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fire is still unknown, but at first blush, I’d guess some bad wiring kicked things off.”
    “Okay,” Isabella said, all question, and the captain answered with a nod.
    “After we put the fire out, firefighter Walker was doing a sweep of the scene to prevent flare-ups when he found something suspicious in a basement closet. Watch your step.” Bridges indicated the water and ash-covered porch boards as they crossed the threshold together, and the acrid smell of old smoke hit her like a punch in the nose. “I had some extra lights brought downstairs for better visibility, but no one’s been in here except my firefighters.”
    Isabella took in the scene on the first floor, her heart picking up the pace. There wasn’t a whole lot here, and what little was left was pretty torched. What on earth could Kellan have possibly found in a place like this?
    She followed Bridges to a staircase at the back of the house, her eyes taking a split second to adjust from the daylight that had spilled in through the main level windows to the shadow-casting glare thrown off by the spotlight lamp at the bottom of the basement steps. He led her and Sinclair down the right-hand side of the hallway and over the threshold to the only room Isabella could see. Her brain smoothly catalogued the scene. Smallish room, maybe twelve by twelve, one desk dead center. Unfinished drywall, cement subfloor.
    And one firefighter whose stare had suddenly gone as dark as storm clouds over a raging sea.
    Irritation flashed over Kellan’s face, along with a hint of surprise as he turned from Isabella to his captain. “You called intelligence?”
    Sinclair’s brows popped at the same time as her pulse. Her boss knew all about Walker’s beef with her, and not only was he fiercely protective of his detectives, but he wasn’t exactly known for his stellar composure.
    Thankfully, Captain Bridges was. “Of course I called them,” he said, just as calm as a lake at sunrise. “This falls under their jurisdiction, and it could be evidence of a potentially serious crime.”
    The irritation on Walker’s soot-smudged face coalesced at the mention, and Sinclair didn’t waste time or words getting right to business.
    “You want to tell us what you found?” he asked.
    After an ever-so-slight pause, Walker nodded. “I covered this section of the basement for search and rescue during the fire. When I got to the closet over here, this lock box fell off the overhead shelf and broke open. Captain Bridges gave the order to fall out before I could see what had been inside—the fire had gotten pretty hairy on the second floor at that point. But when I came back for the prevention sweep after the fire was out, this is what I found.”
    He gestured to an old, dented metal lock box, the kind someone would store cash in at a yard sale, and a pile of photographs, along with a bundle of thin nylon rope and a plastic baggie containing what looked like a few pairs of women’s earrings.
    “I gathered the pictures before I saw the images on them,” Walker continued, pointing to the tidy pile next to the lock box. “But once I did, I put them down, and I didn’t touch any of the other stuff, just in case.”
    It didn’t escape Isabella’s notice that he’d kept his eyes lasered in on Sinclair and only Sinclair as he’d recounted the story, even going so far as to turn his shoulder to give her half of his back while he spoke. But screw that. Despite what he thought, she was a damn good cop, and if something had gone down here, she was going to be part of catching whoever was responsible.
    “Is this everything you found?” Isabella asked, pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from the pocket of her jeans and snapping them into place.
    He looked over the broad ridge of his shoulder, his bright blue gaze covered in frost. “Yes.”
    The unspoken “duh” riding shotgun with his answer tagged her right in the gut, and she heard the unintended implication in her question just a