From Winter's Ashes: Girl Next Door Crime Romance Series - Book Two Read online

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  From Winter’s Ashes by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  P.O. Box 102440

  Denver, Colorado 80250

  Copyright 2016 by Amy Leigh Simpson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  978-1-942266-45-7 Trade Paperback ISBN

  978-1-942266-46-4 eBook ISBN

  Interior Formatting by Elijah Toten

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  Book Cover Design by Kim Mesman

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  Other WildBlue Press Books by Amy Leigh Simpson

  When Fall Fades

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Dear Reader,

  Acknowledgements

  For my big brother, who bears little resemblance to Finn, but has a heart full of fire, and is every bit a hero.

  December 5

  Kirkwood, Missouri

  9:47 p.m.

  Prologue

  For our battle is not against flesh and blood … Ephesians 6:12

  God is just.

  The echo of long diminished voices twined with the dark thoughts crowding his skull. “Right.” The rancor in his voice a sharp intrusion in the fragile silence.

  Years of faithful church attendance taught him plenty about God’s wrath, even God’s promises. Where was God now? More importantly, where had he been then?

  Justice? What a joke.

  If God was just, then he wouldn’t force a man to take matters into his own hands.

  Pulse steady, breath even, he clung to the shadows of the bungalow, awaiting her return and the final installment of his revenge.

  As he pictured her curled up in the sheets, his memories slipped loose from their moorings, fragmented pictures snapping like electrical surges in an unstable power grid. Tears clouded, and the suffocating press of twilight had him completely blinded to the present. But his anger, his all-consuming anger was sharp and sure despite the misfires in his mind. It was that righteous anger that smothered his conscience and every lingering ounce of apprehension about his mission.

  The fact that he was alive to fulfill this duty was the only consolation. The beat of his empty heart, each sour, life-giving breath just bitter reminders of the injustice of his now shattered existence.

  A beam of light sliced through the darkness as a car pulled in to the neighbor’s drive.

  Anticipation kicked in, pounding hot and furious through his veins despite the chill of the December air. Oh yes, he’d have his justice. Tonight. Long before the sun rose on the ashes of tomorrow.

  A soft giggle drifted over the crisp breeze, the crescendo of voices signaling their approach. He siphoned his breath.

  “Thanks for walking me home.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come over for a drink before we call it a night?” The husky voice was laced with an invitation for something more.

  Shuffling feet brushed the splintered porch steps, and the sound of dangling keys chimed in the night.

  “No. Sorry. I have an early morning, but thank you for dinner, Max.”

  “Sure. Hey listen, I’m going to a medical conference for two weeks, leaving tomorrow, but when I get back I’d love to take you out again. That is, if it’s not too weird dating your neighbor.”

  “Well, I suppose I might consider another date. First one wasn’t totally unbearable.” The smile in her voice was unmistakable.

  “I’ll be sure to up my game for next time.”

  “Good night, neighbor.” The groaning of strained hinges mingled with the silence as she entered her doom.

  “Good night, Joselyn. Sweet dreams.”

  Not likely.

  December 6

  Kirkwood Fire Station 1

  12:22 a.m.

  Chapter 1

  Finn Carson

  “I’m all in.” Finn Carson slid the stacks of poker chips to the center of the table, his tone, if not the impressive wager, challenging anyone to cross him. The pocket aces in his possession were basically a sure thing, considering Ryker and Jones couldn’t bluff to save their lives, and Wally, well, he could lift a ton, but he sure couldn’t spell it.

  “Dang it, Finn! Why do you always have to push it to the limit?” Jones threw down his cards. The low hanging light etched out all the angles of his adolescent scowl before he shoved away from the table to sulk in the shadow. As usual. “I hate poker.”

  “No you don’t, Jones, you just hate losing.” Finn kept still to avoid any tells but let his arrogant grin taunt the man-child.

  “Only to you. You always win.”

  If only that were true.

  Finn forced his thoughts back to the game. Poker provided a nice distraction. Of course, winning didn’t hurt matters either. Organizing these tournaments on quiet nights at the firehouse had become about more than a little friendly competition and a way to pass the time. It was about needing a win. And lately, it was the only way to get one.

  The stillness in the station was unnerving. Deepening shadows from the edges of the dark room had become nagging ministrations, tempting them all to give in to the call of night.

  “All right, any takers?” As the men considered, Finn held on to his neutral expression. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone all in. In only moments, the game would be over and the guys would be ready to hit the hay. And despite his exhaustion, the last thing Finn wanted to do was go to sleep.

