Chapter 15
Of Strange Moon Rising
Previously: Tristian’s death arrives too soon. Riley risks knowledge of her abilities to prevent it.
Flashes of light and color illuminated a plume of smoke like a beacon, guiding Riley through gridded residential streets. She parked three yards from a crowd of curious neighbors in their slippers. Half of Tristian’s home still smoldered, occasional tongues of fire emerging before being quickly doused by two men in turnout gear.
Riley headed for Andy, who looked as disheveled and exhausted as she felt. He squinted as she approached. She’d thrown on a windbreaker over her over-sized t-shirt, yesterday’s jeans, and tennis shoes, but had failed to pick up her badge or gun during her mad dash to the car. “Tristian?”
Andy pointed to an ambulance. “Greg got here first—not sure how. He must’ve broken a dozen traffic laws and maybe a couple of physics. Ran into the house without any gear, the idiot. Got Tristian out in time.”
Riley took a step in that direction and paused. “Do you need help here?” She gestured to the onlookers.
“I’ve got it handled, thanks.”
Riley jogged past Andy’s cruiser and rounded the back of the ambulance, where she found Tristian tucked into a blanket with an oxygen mask dangling around his neck, nursing a bottle of water. Greg hovered next to him in soot-stained sweatpants and a Minnesota Twins hoodie.
Tristian’s startled, “Mmfph,” when she put an arm around him and squeezed reminded her they were mere acquaintances, but she was too relieved he was safe and alive to care.
“Sorry.” She pulled back and looked him in the eye. “Are you okay? How’s your head? Do you need stitches?”
Tristian brushed fingers through his hair, grimacing when they came away red.
“Wh—how—you’re bleeding? You didn’t tell me you were bleeding!” Greg’s voice, a booming echo inside the cabin, triggered winces from all three of them.
Tristian blinked slowly. “I forgot, but yeah, hurts.”
Greg whistled for the paramedic, who finished wrapping the hand of another firefighter before zipping over to them. “The cut’s only half an inch—you won’t need stitches. The source of the concussion, huh?” She cleaned and treated it with a spray antibiotic. “You’re sure you won’t go to Kalimon Regional?”
“No hospitals.” To Greg’s disapproving glower, he said, “I’ll stay in the firehouse’s bunk room, that way—“
“I don’t think so,” Greg argued.
Riley silently agreed from where she’d perched on the ambulance’s bumper.
“You’re not gonna’ stay anywhere alone, especially tonight with that concussion. Tomorrow, you’re going straight to Woodrun Family Medical.” Tristian’s pitiful groan made no dent in Greg’s armor. “No hospital tonight means your usual doctor tomorrow.”
“Fine,” he relented, “I’ll stay with a f—”
“You’ll stay with me. I’ve got Andy’s cruiser to turn the forty minutes to Kalimon into fifteen.”
Tristian made an attempt to look resigned through his oxygen mask and signed the AMA paperwork.
Ross approached with the fire chief. Tony pulled off his gloves so he could offer her his hand. “Wish I could have met you under better circumstances.”
Riley was slow in responding, sorting through the impression of him she’d gleaned through Tristian’s mind. It didn’t quite feel like they were meeting for the first time, and it sent a cold finger down her spine. How close had she come to going too deep in the death-dreaming?
Tony patted Tristian’s knee. “Doing okay?”
He lifted a shoulder in a weak shrug. “How’s the house?”
“Might be salvageable.” Concern and anger flickered across Tony face in turn. “There’s an accelerant trail in the kitchen. This was no accident.”
Tristian did that slow blinking thing again. “Makes sense. Someone hit me before I could make it out.”
“It’s a flushing tactic,” Ross surmised. “The arson pushes you to the only easy egress. The front door, past the kitchen, wasn’t an option, so—”
“They waited by the back door and ambushed him?” Greg’s tone wavered in disbelief. “What the fuck?”
Ross nodded. “Why not pour accelerant everywhere? If the stairs went up, he would’ve been trapped.”
“Make sure the job’s done?” Tristian guessed. “I might’ve survived a jump from an upstairs window.”
“We can only guess, at this point. Anything you can tell me about your attacker?”
“No, I only saw shoes. Black soles, maybe steel-toe. Large, definitely mens.’”
Ross scratched it down in his notepad, meager as it was. “I’ll need your statement as soon as you’re able.” Ross and Tony stepped away, heads bent together as they hashed out evidence collection and time-tables.
Greg touched her shoulder. “Riley?” He gestured for them to move away from the ambulance.
The intensity of his focus turned her stomach. Riley’d gotten away with the claim she’d had a bad feeling, a cop’s instinct that something wasn’t right, but that wouldn’t hold up here. She’d said too much. Knew things she shouldn’t. Doubts and misconceptions over her psychic abilities would get in the way of the job. If she couldn’t do her job, what good were the damn abilities? Riley glanced at Tristian. She’d answer any question Greg had, in full. It’d been worth it.
Greg wiped his brow, streaking soot. “Tony lives in the attached apartment at the firehouse and Vic was there on an overnight shift. They arrived three minutes after me. It was close—every-second-counts close. I would’ve been too late if you hadn’t called.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” she tried, even though she did, in fact, know that for sure.
“The difference between life and death was down to knowing where he was. That I’m sure of.” His heavy gaze dared her to contradict him.
Riley bit the inside of her cheek and waited for the inevitable question. How?
“You knew about his head, too. Probably wouldn’t’ve convinced him to stay with me without that, so thanks.”
Riley cocked her head. “Uh, sure?” How far could she get in explaining herself before he checked her into a 72-hour involuntary hold? Greg took her hands in his and squeezed, making her breath catch and hold. Here it comes.
“I owe you.” Greg smiled, dropped her hands, and walked away.
He wasn’t going to ask. The tension in her shoulders loosened bit by bit. She watched him bundle Tristian into Andy’s cruiser and drive off without another word. Would she have let someone off the hook like that? Not a chance. Maybe she’d found her Dergby in Woodrun, after all.
Riley assisted Andy in taping off access to the house as Tristian’s neighbors dispersed. The dregs of her death-dreaming still muddied her radar, so when her head throbbed, she dismissed it as a residual headache from Tristian’s close call. It wasn’t until specks of old, wet copper dappled over Riley’s taste buds that she stilled, dropping strips of caution tape. They fluttered away on the wind like macabre streamers. Guilt was like sticking your tongue out to catch snow and getting rusty flakes of dried blood instead. With the slight patina of rage and hatred coating her palate, she knew the arsonist had returned to the scene.
Riley looked over the stragglers. An elderly man had his phone camera pointed at the firefighters as they drenched the surrounding land. An older woman had her arm around a teenager—the lanky kid that had served her at Rosie’s. A middle aged couple gossiped with another in the closest driveway. No flashing neon sign would let Riley know whom she sought. The pressure behind her eyes lessened, proving the culprit had moved on. Had he figured out Tristian survived? If he hadn’t, he would soon. Why not kill him outright, like Ross had questioned? Had he not wanted Tristian to suffer burning alive? Feeling guilt supported that theory. She tried scraping her tongue against her teeth to get rid of the signature. The Doe’s murderer must see Tristian as a threat to his continued freedom due to his presence at the motel. Something had happened, something loud. Something that had woken Tristian from sleep. He couldn’t remember, but the possibility that he might was too great a risk. This killer was calculating, afraid, and remorseful. Make that fit together. Riley shook her head and reached for the roll of caution tape. The puzzle pieces weren’t even on the same table.
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training or scraping allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Background image from Canva Pro.