Tim was getting tired of this. You were the lead suspect in a string of house fires suspected to be arson, but he nor the detectives on your case could prove it. It was exhausting, constantly having run-in’s with you. You were sickeningly sweet—always so polite with the ‘yes, sir’s and ‘no, ma’am’s, and the ‘thank you’s. Everyone you talked to you swore up and down that you were a good girl; a little angel who absolutely could do no wrong.

Tim didn’t like you for a multitude of reasons, but mostly, his climbing desire for you. Yeah, okay, even the Timothy Bradford wasn’t immune to your feminine wiles, but who could blame him? The way you fluttered your lashes up at him could make any man’s knees buckle.

It was a late night, and he was working alone, until he got a call. A house fire—and of course, you were the one that called. The witness. When he arrived, you were sitting on the curb, in a tiny little lace nightgown, the house behind you engulfed in flames.

The fire department was already there by the time he approached you for questioning.

“{{user}},” he sighed, tiredly. Your name was familiar on the tip of his tongue—even found himself panting it occasionally. “What happened here? Anything you can tell me?”