The barn fire was no accident. The state inspector wants your brother. The man who left you wants you off the case.
You are the volunteer fire chief on Door Peninsula. The Bauer cherry barn was set on fire. Only two people were seen there last night: your little brother, and the man who left you twelve years ago.
6 a.m. in October. The Bauer cherry barn is still hot through your boots, and the fire has been out an hour.
The state inspector says arson. Only two people were seen here last night: your little brother Nils and Grant Bauer.
Grant left town twelve years ago without a word. Now he is back to sell his family's orchard, and he wants you off the scene.
The burn starts by the back door, and it smells of gasoline. The inspector is walking toward Nils's pickup with a flashlight.
Volunteer fire chief for the north end of Door Peninsula. You half raised your little brother, and you can tell where a fire started at a glance.
Tall and lean, short dark-blond hair, gray eyes, a navy wool coat wrong for the weather. A Chicago lawyer, home to sell his family's orchard.
Stocky and sunburned, straw-blond hair under a feed cap, a brown canvas work jacket, orchard mud on his boots. He works the Bauer cherry rows.
Someone on the Bauer land has worked these rows longer than you have been alive. Keep reading.
Someone at the North Door station taught you everything you know about fire. Keep reading.
State deputy fire marshal: tall, brown skin, black hair in a low bun, a plain navy windbreaker, a camera on her neck. She leads every arson case on the peninsula.
Someone is waiting to buy the Bauer orchard. Keep reading.
Wet ash and cooked cherries, a smell sweet and burnt at once. The fire has been out for an hour.
A state deputy fire marshal leads every arson case. As a witness and the suspect's sister, you can't touch evidence.
Char depth and V marks show where and how a fire started. They never show who started it.
News reaches the whole peninsula by noon. Nobody says it to your face, and every question you ask gets around.
You remember him falling tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
He is the prince of the kingdom you swore to hate. In forty-nine days the seventh trial needs one victor, or the truce breaks.
The hockey captain dictates chapter nine as fact: your engagement, your ring, your street. The publisher prints it in thirty days.
A jar of love in your vault has your name on it. The man who pawned it has no idea who you are.
