Empty House (A Bree Noble Suspense Thriller—Book 2)

By Laura Rise

When deadly fires re-ignite with no cause, arson investigator Bree Noble finds herself on the trail of a revenge-driven pyromaniac, racing to decode his cryptic methods before he strikes again…

EMPTY HOUSE (A Bree Noble Suspense Thriller—Book 2) is the second novel in a new series by mystery and suspense author Laura Rise. The series begins with EMPTY SOUL (Book 1).

An engrossing and intense crime thriller with an exceptionally clever yet emotionally scarred female protagonist at its heart, Bree Noble delivers a compelling series brimming with relentless excitement, unexpected plot twists, shocking discoveries, and a rapid tempo that ensures you'll be flipping pages well into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll, and Lisa Gardner are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are also available!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Rise
• Release date: May 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781094397320

Book preview

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E M P T Y   H O U S E

(A Bree Noble Suspense Thriller —Book 2)

L a u r a   R i s e

Laura Rise

Laura Rise is author of the IVY PANE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the BREE NOBLE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the TORI SPARK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Laura loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit laurarise.com to learn more and stay in touch

Copyright © 2024  by Laura Rise. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS BY LAURA RISE

IVY PANE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

BROKEN LIFE (Book #1)

BROKEN HEART (Book #2)

BROKEN TRUST (Book #3)

BROKEN PATH (Book #4)

BROKEN PROMISE (Book #5)

BREE NOBLE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

EMPTY SOUL (Book #1)

EMPTY HOUSE (Book #2)

EMPTY HEART (Book #3)

EMPTY ROAD (Book #4)

EMPTY EYES (Book #5)

TORI SPARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

AMIDST THE DARKNESS (Book #1)

AMIDST THE RUINS (Book #2)

AMIDST THE ASHES (Book #3)

AMIDST THE SHADOWS (Book #4)

AMIDST THE LIES (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

The siren's wail cut through the tranquil suburban night like a knife, announcing the urgency of their approach. In the back of the ambulance, Clara Rodriguez steadied herself against the shuddering vehicle, her eyes fixed on the glowing red lights reflecting off the interior surfaces. Her sleek brown hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail—a testament to her practical nature—and her hands, clad in protective gloves, betrayed no tremble. Being an EMT required nerves of steel, and tonight’s call seemed like just another test of her resolve.

Routine kitchen fire, her partner had said moments earlier with a shrug, the radio crackling with dispatch's monotone symphony. But Clara knew that in their line of work, 'routine' was a word laced with unpredictable danger.

As they rounded the last corner, the blaze came into view, its fierce light dwarfing the streetlamps. Firefighters, like shadowy figures in a dance with danger, moved with purposeful chaos around the residence. Hoses snaked across the manicured lawn, spewing forth torrents of water that fought to tame the flames.

Clara stepped out of the ambulance, the crisp night air filling her lungs as she observed the scene. The smell of smoke was pungent, wrapping around her senses and reminding her of the destructive force they were up against.

All clear, one of the firefighter’s called over. Lady’s still inside. Refused to leave. Got a small burn, but nothing you can’t handle.

Clara was baffled by this. She’d seen other people make similar decisions—refusing to leave the house despite the danger, but she had never understood it.

Let's go, Rodriguez, her partner called out, snapping her back to the moment. They grabbed their medical kits, heavy with the tools of their trade, and advanced towards the house.

Clara entered the residence behind her partner, the heat immediately enveloping them like an unwelcome embrace. Debris groaned under the weight of their boots; the remains of a family's kitchen turned into charred fragments scattered across the floor. She surveyed the room—cabinets hung open like broken jaws, dishes lay shattered on the floor, and the scorched remains of what used to be a dinner attempt painted a grim picture of domestic life interrupted.

As she navigated the treacherous environment, Clara's EMT training surged to the forefront. Assess, act, and stay alert. She was acutely aware of the latent dangers that lingered beneath the surface of the smoldering wreckage.

Her gaze moved methodically over the room, taking in every detail. Something felt off. It was more than the aftermath of a typical kitchen fire—it was as if the space itself held its breath, waiting for an unseen shoe to drop. The tension hummed in the air, an ominous melody to which only Clara seemed attuned.

