About the Author

A graduate of Hollins University, MARY BURTON enjoys a variety of hobbies, including scuba diving, yoga and hiking. She is based in Richmond, Virginia, where she lives with her husband and two children.

The Arsonist

Mary Burton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks to

David S. “Steve” Parrott, Battalion Chief,

Emergency Operations, Chesterfield Fire

and Emergency Medical Services.

Prologue

Arson investigator Michael Gannon understood the obsession that drove arsonists to set fires. It was what made him good at what he did.

For seven months, he’d been tracking Nero, a monster who had set nine fires in the Washington, D.C. area, killed twelve people and destroyed millions of dollars in property. The metro area had been paralyzed with fear.

Now as Gannon stared down at the charred corpse the police believed was Nero, he couldn’t quite believe the chase was over. He’d not anticipated this outcome. Nero had been his smartest opponent yet, and he’d never made a mistake—until last night.

The body lay curled in a fetal position near the back exit of the burned-out warehouse. The heat from the newly extinguished fire still radiated from the blackened concrete floor. The low, exuberant voices of police and fire crews buzzed around his head like flies. Reporters and curiosity seekers gathered fifty yards away on the other side of the yellow police tape.

As he studied the body’s rigid arms covering an unrecognizable face, relief, anger, and yes, disappointment collided inside Gannon. He’d never get the chance to look the bastard in the eye or see him stand trial and face those he’d hurt.

“There’s not much left of him,” he said mainly to himself. If not for the evidence found in the back alley, he’d not have believed it was Nero.

The medical examiner, a thin woman with short black hair, dressed in a neat navy-blue pants suit, stood as she pulled off her rubber gloves. “Fifth- and sixth-degree burns nearly disintegrated him.”

Gannon’s sharp gaze rose to her angular face.

“Can you ID him?”

She smiled at him and offered her hand. A flicker of attraction sparked in her eyes. “I’ll ID him. Just give me a little time, Gannon.”

He shook her hand, noted it was cold and then released it. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name and didn’t have the energy to pretend he did.

“Any thoughts to height, weight, race or age?”

She sighed, sensing he didn’t notice her as a woman. “Definitely male. Maybe six feet. The rest will come when I do the autopsy.”

“Thanks.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Gannon watched the medical examiner make her final inspection of the corpse before ordering it moved to the body bag lying open on the floor.

Though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, Gannon’s eyes itched with fatigue. He’d slept very little since the restaurant fire.

Fire Chief Jackson McCray, a tall redhead, lifted the crime scene tape and moved beside Gannon. “You look like hell.”

Gannon tore his gaze from the body. “Right.”

“What are you still doing here?” The chief’s slightly round belly strained against the buttons on his white uniform.

“I’m just seeing this through.”

McCray watched as officers lowered the body into the body bag and zipped it closed.

Gannon reached in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “Not double-checking his escape route was stupid. That kind of mistake wasn’t like Nero.” He hated Nero but he had to respect his intellect and cunning. At first they’d thought the fire had been set by another arsonist because the location was so remote. Nero liked his fires closer to people, where they could generate the most hysteria.

However, the evidence was already piling up. “Did the accelerant found near the body match Nero’s?”

“Sure did. This is our boy.”

“I just can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Believe it.” McCray nodded toward the yellow tape that blocked off the crime scene. Beyond were dozens of television news crews and curiosity seekers. “Go home. Take a few weeks off.”

Gannon felt at loose ends, oddly lost. “I don’t know what to do with myself without Nero to chase.”

“Take that pretty wife of yours out to a fancy dinner.”

Gannon pulled a cigarette out of the pack and then remembered he’d promised himself to give up smoking once Nero had been stopped. He shoved the pack back into his pocket. He’d made a lot of promises to himself these last few grueling months. Not only was he cutting the booze out, but he wasn’t working any more twenty-hour days. He wanted his life back. “Amy left me two months ago.” He spoke about the end of his five-year marriage as if it were the most mundane event. “The divorce will be final in a few months.”

McCray’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Nothing to say.” He and Amy had fought a lot about his job. She’d wanted him to quit the department and sell plumbing supplies for his father.

Gannon watched the officers load the body bag onto the stretcher. They wheeled it over the warehouse floor toward the yellow police tape and the row of officers that kept the press away from the hearse.

TV cameras started rolling. A blond GQ-type stood in front of the Channel Five camera. He checked his hair seconds before his cameraman panned from the hearse to him. “Live from Shield’s warehouse. The bloodthirsty arsonist is allegedly dead thanks to the brave efforts of our fire department’s Michael Gannon who cornered the suspect last night in a final standoff.”

Gannon had grown to despise Glass over the last six months. The reporter had gotten ahold of a sensitive detail of the investigation—Nero always included a pack of Rome matches with his letters. He’d reported it on the six o’clock news. After that, every nut in the city had started sending Gannon Rome matches.

Glass lapped up the extra attention. Ratings were all that mattered to him.

The reporter looked into the camera. “Gannon has worked round the clock for over six months, giving up his nights, weekends and even his marriage.”

Disgust twisted in Gannon’s gut. “He’s painting me to be a hero.”

“Like it or not you are a hero,” McCray said.

“I’m no hero.”

McCray knew Gannon well enough not to argue when he was in a foul mood. “Do you want me to make the statement to the media?”

“No. I’ll wrap this one up.” He glanced at the reporters, grateful this would be the last time he’d have to deal with them. “Chief, I’m also going to announce my retirement.”

McCray froze. “What?”

“I quit. I’m done with this job. I’ve lost my edge.”

“What do you mean? You cracked the Nero case.”

“I didn’t. Nero tripped up. I wonder now if I ever had what it took to catch him.”

McCray rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Hell, we all knew you were closing in on him. You just need some rest.”

Gannon rubbed the thick stubble on his chin. “My mind is made up.”

“Where are you going to go?”

It had been years since he’d slept the night through or had drawn in a deep breath without the scents of fire. “I don’t have a clue.”

Where he went didn’t matter now as long as he got away from this job, which was killing him by inches.

Nero wasn’t dead.

He sat across town at the breakfast counter of a local diner sipping his coffee and watching the late-breaking news. The reporter was Stephen Glass, one of his favorites, and he was talking about Nero’s unexpected death.

A dark-haired waitress, dressed in a white-and-blue uniform, refilled his cup. Following his line of sight to the television, she said, “So what’s so important they got to break in on my game show?”

He glanced down at his coffee, slightly annoyed that the ratio of cream and coffee was now off. “The cops trapped Nero. He died in his latest fire.”

She popped her gum. “No kidding.”

He glanced at the waitress, annoyed by her loud gum chewing. He was looking forward to getting out of this city. It wasn’t fun anymore. “Gannon closed the case.”

“I knew he would.” She waved over another waitress. “Betty, come look at the tube. The fire babe is on the air.” The waitress winked at him. “Gannon is built like a brick house.”

