Page 70 of Fear of Flames
“Have you already told him things?”
“Some. He wants to hear from you.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Holding tightly to Fletch’s hand, Michelle followed him out into the living room and toward the kitchen. A man with dark hair stood near the breakfast bar. His casual attire suggested that there wasn’t much in the way of dressing up in this secret agency. The mysterious Peterson was a Black man in his forties—as suggested by the beginning of gray in his hair—probably three to four inches shorter than Fletch and equally as muscular.
“Ms. Holdcraft,” he said in a deep, demanding tenor as he offered her his hand.
Michelle went forward and shook. Peterson’s handshake was as firm as his tone. “Mr. Peterson, please call me Michelle.”
The tips of his lips curled, if only slightly. There was a twinkle in his astounding light-green eyes. “I’ve heard you referred to as Shelly, but if you want Michelle?—”
No doubt, it was her dad who called her Shelly. “Shelly is fine,” she interjected. “I believe I have you to thank for allowing me to stay here. Thank you, sir.”
“Peterson is fine. No sirs around here. We don’t have ranks in the agency. My condolences regarding Denny.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t kill him, she wanted to add.
Peterson’s gaze went to Fletch who was protectively at Michelle’s side. “Arrow’s the man to thank. He was quite convincing with his appeal and proposal.”
She turned, giving Fletch a smile, and then turned back to Peterson. “You heard the press conference out of Indianapolis?” She knew the answer.
“I did. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s all right with you?”
He had the voice of a man in control, as if his question wasn’t really a question, simply a polite demand. Michelle had to remind herself that Peterson wasn’t the police, she wasn’t twenty years old. “Yes, we can speak.” She met Fletch’s eyes, silently questioning if he agreed.
Fletch motioned toward the living room furniture. “Why don’t we have a seat? The table is a bit full of Chell’s computers.”
Peterson nodded as they walked the few steps to the living room. “Arrow tells me you’re a bestselling author.” He sat in the lone soft chair.
Michelle took the sofa, and Fletch sat at her side.
She grasped her hands in her lap. “I am. I write fiction, not whatever is happening now.” She shrugged. “It’s supposed to be a secret that I write under the pseudonym D. Valentine, but with the events of the last week, that secret is out.”
Peterson leaned forward, placing his forearms on his legs. “Shelly, is there any truth to the press conference we heard today?”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Michelle appreciated Peterson’s straightforwardness. “Some,” she answered truthfully. “My house recently exploded.”
Peterson’s gaze momentarily went to Fletch, making her believe this wasn’t news.
“My father was killed by a gunshot. I was at his house, and the sound of the gun woke me. When I went downstairs, he was dead. His house was on fire. I ran out and hid. That’s where Fletch…I mean, Arrow found me. My mother also perished in a house explosion. The gas company finally paid to settle the case. I think that would mean they took responsibility because I wasn’t guilty.”
Peterson sat taller. “The outcome of the events mentioned are true, just not the connection to you.”
It wasn’t a question, yet Michelle felt compelled to reply. “I’m connected, but only by association. There were three fires, two explosions, and two people—people I loved—deceased.” She inhaled while subconsciously wringing her hands. “I didn’t shoot my dad, arrange the explosion that killed my mom, or blow up my own house. I’m connected, but not the way they made it sound.”
“Before meeting Arrow, what did you know about the agency?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I’d never heard of it.”
“Neither of your parents ever mentioned a word.”
“I was completely oblivious.”