  Normally white noise soothed him, but the hum of the emergency exit light at his back might as well have been the cheese grater they’d used at dinner for the way it seemed to scrape away at his eardrums. And ironically, a remnant of the charred vapors from Wally’s dinner preparation of blackened spaghetti sauce still clung to the air hours later. The bitterness of the stench filtered through to his mouth, torturing his taste buds for a second time tonight.

  Ryker folded, and all eyes zoned in on a bewildered Wally.

  Finn swallowed, letting his thumb skim over the smooth surface of his spade to calm the surge of restlessne
ss.

  “I, uh … I guess I’ll … call?”

  Finn slapped down his cards. “Tough break, pal.”

  “Aww, you win. I only got these five and seven of hearts.” Wally shook his big head in defeat.

  Finn blinked twice. “Are you kidding me? You have a flush.”

  “I do?” Wally’s expression morphed into something akin to enlightenment. “Does this mean I won’t be on bathroom duty for once?”

  Finn rolled his eyes to make light of his agitation. It was just a game and there was no money on the line, but he still hated to lose. And very seldom did.

  The ribbing and heckling commenced as Jones scrawled “J.P. Wallace” on the wall, knocking Finn’s long-standing winning streak off the record board.

  “Anyone up for another round?” Finn asked, feigning indifference. The resignation on their faces spoke before any of them needed to. “Fine. Wouldn’t want to deprive you ladies of your beauty sleep.” The deliberate taunt was met with good-natured insults as they cleaned up and filed out.

  Finn granted Wally a congratulatory slap on the back. “Good game, buddy.” He was a simple lug, but maybe he needed a win more than Finn did. The thought unbound a twinge of tightness gripping his lungs as the men climbed the stairs and divided into their rooms. But not long after the lights were out, Ryker’s heavy breathing filtered into the silence while Finn continued to stare into the dark, searching for rest in the blanket of black and pleading with God for a break from the nightmares. There was nothing to see, yet he could feel the haunt in the room like a monster in the closet, the tremble in his bones warning of the terrors that awaited the vulnerable moment when sleep dragged him under and left him utterly defenseless against the invisible enemy.

  Restless, he rolled over and bunched the pillow under his head. He hadn’t told Cap, but the lack of sleep was starting to affect his performance. Doubt and fear wormed through the cracks in his armor, taunting him for his weakness. So far, only Ryker knew about his insomnia and night terrors. And Finn wanted to keep it that way. He didn’t need the guys badgering or second-guessing him. He was doing enough of that on his own.

  And yet, as guilt baited his conscience, and the slow, painful torture of each passing night robbed him of another piece of the man he used to be, he squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded again, exactly like the night before.

  God, please don’t let anyone else lose their life because of me.

  The blaring alarm jolted Finn upright. Ripped from the nightmare, a scream caged in his throat and labored breaths heaved from his chest. In the time it took to kick off the sweat-soaked sheets he’d regained his bearings enough to get his pansy-ass out of his room and down the pole to the engine bay. In seconds he crammed his feet into his boots, tugged on his turnout gear, and vaulted up to his spot on the truck.

  He secured his helmet, shrugged his shoulders, like he’d done a hundred times. But the moment he stopped moving it all slowed, funneling a sinking dread into a ball of lead in his stomach. What had once felt like a suit of armor now felt like eighty pounds of excess baggage.

  Less than two minutes after the alarm had sounded the fire truck left the safety of the Kirkwood Fire Station and wove through the sleepy streets of the quaint West St. Louis County suburb—one of few that had yet to be hit by the Five-Alarm Arsonist.

  The truck ground to a stop, and Finn froze. “Oh, God.” A plea. A prayer. Because the magnitude of the blaze ravaging the small Craftsman-style home warned that the serial arsonist may have struck again. A canopy of tangled branches from the aging sweet gum and white ash trees caught the whipping lashes of fire, slashing vibrant flames through the dark, silky canvas of night.

  After seven years as a firefighter, watching someone’s home burn to the ground still twisted his gut. A home was a storehouse of memories, a refuge from the harsh realities of life, a foundation for a family. And since he didn’t have any of those things, Finn was, in a sense, homeless.

  “Yo, Iron Man! Look alive, it’s a hot one!” Ryker’s yell brought him back. Finn swung down from the truck, his boots hitting the icy pavement with a hollow thud to match the ache in his chest. It was no time to dwell on it, but the reminder of all his failures blazed like the house in front of him. A lost cause.

