Bree’s grip on the steering wheel was a silent testament to her fraying nerves as the asphalt ribbon of the highway stretched out before her like an unspooling thread. She’d left Mike back at the station more than an hour ago and had been driving ever since. Her mind, a tempest of theories and dead ends, swirled chaotically until she realized that her subconscious had set her on a familiar path. The faded green road signs were merely blurs in her peripheral vision as she navigated the turns and inclines leading to the one person who always seemed to have the answers.
The hum of the engine was a steady drone, almost calming, against the drumming of her heart which throbbed with each unresolved question about the case. As the setting sun dipped lower, splashing the sky with a canvas of fiery oranges and deep purples, it cast elongated shadows across the road that mirrored the dark thoughts flitting through Bree's mind. She couldn't shake the image of Julia Lansing’s charred trailer, nor could she escape the feeling of failure that seemed to haunt her at every turn.
The towering pines and cedars lined up on either side of the road now, guiding her way towards solace, towards Leo. Their branches swayed gently in the evening breeze, whispering secrets only understood by those who listened closely. Bree’s pulse began to slow as the familiar dirt road leading to Leo’s cabin came into view, winding its way through the dense forest like a serpentine protector of the solitude it promised.
Pulling up to the cabin, Bree killed the engine and for a moment allowed herself to be enveloped by the silence that greeted her. The scent of pine and earth filled her lungs as she stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on the gravel driveway. Leo’s cabin loomed ahead, its rustic wooden facade a comforting sight against the darkening backdrop of wilderness.
A sense of relief washed over her like a cleansing rain, quelling the storm of anxiety that had been consuming her from within. Here, surrounded by nature, Bree felt grounded. If anyone could untangle the snarls of this investigation, it was Leo.
She approached the porch with steps that grew more confident with each stride, the wood creaking a familiar welcome beneath her feet. This place was more than just a structure of logs and beams; it was a haven where clarity often struck like lightning, sudden and illuminating. She needed that now more than ever, as the weight of unsolved arson cases bore down upon her, a burden she was determined to lift, not just for herself, but for the victims whose voices had been silenced by the flames.
The crisp evening air nipped at Bree’s skin, the scent of pine and earth mingling in her nostrils as she stood before Leo's door. Her knuckles rapped against the sturdy wood, a rhythm that echoed through the growing twilight. The door creaked open almost immediately, revealing the warm amber light of the cabin interior—a stark contrast to the creeping shadows outside.
"Ah, Bree," Leo's voice was a welcoming baritone, a sound that felt like being wrapped in a well-worn blanket. "You're just in time for dinner."
He was framed by the doorway, a silhouette backlit by the soft glow of his rustic kitchen, where steam rose from pots and pans and danced with the aroma of herbs and roasting meat. A table set for one now awaited two, an invitation extended without hesitation. Bree hesitated on the threshold, her body taut with the day’s tension, her mind racing with fragments of the case that refused to fit together.
"Come in, come in," Leo gestured with a hand that held lifelines deep as the canyons they were surrounded by.
Swallowing hard, Bree crossed into the warmth. The cabin's interior was a reflection of Leo himself—solid, reliable, filled with wisdom hard-earned and gently shared. Each piece of furniture told a story, each artifact a lesson learned. And there, amidst it all, the simple spread of dinner seemed like a feast for kings compared to the cold coffee and vending machine scraps she'd been subsisting on.
Despite the food before her, Bree's stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with a coil of stress that had suppressed her appetite for hours—or had it been days? Her last meal was a distant memory, overshadowed by the charred aftermath of Julia Lansing's trailer.
"Sit," Leo said softly, pulling out a chair for her. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
She wanted to protest, to say that she couldn't possibly think of food at a time like this. But Leo's eyes held an understanding that went beyond words, an acknowledgment of the toll this case was taking on her. He knew the consuming nature of fire, how it could devour not just homes and bodies, but spirits too.
"Thank you," Bree murmured, sinking into the chair more out of a need for physical support than any desire to dine. But as she allowed herself to be present, to take in the sights and smells of the meal before her, her body betrayed her mind's preoccupation. Hunger, long ignored, gnawed at her insides, insistent and demanding attention.
Leo watched her with a patience that spoke of countless meals shared in silence, where the act of eating was itself a conversation. He passed her the bread, the butter, the gesture an unspoken encouragement. Eat, it said. Rest, if only for a moment.