Betty joined her friend and the two women giggled like schoolgirls as Gannon gave his account of last night’s fire.

Nero poured more cream into his coffee and carefully stirred it. Gannon was also smart. He’d been a worthy opponent, one who had kept him in the game far longer than was prudent.

Five nights ago, Gannon had missed him by seconds in the Adam’s-Morgan restaurant fire. He’d known then that it was a matter of time before Gannon caught him.

The time had come to quit the game. As much as Nero loved the thrill of the chase and the exquisite way his fires danced, spending the rest of his life behind bars didn’t appeal to him.

So, he’d found a homeless man in Lafayette Square, and lured him to the warehouse with the promise of money. He had given the man one hundred bucks and a bottle of MD 20/20. Nero had watched as the bum unscrewed the top and drank liberally from the bottle laced with drugs. Within minutes the bum had passed out.

Nero had dragged the man to the back entrance, doused him with accelerant, set the warehouse on fire and slipped into the shadows.

The cops had dutifully found all the clues he’d left behind including the duffel in the alley that was filled with Nero newspaper clippings.

The plan was perfect.

He was free.

For the first time in months, Nero felt relaxed and more at ease.

The itch to burn and destroy had vanished.

Nero sipped his coffee. It tasted good—the right balance of cream and coffee.

Maybe this time, he could quit setting fires and live a normal life.

Chapter 1

One Year Later

The informant’s tip was explosive.

Excitement sizzled through Darcy Sampson’s body as she stepped off the elevator into the Washington Post’s newsroom. She hurried to her desk. The large open room was full of desks, lined up one behind the other. Only inches separated hers from her colleague’s.

Her computer screen was off. The desk was piled high with papers, reference books and, in the corner, a wilting plant.

Darcy dug her notebook out of her purse and then dumped the bag in the bottom desk drawer. She couldn’t wait to talk to her editor and pitch the story that would propel her byline from page twenty to the front page.

“So where’s the fire?” The familiar raspy voice had Darcy looking up. Barbara Rogers, a fellow reporter, was wafer thin. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and her wire-rimmed glasses magnified sharp gray eyes.

Darcy flipped her notebook open. She wanted to be sure of her facts before she talked to her editor. “Just kicking around a story idea.”

Barbara had been in the business for thirty years. She knew all the angles. And she knew everything that went on in the newsroom. “Must be some story. You look like you’re about to start salivating.”

Darcy didn’t dare confirm or deny. “I’ve got to run.”

Barbara wasn’t offended. “Sure, cut your best friend out of the loop.”

Best friend. Barbara had stolen two story ideas from her in the last year. She hurried toward her editor’s office. Visions of a Pulitzer prize and national exposure danced in her head. Through the glass walls of his office, she could see Paul Tyler was on the phone, but she knocked anyway.

What she had was too good to wait.

The phone cradled under his ear, Paul glanced up at her. He looked annoyed but motioned her inside.

Darcy hurried into the cramped office littered with stacks of newspapers, magazines and piles of books on the floor. She moved the books from the chair in front of his desk and sat down. The heavy scent of cigarettes hung in the air. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the building, but that didn’t stop him from putting duct tape over the smoke detector and sneaking a cigarette once in a while.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. A swath of graying hair hung over his tired green eyes. “Right, well, do the best you can. And call me if you find another lead.” Hanging up the receiver, he sighed as he looked up at Darcy. “What is it, Sampson?”

She sucked in a deep, calming breath, willing herself to talk slowly. “I have a story.”

He stared at her blankly. “And?”

Darcy leaned forward. “Remember Nero?”

Paul sat back in his chair. A dollop of ketchup stained the right pocket of his shirt. “Sure. The arsonist that tried to torch D.C. last year. Killed twelve people.”

“Right.”

Paul glanced at the pile of papers on his desk as if the conversation was already losing him. “He died in one of his own fires.”

She spoke softly. “What if he didn’t die?”

He looked up. Interest mingled with doubt in his eyes. “He died. The fire department and police department had mountains of information on the guy … Raymond somebody.”

“Mason. Raymond Mason.” She flipped her notebook open and searched several pages before she found the right reference. “He was a homeless man. Also, a college graduate and Gulf War vet. Volunteer firefighter.”

“Right. I remember now. So why should I care about all this?”

“I got a call from a woman yesterday. She is Raymond’s sister, Sara Highland.”

“Why would she call you?”

A valid question. Until now, all Darcy had covered were city planning and council meetings. “My ex-boyfriend, Stephen.” She hated giving Stephen-the-creep any credit for the tip, but he had been the reason Sara had contacted her. Stephen, a reporter for TV Five News, had made quite a name for himself covering the Nero fires. “He interviewed Sara last year and thinking she might remember something of interest, he had given her his home number—which in fact was my number because he was basically living at my place most of the time. Anyway, she called. When I played back Sara’s message on my answering machine, I knew I had to talk to her.”

Paul’s glazed look was a signal that she was rambling. “Get to the punch line.”

“Sara doesn’t believe that Raymond was Nero. She believes he was set up.”

Paul yawned. “She said this last year. And who could blame her? No one wants to believe their brother is a serial arsonist and murderer.”

“This time she’s got facts to back up her statements.” Darcy flipped through a couple of pages in her notebook. “It took Sara time get over the shock of it all. When she did, she started talking to the men who knew Raymond.”

He lifted a brow. “Homeless men?”

“Yes. There was one man in particular—a Bud Jones. He was a veteran, too. He and Raymond were good friends. I went to talk to him. Bud said a week before the last fire a well-dressed man stopped and talked to Raymond. The two hit it off and the stranger gave Raymond five dollars. The guy came back several more times over the next few days. Finally, he offered big money to Raymond for a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Raymond never said.” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “But Bud thinks it had to do with Nero’s last fire.”

“Did Sara or you pay this Bud character money for information?” There was no missing his cynicism. Paul believed Bud had simply told Sara what she wanted to hear in exchange for money.

“I tried to give him a twenty but he wouldn’t take it.”

“Where’s Bud been all this time? Why hasn’t anyone else mentioned him?”

“He took off the day before the last fire. Thumbed down to Florida where he stayed until last month.”

Paul steepled his fingers. “Keep talking.”

“Raymond was supposed to meet the stranger at Shield’s warehouse.”

That had Paul’s attention. “The spot of Nero’s last fire.”

“Where Raymond died.” She closed her notebook. “I think Raymond was set up by the real Nero. I think the real Nero knew the police and arson investigators were on to him and that if he didn’t do something quickly, he’d be caught.”

“Great theory, but where’s the proof?”

“I don’t have it, yet, but I intend to get it.”

“Where?”

“Remember Michael Gannon?”

“Sure, chief arson investigator on the case. Dropped off the scene after Nero’s death was confirmed.”

