We return to find Jack in the kitchen. He's set up a scene—boxes are torn open below him, and he leans over a small bathroom heater. His thin, hairy legs jut from cargo shorts, and dusty feet are strapped into worn sandals. The bandage on his arm is new, professionally done, and looks clean.

The heater hums softly on the counter, and behind a thin grate, coils glow orange. An identical heater rests on the floor near his feet, though it isn't plugged in.

Without turning around to acknowledge us, Jack starts talking: "How do you start a fire in this day and age? The forensics are insane."

I examine the torn boxes to his right; they're shipping envelopes. Two textbooks are on the counter, one of them open. They're titled Modern Forensics and Fire Investigator's Handbook.

I take a seat across from Jack, on one of the kitchen stools, and join him in watching the heater. It seems like an average little device, a white plastic cube with knobs on top.

"Cigarettes and matchbooks?" I ask, remembering the trick Morgan showed me with the car.

"Not even close," he says, then takes a long sniff. "That's obvious arson, it just lets you put distance between yourself and the fire. This can't look like anyone set the fire on purpose, or it won't be an accidental death." He pauses. "You smell that?"

I smell nothing. "No."

"Might be my imagination. Morgan, you smell anything?" he calls. She rests on one of the recliners, facing a cold fireplace.

She says nothing.

Jack runs a hand down his face. "You can't start the fire, that's the problem. They can see if you use gasoline, lighter fluid, anything. It shows you, right in that book. After everything is burned, it's pretty obvious. Big streaks in the ground where the gas is lit. Basically, they're going to figure out how your fire started, no matter what you do."

"So, don't use a fire," I say.

"The fire is for bonus points," he mutters.

The heater grunts softly. Jack hops back, hands shooting out, framing the device.

Nothing happens.

"I give," I say. "What's the deal with the heater?"

Jack grins. "It's been recalled, about five years ago. I found these two on eBay. The thing's defective, or so I'm told. It's supposed to catch fire if you leave it on this setting. If this works, that's my natural fire. My accident. When the cops investigate, they'll decide Ronald Silver has been murdered by a bad heater. Chalk it up to bad luck."

I wave my hands dismissively, then turn and look over the living room. Morgan rests on the recliner, both hands folded on her chest, black spaghetti strap top feeding into a charcoal skirt. She picks at a painted fingernail repeatedly, though from here, it appears flawless.

"Ah-hah!" Jack shouts triumphantly. An orange flame flickers within the heater's enclosure, half hidden by the metal grate. In moments, the acrid stench of burning plastic fills the living room, and I'm forced to rise and back away.

"Would you unplug it now?" Morgan calls, voice angry.

"Sorry; got to see how high the flame goes," Jack says, picking up a slim cardboard shipping box and fanning the fumes away from his face. "Maybe I could have done this outside."

I start heading toward my room, though when I'm near the hallway, I turn. "I don't get it," I call to Jack. "What are they going to think happened to his body? I mean, you've got to have one, right? And it's not like it can be Ronald Silver, he isn't even real."

Jack looks at me over the warped monstrosity on the table—cream colored plastic writhing in bubbling agony, orange flame streaming black smoke. When our eyes connect, I can only turn away.

"You'll see," he says.