

“I’m not-”

“You’re worried something’s going to happen to me. It’s not. Think about it. No one’s targeted me. These fires may be somehow about me, but no one has actually tried to harm me in any way. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

He didn’t like her ability to read his mind, to draw conclusions without his permission. He also couldn’t deny her logic-and it was true he had five million things that needed to get done. At the newspaper office, she’d be around other people.

So he agreed, said he’d pick her up for dinner around seven at the B and B. That was where he dropped her now, so she could get her car. But when he drove off, he felt an uneasy itch, like the nag of a mosquito bite. No one had tried to harm her. But he was afraid someone would-because all these fires had to be leading up to something. Unless someone figured out what it was, Lily wasn’t safe. He knew it in his head and his heart both.


The Pecan Valley Herald was located just outside of town, sandwiched between peach orchards flanking the east side, and a pre-loved car dealership stretching out to the west. When Lily pulled open the door, she was greeted by a blast of fabulously cold air and a gum-chewing receptionist.

The redhead took one look at her, said, “Bridal or Engagement announcements, down the hall to the left.”

“No, I-”

“Classified straight through that door.”

It took a while for the redhead to run down her list, they simply asked for “past newspaper history.” No one had apparently asked that before, because the young woman looked confounded, but eventually she pushed some buttons and a middle-aged man showed up.

“You’re Lily Campbell?” he asked.

Timothy was a sweetheart, disguised in too-short pants and white socks and a zealous comb-over. The reference room was his, his source of power, his love. “I’m afraid a lot of the old stuff is still on microfiche. I’ve been computerizing since I got here, but that’s only been three years, and you should have seen the place then. So. You think you want to go through two years of papers?”

“Yes.” She told him her goal, which was to track the phrase in the investigative report referring to her parents’ fire being “nothing like the other arson events”. She just wanted to see what those other fires were about. She realized it was grasping for some mighty slim straws, but it was one of the few things she hadn’t tried pursuing before.

“You know how long it’s going to take you to read two years’ worth of copy?” Timothy asked her.

“I figure…a while.”

He sighed. “You can’t smoke or eat in here. But that far door, that leads to a restroom, a minikitchen-the coffee pot’s usually on-and a back door, if you want to get out in the fresh air.”

“There’s fresh air in Georgia in the summer?” she asked incredulously.

He looked blank, then chuckled. “I can come back and help you if I get more projects done, but I’m behind. Still, just yell out my name if you want me.”

“Thanks, Timothy.”

She’d never seen microfiche before. The method was prehistoric as far as she could tell, but it was a way to scroll through page after page of every newspaper edition. The Pecan Valley Herald was hardly a big paper, but like in all small towns, it covered every wedding, every funeral, every achievement of every child, every reunion, every recipe…on and on. And on.

The minutes started to add up. Then the hours. Lily felt her neck creaking, her wrist whining from the constant scrolling motion. The monitor was ancient, with no resolution and blurry print. The chair would have fit any fanny that was square. Hers wasn’t.

She took a potty break, took another break to stand at the sink in the employees’ room, gulping down two tall glasses of water. She thought blissfully of last night’s lovemaking with Griff. Who knew? Who knew she could be wicked? That she could actually throw off her good-girl chains and just, well, go for it?

Who knew she could fall crazy in love? Inappropriately in love? Maybe irrevocably in love, so fast, and with such a wrong guy in the wrong place?

She hiked back to the godawful chair and parked there again. Thinking of Griff wasn’t going to solve anything. She had to concentrate on other kinds of fires.


And over the next hour she found several. An old farmhouse: electrical fire. A lightning strike at a trailer park. A divorcing couple who set fire to each other’s stuff.

But then she found pay dirt. At least sort of.

Thirteen months before her parents’ fire, there’d been an arson event in the high school. The school locker of a junior, a boy named Billy Webb, had been doused with gasoline. No one could pin down a culprit, but Billy claimed his ex-girlfriend was “real, real mad” at him. The girl friend wasn’t named in the article, but Sheriff Conner and the school principal were both reported to be doing an extensive investigation.