She forced herself to push the feeling aside. There were more important matters at hand. In the corner, a woman sat crying, holding her wounded arm.

Clara knelt down beside her, her hands moved with practiced ease. The sterile white of the gauze created a stark contrast against the reddened skin of the homeowner's arm. The burn was severe, blistered and angry, and the woman winced as Clara worked, each touch gentle yet necessarily firm, her fingers deftly wrapping and tucking the bandage, offering a silent promise of temporary respite from the agony.

Keep the arm elevated, okay? she instructed, her voice a steady beacon in the haze of his shock. Clara locked eyes with the victim, ensuring her words penetrated the fog that pain and fear had draped over her. It'll help with the swelling.

Her partner stood by, ready to assist, his presence a solid reassurance. They had been through a slew of emergencies together, each one a testament to their synchronicity in the field.

Let's get you downstairs, Clara said, her tone leaving no room for protest. The ambulance is waiting.

She nodded to her partner, who gently helped the owner to her feet, supporting the injured limb with a care that spoke volumes of his experience. As they began the careful descent down the smoke-laden staircase, Clara lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the charred remains of the kitchen.

Go ahead, she called out after them, her voice slicing through the lingering smell of smoke and burnt materials. I've got to take a few pictures for our report. I'll meet you downstairs shortly.

With deliberate movements, Clara reached for the digital camera secured at her belt, its lens soon to become the eye through which the night's events would be dissected and understood. The click of the power button was a soft declaration of intent; she was not just a healer, but a gatherer of evidence, a silent witness to the aftermath of tragedy.

As she framed the first shot, her mind registered details that would escape most. The way the fire seemed to have danced across the surfaces, leaving a trail that was erratic and yet purposeful. The pattern of destruction told a story, one that Clara knew would unfold in time, its secrets peeled back layer by layer until the naked truth lay exposed.

Each snapshot was a piece of a larger puzzle, the camera's flash cutting through the dimness, freezing moments of disaster in stark relief. Clara's movements were methodical, her focus absolute as she documented the singed appliances, the blackened walls, and the remnants of what once was a meal interrupted.

She took a photograph of the stove, the epicenter of the disaster, noting how the scorched patterns radiated outward like the petals of a deadly flower. A blackened pot lay overturned, its contents a charcoaled mystery that no longer held any shape or form.

Moving to the center of the kitchen, Clara crouched to capture the angle of a chair, thrown back in haste or perhaps in the struggle of escape. The light from her flash cut through the lingering haze, throwing stark shadows against the devastation.

Clara's eyes stung slightly, a reminder of the danger that had passed—or perhaps the one that still lurked. As she inhaled, preparing to take another photograph, the scent hit her—the unmistakable tang of accelerant, sharp and out of place amidst the natural odors of burnt wood and fabric.

Clara stood slowly, her gaze sweeping the room. She followed the scent, stepping over the threshold of what remained of the pantry. Here, the odor was stronger, clinging to the air like a malignant spirit. Bottles lay shattered, their contents spilled like blood across the floor.

Clara crouched low, her eyes stinging as they adjusted to the murky twilight of the smoke-laden room. The acrid scent that had earlier pricked at her nostrils now seemed to wrap around her, a shroud that grew tighter with each passing second. She moved with purpose, tracing the insidious trail of the accelerant. As she did, her mind spun with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.

With a sense of urgency, Clara snapped photo after photo, the camera's shutter a staccato echo in the stillness. Each image captured a fragment of the story that lay hidden within the smoke and ruin. But then, suddenly, the walls themselves seemed to close in on her, exhaling puffs of ash that danced like malevolent spirits in the air. The heat intensified, and the once faint whiff of danger was now a full-throated roar.

As she stood, the transformation of the space was palpable. The lingering haze began to grow denser, billowing forth from unseen corners with renewed vigor. Clara's breaths came in short, shallow gasps. A creeping realization dawned upon her: the fire was not yet finished; it was merely lying in wait, biding its time before striking anew.