“I talked to a couple of buddies of his in the department. I said I was doing a year anniversary thing on the fires. Anyway, one let it slip that Gannon never really believed Nero was dead. When I questioned him further, he started backpedaling.”

“Where’s Gannon now?”

“He moved down to Preston Springs, Virginia, and opened a motorcycle shop.”

“Aren’t you from Preston Springs?”

Darcy’s stomach tightened. That was the major fly in the ointment. She and her mother didn’t get on so well. And the last time she’d been home had been a year ago for her father’s funeral. “Yeah.”

“So what are you going to do—interview Gannon?”

“If it were only that easy. Gannon hates reporters. Which we can thank Stephen for.”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Stephen did harass the hell out of Gannon.”

“Made his life rough. I’m afraid if Gannon knows I had anything to do with Stephen, reporting or Nero he’d shut me down.”

He drummed his fingers on his desk. “So what do you want from me?”

“Like you said, I’m from Preston Springs. I can go home under the guise of visiting my mother and brother. And while I’m there, make contact with Gannon. With any luck, he’ll open up.”

Paul folded his fingers over his chest. “Long shot, if you ask me.”

She rubbed her palms together. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s worth the chance. If we could prove Nero didn’t die, the coverage would be incredible. We’d get picked up all over the country. All I need is two weeks.”

He nodded. “It damn sure would be.” He sighed staring at the stacks of paper on his desk. “I can’t give you two weeks. Only a week.”

Darcy swallowed a smile. She had Paul. Now it was a matter of reeling him in. “Ten days.”

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

He glared at her. “Sold. But this adventure is on your dime until you come up with something hard.”

She jumped to her feet. “No problem. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Standing, he held up his hand to stop her. “I want you to keep me posted. Call me every day or two. Gannon won’t be easy to crack. Can be a real son of a bitch from what I remember.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

Just the idea of this story had her nerves humming. “Michael Gannon will talk to me. I can guarantee it.”

Chapter 2

The perky Surprise, I’m home! Darcy Sampson had practiced on the car ride down Interstate 81 died on her lips when she saw flames shooting out of a frying pan on her family’s restaurant’s industrial kitchen stove.

For a moment, she stood, dumbstruck, her green duffel bag gripped in her hand as flames licked the sides of the stove’s greasy exhaust hood and black smoke filled the restaurant kitchen.

“Fire!” Darcy shouted.

Her mother, a short plump woman with graying hair, whirled around from the sink where she’d been washing dishes. Panicking, she grabbed a full glass of water and raced toward the fire.

Darcy dropped her bags. “No, Mom, don’t!”

Her mother tossed the cold water on the hot grease in the pan. Immediately, the fire exploded higher, spilling over the sides of the stove. Hot oil spattered like a Roman candle. Mrs. Sampson screamed and jumped back as oil peppered her arm.

The smoke detector started to screech through the entire building. Darcy ran down the shotgun style kitchen to the pantry. There she grabbed a large box of flour and rushed toward the blaze. Without hesitating, she dumped the entire box on the flames. The fire died instantly.

Her heart pounding, Darcy set the empty tub down on the island in the center of the kitchen and rubbed a shaking hand to her forehead. “Mom, you know how to put out a grease fire.” White flour coated Darcy’s fingers, the stove and the mud-brown linoleum floor. She looked down at her black silk pants suit now dusted with flour. “I just had this dry-cleaned.”

Her mother glanced impatiently up at the smoke detector that still wailed. She started to wave her apron in the air under the blaring smoke detector. “Help me turn this thing off. I don’t need the fire department knocking on my door.”

Darcy grabbed a stepladder, and in high heeled boots climbed up the steps and disconnected the smoke detector. She pulled the battery out of the back of it. Blessed silence filled the room.

Darcy climbed down and shut off the gas to the burner under the frying pan now covered with a thick coat of flour. She set down the battery and faced her mother. “Did you burn yourself?”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I’m fine.”

The speckled burns on her mother’s arms said otherwise. Darcy went to the sink, turned on the tap and soaked a handful of paper towels in the cool water. She rang out the excess water.

“Let me see your arms.”

“I’m fine,” her mother said, her tone brusque.

Darcy swallowed her frustration and took her mother’s arm in hand. Gently she started to clean her arm.

Her mother winced. “That hurts. Don’t be so rough.”

“You need some antibiotic ointment on that.”

Her mother pulled her arm away. “It’s not that bad.”

She’d been home less than two minutes and already she and her mother were arguing. It had to be a record. “Mom, you wouldn’t admit to third-degree burns even if they covered your body.”

Mrs. Sampson took the towels from Darcy. “I’ve managed to take care of myself all these years while you’ve been up north with your big city job.”

Darcy’s defenses rose. But instead of taking the bait, she went to the swinging doors that led to the dining room so that she could calm the customers.

To her surprise, the row of booths covered in green vinyl and the seats around the mahogany bar were empty.

She checked her watch. Two o’clock. The lunch hour had passed, but normally there’d be a half a dozen folks eating a late lunch.

As she glanced around the deserted room, she realized the place hadn’t changed in twenty years. It still smelled of stale cigarettes and beer and was decorated with her brother’s football memorabilia, including jerseys from his peewee days through his brief time with the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Growing up, Darcy had jokingly called the room The Shrine, though deep inside it hurt knowing her parents’ world revolved solely around her brother. She’d been all but invisible to them.

“Where is everyone?” she asked. She ignored the tightness in her chest and walked back into the kitchen.

“We don’t open for lunch anymore.” Her mother surveyed the mess around the stove as she pushed a trembling hand through her short gray hair. “We open at five now.”

That surprised her. “Why? The lunch crowd was always profitable.”

Her mother got a broom from a small closet by the back door. “Trevor says lunch is more trouble than it is worth. The real money is made at dinner and the bar.”

Her brother, Trevor, had become the tavern manager after their father’s death last year. Trevor had just been cut from the Steelers and was at loose ends. At the time, his managing the restaurant had seemed like a win-win solution for everyone.

“Dad never missed an opportunity to make money. He only closed on Christmas Day. Trevor’s decision must have Dad rolling in his grave.”

Jan Sampson shot an annoyed glance her daughter’s way. She wasn’t willing to discuss Trevor’s managerial decisions. But instead of saying so, she diverted the conversation to another topic. “Good Lord, I’ve never seen a fire jump like that.”

Darcy could feel a headache coming on. “I get the hint—Trevor is perfect.” It had been six years since she’d moved away from home, but it surprised her how deep old resentments still ran.

Her mother ignored the comment.

Darcy drew in a calming breath. This visit home was going to work. “What caused the fire, Mom?”

Her mother tugged down the edges of her Steelers yellow T-shirt. “I was frying potatoes when I noticed there were dishes to be put away. I got distracted. The next thing I know, you’re screaming fire.”

