A Bookmarked Death Read Online Free PDF

muddy from the ground where the grass ended. I was too intimidated to go deeper into the yard. I felt a sense of trespass at being at the place where Ethan and Sheila had died. It was as if I had an unfair advantage seeing their vulnerability without their wanting me to.
    At the back of the driveway, beyond the house, was a building untouched by the fire, an enchanting miniature cottage. A guesthouse? Perhaps just a giant toolshed. I moved toward it, relieved and charmed, curious as to what was inside.
    “You! Stop! Police! Stop right there!”
    The voice was rude in the fresh new air, as harsh as if shouting obscenities over a baby’s crib.
    I froze, my heart spiraling like a shot bird dropping to earth. When it came to rest, I whirled around, blinking at the flashlight beam that had me trapped. Shielding my eyes I could make out a young officer in khaki, with buzz-cut hair. Beyond him, at the end of the driveway, his sedan was flashing red and blue lights. A Southampton Town cop, not Suffolk County police. For some reason that calmed me a little.
    Perhaps he was just passing by.
    Yet he was staring at me, appalled, as if he had caught me holding a stolen television. “Didn’t you see the yellow tape?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “What are you doing here?” It was not a rhetorical question. I had nothing in my hands, no camera that I was taking photos with. It was too early in the morning for casual sightseers.
    There was nothing to do but tell the truth. “Their daughter”—I gestured at the house—“is my daughter’s best friend. She’s up in Boston and I promised I would look around and tell her how bad the fire was. She’s already hysterical about losing her parents.”
    I saw him trying to process that. “But you can’t just walk around here. You’re disturbing a crime scene!”
    “CSI hasn’t been here already?”
    He squinted at me. “I’ll need to see some ID.”
    Damn. But I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver’s license, then watched as he looked from the photo to my face and back to the photo. He returned it to me without writing anything down. The last thing I wanted was to be associated with the fire in any way. What if the police came to interview me to find out what my interest was? What if . . . “I only wanted to let my daughter’s friend know how bad it was,” I pleaded. I looked grimly up at the charred ruin. “It’s worse than I thought.”
    “They never had a chance,” he pronounced solemnly.
    “How did the fire department even know about it? It’s so far back from the street and not a lot of people are out for the season yet.” It was not information I was entitled to know but I could see he needed to talk about the fire, the way people did after a trauma.
    “They think that whoever set the fires threw something through the back porch window when they were leaving to trigger the burglar alarm. Either that or it just went off from the heat. We got here first, then called the fire department. But it was too late.”
    “The paper said there was another fire around here recently?”
    He moved closer to me, as if telling me a secret. “We think we know who’s responsible. It’s just a matter of proving it.” Then he straightened up formally. “You need to leave. Now.”
    “Okay. Sure.”
    He walked me back to the sidewalk. I turned in the opposite direction, toward town, as the whirling lights of his squad car splashed over me. Once he had driven away, I turned back to retrieve my van. Though I had planned to park on the street and watch for activity in the other houses, I knew I couldn’t do that now.
    S TARTING THE ENGINE , I made a U-turn, and drove slowly back up to Montauk Highway. I remembered seeing a convenience store and found it easily. Time for breakfast. It was still not even 6 a.m. but I was feeling weak from lack of sleep.
    I was at the counter paying for my coffee and corn muffin when I realized something I should have thought of immediately.