  “External attack, boys! Something nasty is feeding the beast. That’s no ordinary blaze.” Captain Reynolds further confirmed Finn’s suspicions and barked out orders. Finn forced his legs to hustle to his position on hose duty like a first year probie. The sidelines. His chest sank. Each job was important. Critical. But to Finn, stretching the line wasn’t the same as riding the irons: forcing entry with a Halligan bar or an axe, ventilating the fire floor, and searching for victims. Yeah, once upon a time, he’d felt like he was living up to his nickname. Invincible. Like the fire couldn’t touch him.

  Those days were gone.

  A frozen blast of wind fingered through his gear and grabbed ahold of him. The elemental combination of fire and ice shouldn’t have given him pause considering his occupation and the time of year, but they hit like shock paddles to the heart. He couldn’t explain the odd jolt nor why there was some ghostly intuitive unease prickling his senses. Other than the obvious, something was very wrong.

  The only sound carrying on the bitter wind was the wicked laughter of the fire. And yet Finn could feel someone crying out. Calling to him.

  With no regard to the past or the possible suicide mission ahead of him, his legs burst into motion, lured in by the call of the fire and the mysterious premonition.

  No! Finn fought against the drowning urge, pleaded for his training and common sense to prevail, but the force was relentless. Powerfully persuasive. The determined pursuit of his body willed by a force stronger than his paralyzing fear.

  His heart stuttered in his chest, his skin tasting the flames even from a distance. But he couldn’t turn back, even as every fiber of his being begged him to retreat. The heat swelled, slapping his face as he secured his respirator.

  “Carson?” Cap’s voice cut in from the radio at his collar. “We’re using an exterior attack. Get away from that house! That’s an order—”

  Insanity prevailed. Finn clicked off the radio and took his first intentional step toward the prison of fire.

  Please … guide my steps.

  Chapter 2

  Joselyn Whyte

  Time’s up. I am officially an old maid.

  An intense, sweltering heat forced Joselyn to toss off her numerous covers. Not a normal occurrence, especially not in the dead of winter. Holy heat wave! At twenty-seven, wasn’t she still too young for a hot flash? Were her eggs expiring already? A depressing thought but the only one that seemed to make sense in her drowsy state. Something pricked in her throat, ripping a hacking protest from her lungs. Her head pounding, her skin fevered, she managed to sit up—step one in peeling her tired body out of bed to check on the erratic furnace. The thing was likely half as old as the one-hundred-year-old house. It was a marvel it could still cough out any heat at all, let alone keep it at the balmy seventy-eight degrees she preferred.

  Times like these she wished she had a man in her life. But loneliness, it seemed, was her affliction. Boy, there’s another cheerful thought. And what was that smell?

  The salty perspiration beading on her top lip released its hold and invaded her parched mouth. Joselyn swiped the moisture with the back of her hand and then propped her arm on the always empty side of the bed. But instead of being met with the chill of vacant linens, heat pressed against her palm.

  Man, it’s hot! She’d thought to utter the sentiment aloud, but the words hadn’t formed, another cough raked up her throat instead. Then again, it was so hot the scorching air barely touched her lungs before little bursts of fire zinged in her chest. That observation alone should have cut through the disorienting haze, instead she yawned, pulled down the sleep mask, scrubbed her hand over her face, and pressed her fist against the heartburn. Was she getting sick? She felt like she’d bee
n trampled by a horse and dragged through a blistering desert.

  Light teased her vision, but her eyelids remained unnaturally heavy. The mask was gone, so why were her eyelashes stuck together? And why did her brain feel so … fuzzy? She hadn’t even drank on her date. Had she?

  She rubbed her eyes. Rubbed harder until the pounding in her skull intensified instead of lessened. Something was definitely wrong.

  When she managed to coax her eyes open a scream tore loose but instantly dissolved like kindling in a bonfire. Her lungs ached, each burning breath seemingly laced with razor sharp fiber glass, and her vision hazed with a blinding ultraviolent hue to match her surroundings. “Fff-Fire. Fire!” She coughed up the words though she couldn’t hear them.

  Somehow she stood on wobbly legs and plucked out her earplugs. The mask and plugs had lulled her into a coma while her home burned around her. She cursed the noises from the creaky, old house for driving her to use them.

  Oh, not good. Flames devoured the walls and danced across the floor to where she stood. The roar of the fire invaded the small shred of concentration she possessed, siphoning away her options faster than the breathable air. Ripping the comforter from the bed, she inched toward the only window in the room.

  Desperation shoved back the drugging fatigue. But the fire only seemed to laugh at the futile attempts of her numb, shaking fingers fighting a losing battle against the ancient window latch. The drop from the second story wouldn’t be fun, but escaping through the window was the only option. Aside from burning alive.

  Think. Think!