Solliday's head lifted and his eyes met hers as her cheeks heated.

"I'm sorry." she said. "That was stupid."

His lips curved inside his goatee. "I promise I won't put my dirty shoes on his desk," he said, and the wry humor in his voice made her smile as she dropped into her chair.

"I am sorry. Abe would want you comfortable. It's just that I haven't been so tired in a long time."

"I know. We were up most of the night. And then… that kind of grief." He pulled a stack of files from his box. "It drains the very life out of your soul."

Mia blinked. "That sounded remarkably poetic, Solliday. I mean… like a real poem. Not like my 'bully named Bubba.'"

His eyes dropped to the files. "How do you want to handle these?" he asked and struck with curiosity, she leaned forward. His cheeks were decidedly red.

"Solliday. You're blushing."

He cocked his jaw to one side, stubbornly refusing to meet her eyes and Mia found herself thoroughly charmed. "Let's go through the files Hill's boss cherry-picked first." he said.

"Ah, yes. The many arsonists Penny Hill tried to place in foster care. We need a system or we're never going to find a connection. How about you write down all the names you come across in Hill's files, I'll do Burnette's. In an hour we break and compare." She frowned at the boxes. "If I can figure out where to start."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pain reliever. "Start with this. You make me hurt just looking at you. You carried in that damn box like you didn't have a hole in your shoulder." He tossed the bottle across their desks and Mia caught it.

"Are you always such a mother?" she asked.

He looked surprised. "No, I'm a father. Why can only mothers make you take medicine?"

"Because-" She bit her tongue. Because fathers are the reason you have to take medicine in the first place. Mothers just give you a pill and tell you not to provoke him anymore. She grabbed the top file and started reading. "Let's just get to work, okay?"

She could feel his eyes on her, watching, but in the end he said nothing, just settled himself into Abe's chair and began to read.

Tuesday, November 28, 4:00 p.m.

Bart Secrest was a scary looking man. Kind of like Mr. Clean, but mean. His office was dark and stark, without one picture or personal memento to soften his image.

Brooke took the chair he offered with a silent gesture.

"You did the right thing, Miss Adler," he said without preamble.

"I didn't want to cross Julian." Who'd been livid over the search of Manny's room.

"Julian will live," Bart said in a tone that made Brooke think there was no love lost between them. "You were right to worry about Manny Rodriguez, Miss Adler."

"So you found something?"

He nodded. "Lots of stories about fires."

"Local fires, like the two articles I saw him clip?"

"No, those were the only local articles. The others were more how-to."

"Oh Lord. He was collecting articles on how to set fires?"

"He was." Secrest leaned back in his chair. "And we found a pack of matches hidden in one of his shoes. Obviously smuggled in from somewhere."

She frowned. "But we're in lockdown. How could something get smuggled in?"

"Every castle has a bolt-hole, Miss Adler."

She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

His smile was brief and somehow still made him look mean. "Every institution has a supply pipeline for contia-band. Even this one. But I'll find it. That I guarantee."

He stood and she guessed the interview was over. "Well… good night."

His answer was a curt nod as she backed out of his door. She'd turned the corner toward the main entrance when she heard her name. Julian standing outside his office, looking furious. "Brooke, what the hell have you done?"

Brooke straightened her spine. She'd done the right thing. Bart Secrest said so. "I reported suspicious behavior, Julian. The way you were supposed to."

Julian came closer until he was practically standing on her toes. He leaned over her, invading her space and tickling her nose with the aroma of pipe tobacco that lingered in his jacket. "You insolent little…" He hissed a breath between his clenched teeth. "Don't you dare tell me what I should have done. You have ruined months of progress with that boy. Months. Thanks to you any trust I'd built with him is gone."

Brooke's heart was hammering so hard she thought he could hear it. He was big and way too close and breathing her air. Still she lifted her chin and stared up at him defiantly. "You said he wouldn't start any fires here at the school."

"And he wouldn't have."

She shook her head. "Secrest found matches in his room."

Julian narrowed his eyes. "Not possible."

"Talk to Secrest. He'll tell you. Manny could have started a fire that put every teacher and student in danger. I did the right thing, even if you don't agree."

Shaking from head to toe but proud she hadn't caved and apologized, she made it to her car and drew a deep breath as she buckled herself in. Hands trembling, she pulled the two articles she'd copied in the last two days. One from Monday's Trib, the other from today's Bulletin. Two fires, local. Two fatalities. Manny had been withdrawn that morning in class. Preoccupied. Disturbed. And they'd found matches in his room.

That Manny could have been involved in these fires was impossible. He couldn't leave the property. But someone had managed to smuggle matches in. These two fires were the only local articles he'd clipped. What made these fires so special? Or had she reignited Manny's compulsion and any articles on fire would have sufficed?

She winced. Ignited. Poor choice of words. Two people were dead because of these fires. She wouldn't be able to sleep as long as she worried she herself was somehow …To blame was also a poor choice of words. Connected was better. She needed to find out if Manny was somehow connected, and through him… me.

She could call the police. That would be the sensible thing to do. But it was more than likely she was being compulsively ridiculous and there was no connection at all. It would be a wild-goose chase for the police and that wouldn't be good.

But if there was a connection, the police should be told. There was one way to find out. The second fire was in a neighborhood closer to the school. She'd see for herself.

Tuesday, November 28, 4:15 p.m.

"Mia. Mia.'"

She looked up from Burnette's files with a jolt, blinking furiously to bring Solliday into focus. Shit. She'd dropped off, right here at her desk. "You ready to trade names?"

He shook his head. "We have company," he said quietly. A woman was crossing the bullpen, her eyes red and swollen. "She matches the description of Hill's daughter."

Mia came to her feet, alert now. In the woman's hand was a copy of the Bulletin.

"I'm Margaret Hill. I'm looking for Detective Mitchell. She left me a message."

"That's me. You're here about your mother."

"Is it true?" she whispered, holding the paper. "What this says about my mother?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Hill. Let's go somewhere where can talk more privately." She led her into a small room next to Spinnelli's office. Still clutching the newspaper, Margaret Hill sank into the chair and closed her eyes. Sollliday closed the door behind them.

"Miss Hill, I'm so sorry for your loss. This is Lieutenant Solliday with the fire marshal's office. We're investigating your mother's death together."

Margaret nodded and swiped her cheeks with her fingertips. Solliday put a box of tissues in her lap and leaned against the edge of the table so that Margaret was between them.