“Still, was there any similarity with my family’s fire? Like…was the same accelerant used? Or were those fires set in the same time of day? Any connection at all?”

“The similarity you need to know, sunshine, is that the arsons stopped after your daddy died. For a whole three years, there was no other fire except for old Samuel Wilson’s trying to cook after his wife died. So this is probably not an avenue you want to pursue. It only points to your daddy all over again.”

That hurt. She admitted it. Still, she said softly, “So you’re sure…there was no similarity in the other fires?”

“To be honest with you, sweetheart, I don’t remember now. I just remember studying the thing at the time, concluding there was nothing in common with the other prank-type fires. If you’re doubting I know how to do my job-”

“No, no.” She hurried to look penitent…and to push the other cinnamon muffin his way. Being a teacher, she had a half-dozen ways of locally researching the past fire, all of which she still intended to pursue-but there’d be no real way to get closure without Sheriff Conner on her side. If she had to grovel, she was more than willing to grovel. “I’m just trying to understand, sheriff. It was so devastating to my family-”

“And to everyone in this town. Now-you got any more questions?”

“Just one teensy one.” She motioned to the partial sentence on the second page. “The report says the fire started outside our back door. Actually, it says, west of the back door.”

“Okay. And you think that means what?” the sheriff asked with a look of fatherly patience.

“Well, I’m not sure. But I remember our house. We shared a garage wall with the house next to us. And that my dad had a shop on that side of the garage. He liked working with wood, so he had stuff out there, like lacquer and varnish and mineral spirits and all that.”