“You could have burned the whole place down.”

Anger flashed in her mother’s eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Darcy pushed aside her annoyance. She’d come home for a story—not a tender family reunion. “I was fired.” The lie tumbled over her lips easily. She’d decided on the drive down that honesty wasn’t the best policy if she were going to get Gannon to talk to her. Her mother couldn’t keep a secret.

Mrs. Sampson stopped her sweeping. “Fired?”

Darcy shoved her hands in her pockets. She’d rehearsed this conversation on the drive down. “A week ago.”

“You were always in the center of trouble as a kid.”

“Straight As was how I remember it,” she said, her anger rising. “And I worked in our family’s restaurant full time all the way through college.”

Mrs. Sampson ignored what Darcy had said. “Why did they fire you?”

There was no point arguing. “I wrote an exposé on a developer. He used shoddy materials in his buildings. Turns out he was a major advertiser with the paper. I refused to drop the story. I got fired.” It all had sounded plausible when she’d made it up, but now she found she had trouble meeting her mother’s gaze.

Mrs. Sampson started to sweep up the burned flour, again. “That doesn’t make sense. I see your name in the paper a lot. Your articles are good enough.”

Unreasonably pleased, she stood a little taller. “You get The Post?”

Mrs. Sampson shrugged. “From time to time. I buy it from the drugstore.”

Darcy stood five inches taller than her mother, yet she still felt like a five-year-old at times. “Any articles you liked in particular?”

“No. Would you get the dustpan?”

Grateful for the task, she dug the pan out of the broom closet and knelt down so her mother could sweep the pile of flour onto the pan.

“You should have listened to your boss, Darcy.”

Darcy picked up the full pan and dumped it in the trash can. “You’re right.”

Her mother studied her an extra beat as if she wasn’t sure if Darcy was being sarcastic or not. Darcy tried to look sincere.

Mrs. Sampson softened a fraction. “What about that boyfriend of yours?”

“We broke up almost a year ago.”

Mrs. Sampson swept up the rest of the flour and dumped it into the trash can. “I saw that Stephen guy on the Today Show when he was reporting on those fires in Washington last year. I thought his smile was too quick.”

“And fake too. Would you believe he spent thousands on caps?” His new, rich girlfriend had paid for them. “I still can’t believe I wasted two years with him.”

Mrs. Sampson shook her head. “So you’ve nowhere else to go and you’ve come home.”

Pride had her lifting her chin a notch. “I know I’ve not been the best daughter. Dad and I fought so much and I didn’t even stay for the reception after the funeral.”

The apology caught Mrs. Sampson by surprise. More tension drained from her shoulders. “Your father wasn’t the easiest man either, Darcy. I knew he could be difficult.”

An unexpected lump formed in her throat. “I was hoping I could crash here for a while.”

Mrs. Sampson was silent for a moment. “Of course, you can stay here for a while. In fact, I’ve an opening for a waitress. Our waitress quit just yesterday. I’ll have to check with Trevor of course, but I don’t see why you couldn’t work the tables like you used to.”

“That would be great.” The idea of working in the restaurant didn’t appeal, but it would be the perfect cover story.

Her mother nodded. “You can start by taking out this trash. Then, when you get your bags put away, you can start prepping for the dinner crowd. My cook, George, is on break now but he’ll be back within the hour.”

“George? What happened to Dave?” Dave had cooked for the Varsity since she’d been in elementary school.

Mrs. Sampson sighed. “He quit about six months ago.”

There was a time when she’d known everything about the Varsity. Now she was the outsider. “Everything all right with him?”

She stood a little straighter. “He just wanted more money than we could pay.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dave.” The tall, lean man always enjoyed a good joke and kept Eskimo Pies for Darcy in the freezer.

“People change.”

The tone in her mother’s voice told her not to push. “Okay. Where is Trevor? I tried him on his cell phone earlier but he didn’t pick up.”

“Your brother is getting supplies for the dinner crowd. We ran short on a few things.”

“How’s he doing?”

Mrs. Sampson started to wipe the cooktop with a rag. “He’s doing just fine. The tavern has never been busier. Thank God, I have him.”

Darcy didn’t miss the hidden meaning. Trevor was the golden child. “Good.”

“Well, you better get to work,” her mother said. “That trash won’t take itself out.”

Darcy glanced at the trash can overflowing with debris. She visualized the story she was going to write and the awards she was going to win.

“Will do.” Darcy sealed up the green bag lining the wheeled plastic trash can.

“And when you’re done with that, get this kitchen cleaned.”

“Right.”

Darcy pushed up the sleeves of her suit and tried to pull the bag out. It was heavier than she realized. Deciding to keep the trash bag in the can, she tipped the can back on its wheels and started to pull it outside.

“Darcy?” Her mother looked as if she had something else to say.

“Yeah?”

As their gazes met, her mother frowned, seeming to change her mind. “Never mind.”

“Okay.” Drawing in a deep breath, Darcy yanked at the can again and slowly started to drag it to the back alley behind the Varsity.

The alley was lined with pitted asphalt and wide enough for cars to drive through. The Varsity, flanked by a bridal shop and a drugstore, was located in middle of the block. The battered blue Dumpster, shared by all three businesses, was tucked in a nook by the drugstore.

Darcy pulled the trash can down the two steps by the back door, wincing as it banged hard with each drop. Her ankles wobbled as her high heeled boots caught between two of the cobblestones. Cursing, she yanked it free, and in the process, ripped the leather from one heel.

She stared at the torn Italian leather. The three-hundred-dollar boots had been a Christmas gift from Stephen two years ago. She suspected this was fate’s retribution for the lies she’d told her mother.

Tracking down the real Nero was worth it, she reminded herself.

Standing taller, she gripped the handle of the trash can and started down the alley. “I’m not going to quit. I’m not. I will get through this.”

The heavy can rumbled over the uneven asphalt as she headed toward the Dumpster. She opened the side door of the Dumpster and tugged on the green trash bag three times but couldn’t get it free.

“You are a stupid trash bag,” she said gritting her teeth. “And you aren’t going to win.” Determined, she jerked the bag. Her fitted jacket strained against her back and she pulled and pulled until finally the garbage bag wiggled free. She dumped the bag into the Dumpster.

Taking out the trash was hardly a moment to be celebrated, but she did feel a little pang of pride as she brushed her hands together. Tenacity. It had won out over the trash and it would find Nero.

Her shoulders back, she started to drag the can back to the kitchen. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the roar of the motorcycle zooming down the alley until it was almost too late.

The driver hit the brakes and narrowly swerved around her as she looked up. Shocked, she stumbled back.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she went from fear to anger in a split second. Without thinking, she flipped the Motorcycle Man the bird. “What is the matter with you, sport?”

Motorcycle Man shoved up his visor. Electric blue eyes that held no hint of emotion stared at her.

