Page 88 of Torched Spades
He exhales a heavy sigh. “You’re making a mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was in trusting you,” I say, the words leaving a bitter aftertaste on my tongue as I close the door behind me. “You may have started this, Owen, but I’m about to end it.”
* * *
For the second time in less than a week, I’m sitting in my car outside some asshole’s house, igniting and extinguishing the flame on my Zippo lighter.
Waiting.
Watching.
I took a chance by going to the docks so early. It’s been weeks since I worked third shift, but not much has changed—the majority of cowards still hang out at berth five while only a couple of new hires work berth six.
That’s how I knew nothing had changed.
That’s why I sat in the Port of Providence parking lot until well after three a.m. It’s why I sat in my car and watched two familiar men pull up in a dark SUV, get out and walk the docks toward the berth six’s warehouse, then make their way back, wiping blood off their hands. It’s why I tailed them back to South Providence, waiting patiently for the driver to drop off his shorter counterpart before following him home.
That was an hour ago.
Now, as every light in the decrepit house flickers off, I smile to myself. Looks like a newer house. Probably built no less than twenty to thirty years ago, which means those white boards framing it are made with pressed wood, not solid.
That should cut the burn time in half.
I flick the Zippo again, watching the flame burn its familiar blue, then the stark white. I think of Becca lying broken and bleeding on that cold parking garage floor as this house welcomed her attacker back with open arms. Then I think of the tears still staining my shirt as I release the sparkwheel and push off the side of the car where I’ve been leaning.
Picking up the empty gas can, I toss it in the backseat, then flip the top of the lighter back and flick it again. It’s a quiet neighborhood. The only sound I hear is the sweet hiss of gas. There’s not a soul in sight or a single fuck given.
I think of Dice’s red hair.
I think of the dagger and rose tattoo I saw on his chest as I had him pushed against those warehouse pallets.
Then I think of both melting away as I turn my back and toss the lighter over my shoulder. This time, the hiss is louder, widening to a surging whoosh as the entire fucking house goes up in flames.
Burn, baby, burn.
By the time I get in my car and start toward central Providence, the entire fucking thing has become an inferno.
“See you in hell, Diceman.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BECCA
Some days run togetherwhile others stand out. Today is one that will both ease and haunt my memory for the rest of my life.
The day I realized I’d fallen for a murderer.
“Johnny,” I say, breaking the five minutes of silence that has lingered since he walked into my office. “There was a fire in South Providence last week.”
“Is that right?”
I nod. “Jack says it was arson. That whoever set it knew what they were doing because it took less than two minutes for the entire thing to burn to the ground.” He also damned the man sitting in front of me, but that’s all it’ll ever be.Hearsay. Accusations.There was nothing left at the scene to prove guilt.
Nothing but a scorched lighter without a single print.
“They found a body amongthe debris,” I add solemnly.
“Shame.”