Then, seven months before her parents’ fire, another arson-type fire was reported-this one also targeted a teenage boy. John Thornton had been a high school senior that fall. The day after the Homecoming Dance, someone heaped a pile of rags in the trunk of his fourteen-year-old Grand Am, sprayed it with gasoline and struck a match. Sheriff Conner and the school principal were again quoted. Both said they were looking into the “coincidence” of two fires targeting young men in the high school. No motive was found. No evidence was found.

A letter to the editor was picked up that “someone” should look into what girls these boys had been seeing, since the boys weren’t culprits-the boys were the ones who were being targeted. A flurry of letters followed, all from parents of boys worried about their sons. Worried about the school. Worried about the state of education in general.

One parent felt it was all linked to an alien invasion.

Timothy’s head showed up in the doorway. “I have to close up fairly soon, Miss Campbell.”

“You can kick me out whenever you need. I appreciate your letting me stay here as long as you have.”

“It’s not a bother. Hardly anyone goes to the trouble of digging into the microfiche records anymore. But I can’t leave an outsider alone here. When I have to lock up, I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

“Okay.”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look up. She was getting closer to the time of her parents’ fire. Her eyes were burning from staring at the old screen. She tried kicking off a shoe, sitting on one leg. Then kicking off the other shoe, sitting on the other leg.

Then she forgot how tired she was, because she found another arson fire. This one took place three months after the Homecoming Dance, just after New Year’s. But it wasn’t at the school. It was in someone’s home…

“Miss Campbell?”

She squinted closer, squirmed closer. It was in an adult’s home, but the fire took place in a teenage boy’s bedroom. Same setup. A heap of debris and clothing were piled together, this time on the boy’s bed, and then soaked with gasoline. The fire took place while the family was out to dinner. The Frasiers-the family involved-were bewildered and upset and terrified. They had insurance, but as Mrs. Frasier was quoted in the article, they’d “never feel safe again.” Mr. Frasier said, “There has to be a serial arsonist in town, and nobody is doing a thing about it.” The head of the fire department at the time, Rubal Whitney, was fired. A town meeting was called. Herman Conner urged everyone to stay calm, that he was as concerned as everyone else, but the bottom line was a lack of evidence. So far, they had failed to find a link between the fires, if there was one. They needed concrete information. They needed…

“Lily.”

Lily whirled around at the sound of Griff’s voice. Griff was standing in the doorway with the round-faced Timothy. “Sugar, it’s past eight at night. This nice man has kept the place open for you. He could see you were engrossed. But you can come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, my heavens. Timothy, I’m so so sorry. I never meant to be a pain. I had no idea how much time had passed.”

“It’s all right, Miss Campbell. I just started reading a book. But when Griff came in, I thought it was all right to interrupt you then.”

“Of course it was. Oh, I feel terrible to have made you stay so late. It was so inconsiderate, I…” She scrambled to her feet, found one shoe, couldn’t find the other. Grabbed her purse, put it down, leaned forward to turn off the machine. Her heap of notes and papers skidded to the floor. “Timothy, I owe you dinner. Or lunch or something. Whatever or whenever you have time. And I promise, if I come back, I’ll keep track of the-”

Griff moved in, switched off the machine, scooped up her notes and legal pad, then claimed her hand-tight and snug. “Got room for a few gallons of Griff’s Bliss?” he asked Timothy.

Timothy’s mouth dropped. “I’d be so grateful. And so would my mother. She loves your ice cream.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll send over a sample of a new flavor, too, so your mom can say she was the first one to taste-test it.”

Lily wasn’t sure how it all turned into a little fiasco, but Timothy, trying to be hospitable, seemed to be tripping all over Griff. And she was carrying all this stuff, bleary-eyed and kind of trip-tired herself. And Griff…well, by the time he bundled her into the car, he started laughing.