BlowingitOff by Lexxie Couper

attention back to Phoebe. “And
sometimes you leave the back window open. Which means a cat or a possum
could’ve jumped into your studio looking for something to eat—like the apples
you keep in the bowl near your drawing table—and knocked the candle over. If
the candle fell close to the newspapers you use to mould the glass, the fire
would have plenty of material to burn.”
    Damon narrowed his eyes. Harvey seemed to know a lot about
Phoebe. That in itself was disquieting, but added to it was the fact that close
to everything Harvey had mentioned was conclusive with Damon and Will’s
findings of the fire scene.
    They had found wax residue near a huge stack of
partially burned newspapers, just as Harvey had hypothesized. They’d found an
open window at the back of the studio, which meant the flames had all the
oxygen they needed to burn, and burn quickly. They’d found the charred remains
of fruit scattered through the debris.
    Everything rang true. Except for one thing…
    Ethyl alcohol.
    The Morpeth firefighter hadn’t mentioned the accelerant.
    Because he didn’t know about it? Or because he did ?
    The question punched into Damon’s chest—heavy and cold. And
by the tension stealing over Will’s body, Damon suspected the very same
question had occurred to his partner.
    Most people didn’t realize that fire left a story—a
minute-by-minute account of the burn. And most people assumed things like
candles and paper would be incinerated in the blaze. No matter how hot the
inferno, there was always residue, always tell signs. Candles would melt to
liquid, and that liquid would boil, leaving an almost imperceptible film of wax
behind, concentrated on the original location. Paper often burned to ash that
was dispersed by a firefighter’s hose. But in Phoebe’s studio, the thick pile
of papers contained an unburned center, turned to a pulpy mass by the thousands
of gallons of water pumped into the space. Little hints all adding together to
tell a story he and Will knew how to read. As, it seemed, did Harvey. And if
Harvey knew how to read the story, then he also knew how to tell it. And
how to begin it.
    Once upon a time there was an accelerant called ethyl
alcohol that found itself splashed all around a glassblowers studio…
    Damon stared hard at the man gazing at Phoebe from the other
side of the threshold, his mind racing. Harvey was a firefighter, which meant
he would know all about the “fire triangle”, the three factors needed to create
and sustain a fire of destructive force—oxygen, a fuel source and heat. It’s
very likely he would know one of the most overlooked accelerants in arson cases
was ethyl alcohol, due to its deceptive alcohol smell. And any firefighter
worth wielding a hose would know an open window meant a rapid burn rate.
    So, fuel source—initially paper, followed by wooden furniture.
Oxygen from a window supposedly left window by accident, something Phoebe had
never been guilty of when living in Newcastle. In fact, she’d been pedantic
about keeping her windows closed and locked. And heat from the flames
themselves. But in Phoebe’s fire, those flames were helped along by ethyl
alcohol, and helped very effectively. The char pattern on the concrete floor
indicated enough of the flammable liquid had been splashed about to ensure the
fire would take hold quickly and devastatingly, but only on or beneath
horizontal surfaces. Appearing for all the world like the result of spilled
alcoholic beverages.
    But why would Harvey want to set fire to Phoebe’s studio? To
what end?
    Damon narrowed his eyes again. Gut instincts suggested one
reason. A reason that had everything to do with the thing hanging between
Harvey’s legs.
    Then step forward. See what he does.
    He pulled his t-shirt up over his head, threw it aside,
scruffed up his hair with his fingers and then stepped from his unseen
position, rubbing one hand over his bare stomach in languid, contented strokes.
    “I didn’t know you