Suddenly, all her senses became very sharp. She was intensely aware of the hot June air and the sweat drizzling down her chest between her breasts.

The jolt of desire surprised and irritated her. The guy had almost run her over. If she’d had any sense, she’d not have taken on a redneck biker in an alley. But her nerves were shot and her mouth worked faster than her brain. “Hey, mister, do you think you can be a little more careful?”

“You’re the one that wasn’t watching where you were going.” His voice was hoarse, rusty and sent tremors down her spine.

Still, Darcy marched toward him, pulling her trash can with her. The idea of coming home had frayed her nerves and she realized she was spoiling for a fight. “This is an alleyway! It’s not meant for high-speed chases. You could have flattened me like a pancake.”

“You smell like smoke.”

“What?”

He looked around the alleyway. “What was burning?”

She nodded her head toward the restaurant kitchen’s door. “A grease fire in the Varsity’s kitchen. It’s out now.”

His gaze sharpened. “They had another one?”

Another one? What was happening to that place? When she’d been kid growing up and working there, they’d never had any trouble. Family loyalty had her keeping those thoughts to herself. “Like I said, it’s under control.”

His gloved leather hand tightened around the bike’s throttle. “So are you going to be okay, or do I have to call an ambulance?”

His sarcasm grated her nerves. “I’ll probably have nightmares for a month.”

Creases formed around his eyes, a sign he was grinning. “So are you the new waitress at the Varsity?”

“How do you know that?”

“Who else would be hauling around a trash can with the Varsity stenciled on it?”

She glanced at the faded lettering. “Right.”

“You don’t look like a waitress.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sounded bitchy—even to her own ears.

“Right. Well, sorry for the scare.” He flipped his visor down. “Watch where you are walking. You might not be so lucky next time.”

She gritted her teeth. “Drive more slowly!”

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “Try not to frighten the customers away.”

The laughter in his voice irritated her. “I’m a good waitress.”

“Right.” He revved the engine loudly and then slowly drove down the alley.

Muttering an oath under her breath, Darcy started back toward the Varsity.

She’d gone two feet when her high heel caught between cobblestones again and she stumbled. Gripping the handle of the trash can, she glanced back to make sure Motorcycle Man had left. He had.

With as much dignity as she could muster, she brushed her bangs off her face, and dragging the trash can behind her, retreated back into the kitchen.

Darcy shut the kitchen door and leaned against it. Closing her eyes, she let a sigh shudder through her body as she thought about Motorcycle Man’s laughing gaze. It seemed everyone had questioned her competency since she had arrived in Preston Springs.

But she’d prove them all wrong—when she found Nero.

Chapter 3

Darcy spent the next half hour unpacking and changing into a cotton T-shirt, jeans and running shoes. She itched to go out for a long run before reviewing her notes on Nero, but it was already past three in the afternoon and the dinner crowd would be arriving at five o’clock.

As she brushed her hair up into a ponytail, she glanced around her old bedroom. Her mother had taken down her posters and painted over the purple. Her brass daybed was still there, but the black-and-white comforter was gone and in its place a green quilt and lots of pillows. Her mother’s sewing machine sat in the corner next to a white glider and footstool.

Her mother had done a good job of erasing any signs that her daughter had ever lived in this house. None of this would have bothered Darcy, if not for Trevor’s shrine in the diner.

“And why do you care?” Darcy mumbled as she tightened the rubber band around the thick handful of hair. “This is just a temporary stop. Deal with it.”

She started down the back staircase that led to the kitchen. As she approached the last step, she heard a man singing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” The voice was deep, the tone so off-key it made her smile.

Darcy found a stocky man standing in front of the stove stirring a pot of chili. He wore a white cook’s uniform with the sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. A rawhide strip held back thinning gray hair in a tight ponytail.

“Hey,” she said. Her mother had told her the tavern had a new cook. His name was George Paris.

George didn’t look up. “What did you do to my kitchen?” Each word was coated in a thick Alabama accent.

Darcy glanced around and seeing no signs of her mother assumed the comment was directed at her.

“Saved it.”

“It took me a half hour just to clean the flour out of the burner.”

The chili smelled good and she remembered she’d not eaten since breakfast. “You’re lucky to have a burner or a job for that matter. If I hadn’t shown up, Mom would have torched the place.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he tossed a handful of chili powder into the pot. If he’d worked here six months, he knew her mother could be a bit scattered at times. “Then I owe you my thanks. Unemployment doesn’t suit me so well.”

She snagged an apple from a bowl of fruit on the island. “Me either.”

He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mother said you are the new waitress.”

“That’s right.” She bit into the apple.

“You don’t look like your mother or Trevor.”

The apple tasted tart. “I take after my father.”

Eyeing her one last second, he turned back to his chili. “You can start making the dinner salads. Lettuce, two tomatoes, cucumber and three red onion rings.”

“I know the drill. I’ve made a million of those in my past life here.” Holding the apple in her teeth she washed and dried her hands. She took another bite of apple set it aside and crossed to the refrigerator. She pulled out a bag of precut lettuce, a box of cherry tomatoes, a cucumber and red onions. She set it all down on the island.

“Remember, only three slices of cucumber per plate,” he said.

She set the apple aside. “Tomatoes on the left, cucumbers in the middle, onions on the right. I remember.” She grabbed a stack of plates from the shelf on the wall above the sink and started to line them up assembly line fashion. She hated having to deal with this mundane stuff while knowing Nero could be alive, but for now she had to make like a waitress so no one would suspect her motives.

“Where is Trevor? Shouldn’t he be here now?” she asked.

He crushed a handful of dried red pepper flakes in his hand then dumped them into the pot. “He called your mother and said that he’ll be back by five o’clock.”

She noted a hint of irritation in his voice. “Trevor likes to play it fast and loose. Deadlines don’t get to him. Used to irritate his football coaches no end.”

“Then he is in the wrong business.” George sounded annoyed. “Restaurants are nothing but deadlines.”

“Mom says the business is doing well.” She kept her voice neutral, but she was fishing. Natural curiosity had been one of the reasons she’d become a reporter.

George shrugged. “I don’t think about things like that as long as I get paid on time.”

“Which you do?” She figured she had a right to know how Trevor ran the place.

“Most times.”

Frowning, she tore into the lettuce. She’d hoped when Trevor had taken over the restaurant that he’d grow up and become more responsible.

Let it go, Darcy. This gig was strictly a stepping-stone to her Pulitzer. “And Mom is where?”

“She is rolling the napkins and checking the bar.”

“Okay.” Darcy set out thirty plates on the center island. As she started to lay torn lettuce leaves on each, a truck pulled up in the back alley.

George wiped his hands on his apron and glanced out the screened door. “It’s about time Thompsons got here. We are just about out of everything.” He went to the door and waved. “Hey, Harvey. You can bring our order right in. We’ve got to get those chickens started if they’re going to be ready on time.”

