FATAL BURN

nbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking. Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself

were all in for a very big, very ugly surprise. He sheathed his knife and felt anticipation thrum through his veins. He'd waited long for this. Suffered. But now it was his turn. Tonight he'd set the wheels in motion. But it was just the beginning. He had a few little details to take care of and then he'd be on his way. Look out, he thought, smiling evilly, glancing down at the knife blade to see the reflection of the fire in the long, thin blade. I'm coming, Shannon, oh, yes, I'm coming. And this time I'll have more than a camera and an old birth certificate with me. ***************************************************** "What the hell were you thinking?" Aaron demanded, jabbing a finger at the burned scrap of paper lying on Shannon's kitchen table. It, along with the pushpin, was protected in a plastic Baggie on the scarred oak surface, lying next to the newspaper and matching ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Dalmatian dogs. It was sweltering in the kitchen even with the oscillating fan droning loudly as it shuffled the hot air from one side of the room to the other. Khan was lying near the back door, positioned on a small rag rug, watching Shannon closely, as if he expected her to miraculously come up with some kind of table scrap. Shannon snapped the dishwasher closed and pushed the START button. The motor clicked, the water started to run and she finally turned to face her brother. "What was I thinking? I don't know. I was reacting mainly, I guess." "For three damned days." "Yeah. That's right. For three days." The other night, after finding the note and once she'd gotten her wits about her, she'd donned a pair of latex gloves that she used when she cleaned the dog kennels, removed the partial birth certificate from the post and dropped it, along with the pushpin into a Ziploc bag. "Why didn't you call me when it happened?" "Look, Aaron, I didn't know what to do, okay?" she admitted, wiping her hands on a worn kitchen towel. "It...it was a shock." "I'll bet." Aaron shoved a hand through his thick hair, paced to the refrigerator, opened the door and yanked out a beer. Seeing that the can was marked Lite he scowled, then popped the top anyway and pushed himself up onto the counter, where his long khaki-clad legs swung in front of the loudly thrumming dishwasher. Droplets of sweat were visible on his forehead and temples. Shannon's oldest brother was the spitting image of their father. Same square jaw. Same intense, don't-bullshit-me blue eyes. Same straight nose-his nostrils flaring over his trimmed moustache when he was irritated. Exactly the same red-hot rage that could flash at any given moment. Aaron's quick temper had gotten him kicked out of the army, out of the fire department and into anger-management therapy with a local psychologist, whom he'd stopped seeing over a year ago. Currently he was flying solo, as he called it, running his own private detective agency, which was a one-man operation tied into a secretarial service. Now, his gaze never leaving his sister, he took a long swallow from the can, then asked, "So does anyone else know about this?" "Just whoever left it." "And you think he called." "He or she. Yeah. It was all intentional. Someone wanted to freak me out and they did-man, did they ever. So that's why I called you-" "Eventually." "Look, I could have called Shea, but I didn't want the police involved, at least not yet, not until I know what's going on. And I could have called Robert, but I didn't think this was something the fire department would be interested in. Nothing was burned or damaged." "Except your peace of mind." "Amen," she whispered, shaking her head. "So by process of elimination, you decided to call me." "You seemed the logical choice." "Since when were you ever logical?" he said with a bit of a smile. "I don't know, maybe since I finally decided to grow up." She found a rubber band on the windowsill, bent over and pushed her hair into a ponytail. Straightening, she stared out the window. She'd fed the dogs, made sure they were secure, then seen to the horses before calling her brother. Now dusk was encroaching, casting long shadows across the parking lot and outbuildings, though the temperature refused to drop. "You're a PI. I figured you could look into it." Aaron took another swallow from his beer and, looking over his shoulder, followed her gaze. Hitching his chin toward the garage and Nate Santana's darkened apartment, he asked, "Santana's not around?" "No." "Convenient, don't you think?" "Coincidence." She bristled and wondered, not for the first time since calling Aaron's cell phone, if calling him had been a mistake. Truth to tell, that's why she'd put it off. She didn't want to rely on any of her brothers, didn't want to appear unable to handle her own problems, didn't need their meddling. So she'd waited, then decided she needed Aaron's expertise and now, of course, she was second-guessing herself all over the place. "I thought you didn't believe in 'coincidence.'" "I don't." "But you don't find it strange that the first time Santana's gone for a few days, this kind of thing happens?" He hooked a thumb toward the plastic-encased scrap of paper lying near the ceramic dogs on the table. "I fi