"What?"
"What's wrong now?"
Beth set her jaw. "Nothing."
"I think I'll go," Mitchell murmured and he held up his hand.
"No, it's okay. Beth, this is Detective Mitchell, my temporary partner. This is my daughter, Beth. My polite daughter, Beth."
Beth shook her head with a disgusted huff. "It's nice to meet you, Detective."
"It's nice to meet you, Beth. Look, Solliday, I can-"
His smile was strained. "You can sit. Please. Beth, if you won't tell me what's wrong in a reasonable way, then you can go to your room."
"What's wrong is that everybody continues to treat me like I'm four years old. All I wanted was to stay over Jenny's tonight. I even brought my toothbrush, for God's sake. But Lauren…" She gritted her teeth. "Lauren embarrassed me in front of everyone."
"Who was everyone?"
"Never mind." The corn continued to pop, each sound like another punch of tension.
"Lauren followed my instructions. You know no sleepover's on school nights."
The microwave beeped and Beth grabbed the bag. "Fine." She slammed the microwave door and a minute later slammed her bedroom door. Reed turned to Mitchell with a wince.
"I swear I had a nice daughter once."
She smiled ruefully. "Aliens. Pods. Body snatchers. It's the only explanation."
With a tired chuckle, he took off his over coat and suit coat and laid them across a chair. "I'll give her a chance to cool off before we discuss which privileges that little tantrum cost her. Take off your coat, Mia. Stay awhile."
Coming to his house was a really bad idea. But as Mia watched Solliday move around his kitchen, it was damn hard to mind. He'd shed his coat and set his dirty shoes outside. They still bore the remnants of mud from that morning, although Mia was quite certain they'd be shiny enough to see her face in by eight o'clock tomorrow.
Meeting his daughter had been interesting. But Beth was fourteen and Mia supposed that said it all. What had been more revealing was his response. Patient, firm, and bewildered. Bobby would have backhanded her to the floor. Even Kelsey had never defied him in front of company. But Mia pushed Bobby from her mind and focused on the different, but equally unsettling thought of Reed Solliday.
He was tugging at his tie and Mia found the sight a lot more intimate than she would have liked. The play of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt as he pulled the tie free of his collar sent a flutter through her gut and a sharp zing straight down.
Reed Solliday was a very watchable man and in the quiet of his kitchen she could admit to herself that she was interested. Watch yourself, she told herself firmly. You don't do cops. But he's not a cop, her mind reasoned as she fought to keep from staring at the dark course hair that now peeked from his open collar. Fucking technicality. Get a grip. She dragged her eyes up to find him staring at her, eyes nearly black.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, as if he read her thoughts.
What was wrong was that Reed Solliday looked way too good standing there with his tie off and that it had been a very long time since she'd had a man and that desire had suddenly, unwantedly come knocking. Pounding. Crashing at the damn door. But as none of those was an appropriate response, she shrugged. "I'm not sure why I'm here."
His brows lifted in challenge, his gaze still fixed on hers. "Dinner?"
She swallowed. "I thought we were going to stop someplace close to the precinct."
He looked away, severing the invisible thread that had connected them. He pulled a glass casserole dish from the refrigerator. "I like to eat real food when I can."
Real food Mia could appreciate. "So what is it?"
He peeled back the foil. "Looks like lasagna."
"You didn't make it?"
"Nope." He slid the dish in the oven. "My sister Lauren did. She's a good cook."
So his sister was the one who watched Beth when he had to work late. Mia had wondered. Now she was relieved. And annoyed that it mattered at all. Casting her eyes aside, she watched him rummage in the fridge for lettuce. "Do you want help?"
"No, thanks. I'm not the cook my mom was, but I can manage a salad."
Was. "So she's dead? Your mother."
"Five years ago. She had cancer."
"I'm sorry." And she was. From the wistful tone of his voice, he'd loved his mother and obviously missed her. She thought about Bobby and wished for just a fraction of Solliday's grief. But there was none and would never be. "What about your dad?"
"He remarried and retired to Hilton Head. Plays golf every day." The words were tempered with affection and she felt a pang of jealousy that made her ashamed.
He set the salad bowl aside and pulled a pitcher of tea from the fridge. "I called for my messages while I was waiting for you back there at… Well, back there. Ben left me the analysis on the accelerant from Hill's house. It's ammonium nitrate, the same as in Doughertys'. It's commercial grade, could have been bought in any feed store. I hate to send Ben off chasing wild geese until we have something more to go on."
"Once we've gotten some leads from the files we can show some photos around. See if any of the local fertilizer distributors remember anything. What about the plastic eggs? I've been trying to remember the last time I saw a panty hose egg in the store." She made a face. "Not that I go looking for such devices of torture myself."
He smiled as he sat down with two glasses of iced tea. "I Googled them Sunday. The company changed from plastic eggs to cardboard boxes in 'ninety-one."
"But our boy had at least three of the eggs."
"The sites I checked said that they're used for arts and crafts, but again, without a suspect, we're looking for a needle in a haystack. I did have Ben call all the area arts-and-crafts stores in the area, but he came up empty. The eggs do come up occasionally on eBay so his source might not even be local. All we really have is some blood and hair, both belonging to the victim and shoe prints that could have belonged to anybody."
She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Give Jack some time. If our guy dropped anything, he'll find it." She checked her watch, concern nagging at the back of her mind. "It'll be midnight soon. You think he'll strike again?"
"If not tonight, then soon. He likes the fire too much to stay away."
Mia bit at her lip. "Why fire? Why does he like fire?"
"Fire can be fascinating, hypnotic. It can destroy with seemingly effortless ease."
"It's powerful," she said and he nodded.
"And wielding that power makes the arsonist invincible, for just a little while. He can create chaos, bring trucks full of firefighters speeding to the scene. The arsonist commands the actions of others. He sees it like making puppets dance on a string."
"It's a compulsion," she murmured and watched his eyes flash.
"No. That makes it sound like they can't help it. They can. They just choose not to."
Mia remembered his words to Miles. "You don't believe in compulsions?"
"People say that they have compulsions when they really mean gratification means more to them than the people they'll hurt. When they don't want to be held accountable."
She frowned. "You don't believe in mental illness?"
He frowned back. "Don't put words in my mouth, Mia. I do believe some people are mentally ill. That they truly hear voices or think they're being pursued. I've never met an arsonist that wasn't declared mentally competent. It's not compulsion. It's choice."
There was something there. Something very deep. Right now, she was too tired to see it clearly so she let it go. "You've done this a long time," she noted quietly instead.
He visibly forced himself to relax. "About thirteen years."