Harvey Thompson, a tall thin man in his mid-fifties, came in the back door, with only a clipboard in his hand. He glanced over at Darcy. “Hey, Darcy, when did you get back in town?”

She grinned. “Just today.”

“You look good. You lose weight?”

She smiled. “Sure did. Twenty pounds this last year. Thanks for noticing.”

George looked impatient. “Harvey, you can start unloading any time.”

But the man hesitated. “I’m going to need a check from Trevor.”

“What do you mean—we have to pay C.O.D., Harvey? You always bill us,” George said.

Harvey’s face turned red. “You’re behind.”

George muttered a curse. “I’m a cook, not a bookkeeper. I shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things when I got a roomful of customers showing up in less than two hours. Wait right here.” He stormed into the dining room in search of Darcy’s mother.

Harvey glanced awkwardly at Darcy. “I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But my boss said no cash, no delivery.”

“Trevor that far behind?” Darcy said.

Before Harvey could answer, George returned with Mrs. Sampson. “Tell Mrs. S. what you just told me.”

Harvey’s face reddened as he addressed Mrs. Sampson. “I’m going to need cash on delivery today, Jan. No money, no food.”

Her mother’s laugh had an edge. “That can’t be right, Harvey. I know Trevor just sent you in a check last week.”

“It bounced,” Harvey said in a low voice.

“It didn’t bounce,” Mrs. Sampson said. “I made a huge deposit only last week into the account.”

Harvey shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. All I know is no cash, no delivery.”

Her mother looked flustered and embarrassed now. “This has to be a mistake.”

Darcy stepped forward. “How much would you need today to make your delivery?”

“If it were anybody else, I’d need it all. But seeing as it’s y’all, I’ll take a thousand. I figure this is just a paperwork glitch.”

Her mother had never been one to handle the business end of the diner. Her father had while he was alive, and since his death, Trevor had.

“I don’t keep that kind of money in my personal account,” Mrs. Sampson said.

“I can bring the order back tomorrow,” Harvey said.

“We need today’s order or we won’t be able to open tonight,” George said.

“Don’t know what to say,” Harvey said. He looked as if he’d just endured root canal work.

The last thing Darcy wanted was to be drawn further into tavern business. She only had twelve hundred in her checking account and most of that was earmarked for her credit card bill, which was due at the end of next week. Since she’d dropped the twenty pounds this year, she’d splurged on new clothes—a lot of new clothes.

But high interest rates and minimum payments aside, if the Varsity went down, so would her cover. “I can go to the bank and pull the cash out of my account. I’m going to need to be paid back by Monday, Mom.”

Mrs. Sampson looked relieved. “Trevor will pay you back as soon as he gets here.”

Darcy nodded. “Harvey, go ahead and start unloading. I’ll be back with the cash in five minutes.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

Despite her mother’s assurance, she felt as if she’d just stepped in quicksand. She got her purse and headed out the back alley, this time looking both ways.

Once Harvey was paid, Darcy, George and her mother focused on prepping for the dinner crowd. The Varsity didn’t have any other staff so the pace was quick and the work more physically challenging than she remembered. Still, despite a few dropped plates, she, George and her mother were ready by the time five o’clock rolled around. There was still no sign of Trevor.

Oddly enough, before her mother flipped the Closed sign to Open she felt as jittery as when she’d turned in her first article. So much was riding on her getting information from Gannon on Nero.

Thoughts of Nero vanished when the customers started arriving right at five. Within an hour, the diner was buzzing. All fifteen booths were filled and she and her mother ran from table to table taking orders, refilling drinks and serving entrées. To her surprise, she remembered more and more as the evening progressed. She’d forgotten how good she was at working this place.

She thought about Motorcycle Man. If he saw her in action now, he’d be eating his words.

By eight o’clock, most of the regulars were sitting at the bar. There was Chief Wheeler, the town’s fire chief who was in his late forties. Chief’s hair was thinning and he’d grown paunchy in the last six years. Next to him sat a friend of hers from high school, Larry White, a tall, lean truck driver who worked for a wholesale electronics distributor.

“So your mom says you got canned,” Larry said to Darcy.

For the sake of the Nero investigation she wanted to downplay her reporting background. Folks had a way of clamming up when they knew a reporter, even a supposedly ex-reporter, was around. “Hey, do me a favor guys and drop the subject. Kinda touchy.”

Larry and the chief nodded thoughtfully.

“Will do. Been fired myself a couple of times,” Larry said. He sipped his cola. “It bites.”

“We can keep a secret,” the chief said.

“Thanks.”

Minutes later, a tall, lean man walked into the tavern. In his forties, he was very athletic and had thick blonde hair. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. He took a seat beside Larry and held out a smooth hand to the trucker who took it immediately. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain, Nathan,” Larry said. “Nathan, I’d like you to meet Darcy Sampson. Her family’s owned the Varsity for years and she’s back working at her old job.”

Nathan smiled at Darcy. “Pleasure.”

His gaze possessed an intensity that made her believe for an instant that she was the only person in the room. There was no denying he was a very attractive man. She sucked in her stomach. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Sure thing,” she said. She sounded cool, but for some reason he jumbled her nerves. Cup. Coffeepot. Pour. She poured him a cup and set it in front of him. “Cream? Sugar?”

The faint lines at his temples deepened when he smiled. “No thanks.” He sipped his coffee. “Good. So, you just start?”

“Tonight’s my first night.” Darcy felt herself blushing. “So, Chief, how did your day go?”

The chief grimaced. “We had one hell of a fire.”

Nathan’s face was blank. “I’ve been at the construction site all day. What’s the scoop?”

The chief leaned forward. “The Super 8 burned to the ground. Worst fire I’ve seen in years. Started in a storage closet and then quickly spread to the building’s roof. We evacuated the motel and put our hoses on the fire. But the damn thing wouldn’t go out. Within thirty minutes, the motel was burned to the ground.”

Darcy’s heart started to pound in her chest. The fire likely had nothing to do with Nero, but it was strange that the chief had battled an intense fire the day she arrived to investigate a serial arsonist.

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Do you know what started it?”

The chief shook his head. “Don’t know. We got the arson boys from Roanoke coming in tomorrow.”

Darcy lingered.

“You think someone set the fire on purpose?” Larry asked.

“No, I doubt it. Likely someone did something stupid,” the chief said. “They’ll have a report for us in a couple of days.”

Larry pulled a toothpick from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Bet it was teen gangs.”

Chief Wheeler laughed. “Larry you got teen gangs on the brain since you saw that 20/20 show last month.”

George rang a bell, which told Darcy another order was up. Swallowing an oath, she picked up the order and took the plates to table number six. By the time she’d gotten them ketchup and refilled their colas, the men at the bar were talking about another fire.