Bree broke the bread, its crust giving way with a satisfying crackle, the softness within a comforting contrast. She took a bite, and it was as though she was tasting food for the first time again. The flavors burst upon her tongue, simple yet profound, reminding her of the basic sustenance of life.
"Good, isn't it?" Leo's voice was gentle, coaxing her back from the brink of despair.
She nodded, unable to find the words just yet. But with each mouthful, the vice around her thoughts loosened. Nourishment was grounding, a tether to the world when everything else seemed to be slipping through her fingers.
"Better," she finally managed, meeting Leo's gaze.
Bree took a sip of water and set the glass down with a clink that pierced the cabin's quiet. Leo’s eyes were fixed on her, expectant. The wooden walls seemed to lean in closer, soaked in the scent of pine and the faint smokiness from the hearth, as if they, too, were eager for any shred of information that could unravel the mystery at hand.
"Three fires" Bree began. "All in trailer parks, all in the morning, and each one taking the life of the person who lived there.”
Leo nodded, his fork hovering midway as he absorbed every detail. The room's warm glow juxtaposed with the cold reality of her words, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the walls.
"Same guy, I assume?" His question sliced through the silence, sharp and direct.
"Logic would dictate, but I can’t prove it," Bree replied, the familiar sense of frustration once again rising in her chest. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They left us nothing, Leo. No trace evidence. It's like chasing a ghost."
She recounted her steps, how she pored over the debris field, sifted through ashes, sought any sign of an accelerant. How she conducted interviews, canvassed for witnesses, and pieced together timelines only to watch them crumble like so much burnt paper.
"Talked to Julia's niece, too," Bree added, almost as an afterthought, her gaze lost in the untouched food on her plate. "A dead-end. She didn't know anything—or if she did, she's not saying."
"Dead ends," Leo echoed, setting his own utensils aside. He leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as flint. "Or maybe just puzzle pieces you haven't fit together yet."
Bree sighed. She was tired of puzzles, of smoke-obscured mirrors. She wanted—no, needed—solid ground beneath her feet, something real to grasp onto.
"Doesn't help that there’s not a clear victim profile," she continued, her voice a notch above defeat. "He’s killing both men and women. Age, occupation— they’re all random. No connection between them of any value that I can see, aside from the fact that they all lived in trailers"
"Random or not," Leo said, his tone firm, "there's a why behind it. There always is."
Leo’s gaze remained fixed on Bree, unwavering and astute, as if he could see past the evidence and into the very soul of the case that eluded her grasp.
"Common suspects are a logical thread," Leo continued, his voice steady, "but sometimes it's not about who, but about what. Those victims—aside from their unfortunate ends in trailer park fires—what else do you know about them?"
His question hung in the air, mingling with the scent of pine and the rustic aroma wafting from the kitchen. Bree's mind raced, retracing every statement, every report, every photograph she had combed through. She realized with a jolt that, aside from Naomi and Carl’s shared penchant for getting into fights, she knew little more than the surface details: addresses, names, occupations, relationship status—bare facts that told her nothing of who these people were beyond their tragic fates.
"Nothing," Bree admitted, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the cabin. "I've been so focused on finding a link in their deaths, I never stopped to adequately consider their lives."
"Start there," Leo urged, his voice the embodiment of experience. "Look deeper into their pasts, their connections. People leave trails, Bree. Stories behind stories. Find the narrative they shared before the fire claimed them."
The room seemed to constrict around her, the weight of missed opportunities pressing down on her chest. How could she have been so blind? In her quest for concrete evidence, she had overlooked the human element—the very essence of investigation she had learned from Leo himself.
"Thank you, Leo," she said, her words barely above a whisper. Her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she stood abruptly, propelled by a newfound urgency.
"You’ll get him, Bree," Leo called after her as she strode toward the door. “You always do.”
She stepped outside, the cold night air sharp against her skin. The moon was a thin crescent, barely piercing the blanket of darkness that enveloped Leo's cabin. Bree's heart hammered against her ribcage, each beat a drumming reminder of the ticking clock.
She had wasted precious time chasing phantoms when the key might lie in the unexamined pasts of the victims. She needed to dig into that, and she needed to do it now.
Fumbling for her keys, Bree unlocked her car and slid behind the wheel. Her hands trembled as she turned the ignition, the engine roaring to life, breaking the silence of the secluded woods. She steered onto the highway, the lines on the road blurring as she accelerated back toward the city.
Her mind churned with possibilities, each one a thread waiting to be pulled. She prayed that she and Mike weren't too late, that the killer wouldn't strike again while they groped in the dark for answers.