Panic clawed at her throat, and she spun toward the exit, but the path was no longer clear. Flames licked hungrily at the edges of her vision, snaking their way across the floor with deceptive speed. The sound of the fire was a living thing, a cacophony of crackles and hisses that filled the room with the promise of destruction.

Get out, get out! she commanded herself, her voice lost in the din. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to leave this hellish tableau behind, but the inferno had other plans. Fire surged up the walls, an orange and red tapestry of fury that blocked her retreat.

Clara stumbled back, her hands groping for something, anything to hold onto. The temperature soared, and her skin prickled with searing heat. Desperation gave her limbs strength, and she made for the window, but it was futile. The glass bowed inward, buckling under the pressure, and then, with a roar like the end of the world, the room erupted into a maelstrom of flame.

In those final moments, Clara Rodriguez knew no fear, only the resolve of a fighter caught in the embrace of a battle she could not win. The blaze consumed all, leaving nothing but the echo of her determination amidst the roar of the flames.

CHAPTER ONE

The first light of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains of Bree Noble's kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of her. The rhythmic tapping of a spoon against porcelain filled the otherwise silent room. Bree, lost in thought, stared blankly at the wall opposite her.Her modest kitchen, with its practical layout and clean surfaces, betrayed little of the chaos that marked her professional life.

The doorbell's shrill ring shattered the morning calm. With a sigh, she pushed back from the table, leaving behind the semblance of normalcy her cereal provided. She moved deliberately toward the door, muscles tensed, the soles of her feet making soft sounds against the tile floor. Her hand reached for the doorknob, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun-kissed kitchen.

Standing on the doorstep was a courier, nondescript in his uniform, holding out a large manila envelope as if it were the most ordinary delivery in the world. But for Bree, the weight of that envelope felt like it could tip the scales of her entire existence. She signed for the package with a practiced hand, the signature of someone who has learned to compartmentalize emotion, to keep personal and professional lives distinctly separate.

Thank you, she said curtly, her voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside her.

Once the door was closed, Bree leaned against it, allowing herself a moment to acknowledge the gravity of what she held. Inside this envelope wasn't just any case file; it was the one she had requested the week prior—the one that contained everything the LAFD knew about the wildfire that had devoured her childhood and claimed her parents' lives. The same inferno she had miraculously survived.

She turned the envelope over in her hands, her fingers tracing the edges as if they could divine truths hidden within. The official seal of the Los Angeles Fire Department stamped on the front was a stark reminder of the agency that had given her purpose after so much had been taken away. With a deep breath, Bree prepared to breach the paper barricade and confront the past head-on.

She knew it was possible this wouldn’t lead her to anything new. But she also knew it was possible that the file's contents could contain secrets that had haunted her for years, questions that gnawed at her soul every time she surveyed the aftermath of another fire.

With trembling hands, calloused from years of sifting through charred remnants and unforgiving debris, Bree carried the weighty envelope back to the kitchen table. Her breakfast lay forgotten, the steam from her coffee cup dissipating into air that now felt thick with anticipation.

With deliberate slowness, she slid a finger under the sealed flap, tearing it open with a sound that seemed to rip through the quiet of her home. The contents spilled out in a cascade of monochrome photographs and typewritten pages, each one a testament to an investigation long concluded but never truly closed in her heart.

Bree steeled herself against the onslaught of memories, focusing on the methodical process of organizing the documents into some semblance of order. The rough texture of paper between her fingers anchored her to the present, even as every fiber of her being resisted the pull toward what lay within.

A photograph, edges worn and colors faded, rose to the surface of the scattered files like a relic surfacing from the depths of time. Bree's breath hitched as her gaze settled on the faces of her parents, smiling back at her from a moment captured before fire had rewritten their story.

The world around her narrowed to the point of nonexistence, leaving nothing but the image in her hands and the roar of flames in her ears. She was no longer in her sunny kitchen; she was back in the belly of the beast, the wildfire that had raged with an insatiable hunger, devouring everything in its path.

Her parents' laughter echoed in her head, mingling with the crackle of fire eating through wood and the scorching heat that pressed against her skin. She could feel the terror that had clawed at