Darcy topped up the chief’s drink. “You get a lot of fires in the area?”

The chief shrugged. “Not many as a rule.”

Darcy held up the pitcher of cola. “Like a refill, Larry?”

“Not yet,” he said smiling.

“So how do you like Preston Springs so far, Nathan?” She wanted to stay in on this conversation without being too obvious.

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Love it.”

She held up the coffeepot. “So you’re working on the condo project off I-81?”

He held up his cup. “That’s right.”

She refilled it. Given time, she’d crack this Nero case. There was a story here and she could feel it in her bones. “Long hours?”

He nodded his thanks. “Always.”

George rang his bell and Darcy had to abandon her conversation and serve another customer.

Given time. Who was she kidding? She barely had time to pee.

It was nine o’clock before Darcy could pull her head above water again to think. Nathan, the chief and Larry had left and there was still no sign of Trevor.

Her feet ached from running from table to table. If her brother had been here, she’d have had more time to talk to the chief, maybe find out something about Michael Gannon. But Trevor was nowhere in sight.

At nine forty-five, she’d not had a break and was starving. She’d eaten three large handfuls of the cocktail nuts—a good four hundred calories by her way of thinking. At the rate she was going, she’d weigh two hundred pounds before she got back to D.C. When the guy at table seven sent his order back for the third time, she vowed to skin Trevor alive when he did arrive.

At ten, the crowd had turned over several times. Folks looking for a meal had long cleared out. Most were now there for drinks.

At ten-fifteen, the front door opened and to her great relief, Trevor strolled in. Everyone at the bar and the booths waved him a greeting as he flashed his million-dollar smile. Trevor, tall and muscular with thick brown hair, kissed his mother, who beamed up at him from her current post at the cash register, and then strolled over to the bar as if he had all the time in the world.

When he spotted Darcy, his grin widened. “Mom said you were back.”

“Man, it’s about time you got here,” she said as she stuck a lime in a Gin Fizz and handed it to a customer at the bar.

He studied her trim figure. “You’ve lost weight.”

That compliment was her Achilles’ heel and she immediately started to thaw. “Yeah.”

Trevor opened his arms wide. “Is that the nicest thing you can say to your baby brother?”

Darcy really wanted to stay mad at Trevor. He’d left her in the lurch for most of the evening. But there was something about Trevor and his natural charm. She couldn’t stay mad at him.

She stepped into his arms and hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her and squeezed her tight against him. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but in all honesty, she’d never felt more welcome than she did at this moment.

Since her breakup with Stephen, there’d been no one to hug or comfort her or tell her that everything was going to be all right after a bad day. Trevor’s hug made up for all of that. For just a split second, she felt safe, secure and loved. And for that she could forgive him almost anything.

Darcy choked back the tears crowding her throat and pulled back. “It’s good to see you.”

His smile lit up his eyes. “You too. So who’s the bastard that fired my big sister? I want a name because I’m going to have to rough him up.”

Darcy laughed and tears did fill her eyes this time. “Thanks, but I got it under control.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, Dee. I can drive up to D.C., pound some flesh and be home before you know it.”

Gratitude choked her throat. “Just the offer makes me feel better.”

He hugged her again before he released her. “It’s a standing offer.” He moved behind the bar and drafted himself a beer. He took a long drink, nearly draining half the mug. “Hey, thanks for covering the delivery today. I don’t know what happened with the payment. But I’ll write you a check first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Darcy smiled. “So when did you start drinking?” Their dad had been an alcoholic, and, like her, Trevor had always sworn to stay off the sauce.

He rolled his eyes. “A half a beer is hardly a drinking problem, Dee.”

“That’s what Dad used to say.”

Michael Gannon often lost track of time when he was working on a new bike. Regularly, he worked hours under the garage’s fluorescent glare often skipping meals. Tonight, however, he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about the fire at the Super 8. The fire at the motel possessed an intensity that had surprised him. An older hotel could easily have burned that fast, but new construction rarely did.

He shut off the flame of his blowtorch and set it and the solder down on the workbench next to the gas tank he was fabricating. He pulled off his faceplate and stepped back, easing the kinks from his back as he moved. He’d been working on a custom gas tank for a vintage old-school bike most of the day. The task should have taken a few hours. But his concentration kept wavering and he’d been forced to work well into the night to finish it.

The bike was expected to go to the paint shop in six days, and if he didn’t get it built in time, he’d fall behind schedule.

He picked up the tank and studied the cigar-shaped form. The seams and edges were rough now, but tomorrow he’d buff out the uneven spots. And once painted, it would be sweet.

Gannon set the tank down and walked over to the long window of his shop. Outside, the bulb above his front door cast a ring of light. Across the street, the neon lights of the Varsity tavern blinked. The tavern was winding down and the last customers made their way out the front door.

Thinking about their new waitress, he went outside. She had a real mouth on her, but he still couldn’t help but grin when he pictured her green eyes blazing at him.

He glanced again at the Varsity and then checked his watch. The tavern was open for another fifteen minutes, enough time to get a bite to eat. But he didn’t like being close to cigarettes when he was this edgy. He’d not had a cigarette in a year and he wasn’t going to mess up just because some fool had set an accidental fire.

A bike ride was in order. He needed to get out in the open air and let the wind clear the cobwebs from his brain. As he started back inside to get his bike, the leggy waitress pushed through the front door of the tavern. She had her arm around a guy who was clearly drunk.

Gannon paused, stepping back into the shadows. He imagined the waitress had handled her share of drunks, but he hung around in case there was trouble.

The waitress and her customer stood outside the tavern and he suspected they were waiting for a cab. The drunk swayed a couple of times and then his right hand drifted up to the waitress’s butt. She slapped it down.

Gannon grinned.

When the cab arrived, the brunette helped the drunk into the cab. She leaned in the backseat window, her ponytail swishing forward over her shoulder as she bade him good evening. When the cab drove off, she waved.

He watched her walk back toward the bar, admiring the way her jeans hugged her rear. He couldn’t resist stepping partway into the light and shouting, “Break any plates tonight?”

She whirled around searching the darkness until she saw him. For a moment she stared as if she didn’t know him and then she connected the dots. “Six. Run over any more people today?”

He laughed. “You’re it so far.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, making Gannon very aware that it had been a long time since he had been with a woman.

Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll be sure to look both ways. Have a good night.” She disappeared into the tavern.

He lingered a few more moments and watched her move through the tavern picking up stray glasses and plates.

Gannon started to whistle. As he turned to get his bike, he noticed his mailbox on the wall by his front door was full. He reached inside the rectangular box and pulled out two days’ worth of mail. Most of it was junk flyers and bills.

Standing under the porch light, he started to flip through the mail. He was halfway through the stack when a packet of matches fell out of the stack to the ground. The packet was red with lettering embossed in gold.

Little Rome—Great Italian Food.

His blood ran cold.

The matches were identical to the ones Nero had sent him after each Washington, D.C., fire.

He opened the pack. Inside was scrawled Day One.

He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them to refocus on the note. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. This was how it had begun with Nero in D.C. a year and a half ago.

Gannon exhaled, tipping his face to the stars. Anyone could have sent the matches. He’d made no secret of his past when he’d moved to Preston Springs and a good many knew he’d investigated the Nero fires in D.C. The matches were common knowledge, thanks to the Channel Five reporter, Stephen Glass.

He glanced down at the matches. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny.

Sick bastard.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, trying to release the tension from his shoulders. He was twisting himself up in knots.

One fire. One pack of matches. Neither countered the mountains of evidence the D.C. fire investigators found that proved the body in that warehouse was Nero.

Raymond Clyde Mason had been Nero’s real name. The man who had terrorized D.C. for nearly a year was dead. Mason hadn’t fit his idea of Nero, but gut reactions didn’t hold a candle to the hard evidence that said Nero was dead. And whatever lingering doubts Gannon had had faded when the fires had stopped completely.

So why did he have the feeling that Nero was back?

“You’re losing your mind, Gannon,” he whispered.

Someone is jerking your chain.

Nero is dead.

He walked over to the trash can by the door and was ready to toss the matches away when he changed his mind and slipped them into his pocket.

Chapter 4

“Motorcycle Man, you are a pain,” Darcy said, smiling as she stacked the dirty glasses on her tray.

Times were tough if she was semi-flirting with a redneck biker. Still, when she heard the roar of his bike engine, she moved to the window and watched him drive off into the night.

“What are you staring at?” Trevor shouted from behind the bar.

“Nothing.” Turning from the window, she flipped the sign on the door to Closed and turned the lock. She wondered where Motorcycle Man would be riding to at this time of night. She started to run through possible scenarios when she caught herself. Who was she kidding? She’d come to Preston Springs to find Gannon and get a lead on Nero. Not for a fling.

Darcy moved to the bar where her brother was wiping up a spill. Trevor had lost his bright smile from earlier in the evening. Dark smudges hung under sunken eyes and judging by the way he moved, he was working on a headache. “Hey, Dee, do me a favor and finish closing up the bar.”

She sat on a stool, groaning with pleasure to be off her feet. The counter behind the bar was littered with olives, limes and covered in a mixture of alcohols and juices. “I don’t want to do it and you seem to be doing a good job of it.”

He seemed agitated. “I’ve got to close out the register.”

“Where’s Mom?” Lord, but her back and legs ached. Hard to believe she held this job through high school and college.

Trevor went to the cash register, positioned a few feet to the right of the bar and directly in front of the door. He opened the register and scooped out all the money. “I sent her upstairs. She was wiped.”

Darcy rubbed the back of her neck. Closing the bar would take another hour and she could barely see straight as it was. This certainly wasn’t what she’d pictured when she’d imagined her return home. “This sucks.”

He laughed. “Hey, you wanted the job. I didn’t come begging.”

Imagining the Pulitzer in hand, Darcy stood. She moved behind the bar, punching him in the arm as she passed. She grabbed a rag. “Don’t forget my check.”

Rubbing his arm, he nudged her to the side sending her slightly off balance. “First thing in the morning.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a real jerk.”

He closed the register drawer. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

“Hey, thanks.”

He didn’t look up from the cash in his hands. “For what?”

Tender emotions weren’t her strong suit. “For letting me come back to work. It won’t be for long. I swear.”

His blue eyes softened. “You’d do the same for me.” He shoved the money into a bank deposit bag. “If you wipe down the bar, I’ll sweep up.”

“Bless you.”

The instant Trevor left for the night deposit box, Darcy realized she’d gotten the short end of the stick. The bar was a real mess. She could have left it until the morning, but she pulled her own weight. She went to the small sink at the end of the bar, soaked the rag and started to clean.

A half hour later, Trevor returned from the bank. “I’m back.” He looked alert and he’d lost the edginess.

Darcy wrung the rag out in the sink. “Good, you can sweep the floor.”

He came into the bar. “I will. Hey, the bar looks good.”

She lifted a brow—amazed at his energy. “Trevor you are the sloppiest bartender I ever met.”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “Yeah, but no one makes a Gin Gimlet like I do.”

No doubt it was a crusher. “So, get to sweeping.”

“If you don’t mind, I need to do a little inventory in the kitchen and then I’ll come back and do it.”

Darcy started to mop down the top of the bar. “You’re slacking, Trev.”

He lifted his elbows as she wiped past him. “Hey, I’m a man of my word.”

God, she was tired. “Fine go, but I’m not sweeping.”

Twenty minutes later, she’d finished cleaning. Her body aching, she started toward the back stairs ready to dive into her bed. She noticed Trevor’s light was on in his office, but she didn’t bother to check in with him. Each leg felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as she climbed the darkened staircase. She made an effort to move quietly. Her mother had dog ears and she didn’t want to wake her.

Two steps past her mother’s door and she heard, “Darcy, have you checked to see if the front and back doors are locked?”

“I did the front. Trevor will get the back, Mom.”

“Remind him.”

If she’d had the strength, she’d have argued. But the end result would have been the same. She’d have to check the door. “Okay.”

Turning, she flipped on the staircase light and headed back downstairs. As she crossed the empty tavern room, she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.

Darcy moved to the front tavern window and watched as Motorcycle Man pulled up in front of his garage. She paused and watched as he parked his bike under the streetlight and swung his leg over the side. Pulling off his helmet, he walked to the garage door and pulled it open. He flipped on the light.

There was an arrogance about his gait that reminded her of men in the military or the police force. She’d interviewed enough like that to recognize the look. But his longish hair and scraggly jeans and T-shirt screamed anti-establishment.

“So who are you, Motorcycle Man, and what brings you to this small town?” Her reporter’s mind started to click. Without even realizing it, she’d ticked through a half dozen scenarios for him and had come up with the questions she’d ask if she had the chance to interview him. Hometown? Service record? Reason for leaving your last job? Why the interest in motorcycles?

Of course, she’d never interview him. His story, despite his action hero swagger, wasn’t likely the kind that grabbed headlines. She was after the big game—Nero.

Motorcycle Man tossed back his head, clearing his dark hair from his eyes, and pushed his bike into the garage. She watched as he stretched his long, lean body and reached for the garage door handle. He glanced toward the Varsity and for a minute she thought he was looking right at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. But, of course, he couldn’t see her in the dark.

When he closed the door, she released the breath she’d been holding. He turned off the garage light.

Disappointment flickered. She liked looking at Motorcycle Man and wondered what he’d taste like if she kissed him. Darcy was acutely aware that there’d been no one in her bed since she and Stephen had broken up ten months ago. She missed the touch and feel of a man inside her.

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