Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  Top. Floor.

  Retaining any professionalism is becoming a challenge. All I freaking want to do is start squealing. If this room overlooks the ocean? I may pee myself.

  Dora leads us down a long hallway with carpeted floors and walls painted a warm beige. Every few feet are framed Andy Warhol prints that are a shot of unexpected fun considering we’re at a Caribbean resort. Having taken a modern art class in college—I needed an elective—I've become a casual fan of anything with bold bright colors.

  "Warhol," I say.

  “Good eye,” Rose says. “I met him once at the Met Gala."

  Yowzer. “You went to the Met Gala?"

  Rose continues to follow Dora, but glances over at me. "Twice. Quite thrilling. We'd wrangled an invite through one of Simon's clients."

  Dang. Rose Trudeau is a bigger badass than I thought. I’d give my right arm—well, maybe not my right one—to be a fly on the wall. I wouldn’t want to actually attend. Too much pressure for me, but it’d be fun to people-watch.

  "I could never do that."

  Dora makes a left at the end of the hallway, leading us down another long corridor. At this point, I'm completely turned around and have no idea if we’re moving toward the ocean or away from it. The place is so big, my hope of scoring an oceanfront room is dwindling.

  "You could do it," Rose says.

  “Uh, no. I'd be afraid I'd use the wrong fork or have spinach in my teeth. It's not my thing."

  "You could do it," she says again.

  "Noooo. I couldn't."

  A little side-eye comes my way and I'm convinced Rose has something to say, but Dora stops in front of a set of double doors on our right.

  Double doors.

  My hope once again soars. What does that say about me? I'm here on business, chasing a story that could put me on the journalism map. I'm hoping for an ocean view when there are journalists sleeping on the ground in villages with no running water.

  Before my self-flagellation goes full-blown, Dora swings open the double doors and my eye goes straight to floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of blue-green water that stops me cold.

  It sure ain't a third-world country.

  I walk to the window, cutting between a living room with a sofa and two oversized upholstered chairs on my left and a dining table for six made of reclaimed wood on my right. This suite is bigger than my apartment back home. I can wrap my mind around that later. Right now, it’s all about the windows and moving toward them like they're some kind of twisted force field.

  "This,” I say, my voice breathy and filled with every ounce of wonder I’m feeling. “Is amazing."

  Behind me, Dora rambles on about remote controls and lighting and curtains on a timer that we can adjust to our liking. I should probably be paying attention, taking in the instructions so I know how to turn off the damn lights, but I can count on one hand how many times I've seen the ocean and it's never ever been this stunning. All I want is to stay locked in this very moment and not worry about the $163.70 that’s left in my bank account.

  I need to suck this all up so when I think back on it, I'll know the experience didn't slip by.

  "Rae?"

  Finally, I turn to where Rose has just closed the suite door. Dora has vanished. "I'm sorry. I didn't even hear her leave."

  "No need to apologize, my dear. I'm pleased the island has this effect on you. Now you understand why I loved coming here." She moves beside me and peers out over the water. "And why I'm so devastated by it."

  Before I even get a word out, she spins sideways, facing me. "I want to circle back to something you said in the hallway about not being able to go to the Met Gala."

  God help me if she tells me she has an invite to the next Met Gala and insists on taking me. I’ll throw myself right through these windows. "It's okay. It was just small talk."

  "I disagree. I think you are a smart, ambitious young woman. You accomplished getting me, someone known for protecting her privacy, to return to a place that nearly destroyed me. You, I strongly believe, can do anything you put your mind to. Including attending the Met Gala.” She gives me one of her exaggerated, single nods. "Don't ever forget that."

  For a few seconds, I’m stunned. Seriously gobsmacked. For the last two months, I’ve been dealing with hate mail, an entire town blaming me for sabotaging the economy, and a goon breaking into my apartment.

  All because I did my job.

  And I did it well.

  It’s enough to make even the strongest person question their worth. And now, Rose Trudeau, someone skilled at schmoozing politicians and the Hollywood elite, has just complimented me.

  It’s been so damned long since someone said something nice about me that I’m stunned. How sad is that?

  Pretty sad, I guess, because my throat dries up as I stand here, frozen because someone, someone seriously smart, believes in me.

  All the moisture from my throat must have zipped straight up to my eyes because they’re suddenly tearing up.

  I blink away the tears and bob my head. “Yes, ma'am. And,” I clear my throat, “well, thank you."

  She smiles at me in a way that makes me think of my mother and my favorite chocolate chip cookies and unconditional acceptance.

  “You're welcome,” she says.

  The gentle tinkling of wind chimes fills the room and Rose holds up her finger. “Ah. Doorbell. It's probably our luggage. Let's get unpacked, order food, and get organized. We have a cold case to solve.”

  “It’s a retrospective,” I tell her. “Don’t forget.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Of course it is, dear.”

  17

  Rose

  * * *

  Before I reach the door, my cell phone rings from the confines of my purse which I've thrown on the back of the sofa. Unlike young folks, I refuse to carry my phone in any of my pockets. Garments never fall correctly with items shoved in the pockets. I tell my boys this constantly, but they never learn.

  “Rae, would you please handle the door while I see who’s calling?"

  "I'm on it."

  By the time my phone rings for the third time, I've got my hand on it and quickly check the screen before it goes to voice mail. George Hopper, our longtime friend and co-owner of the Grande.

  How very fascinating.

  Could he possibly know I'm visiting the island? Without a doubt, word travels fast in Hollywood, but my sons and housekeeper are the only ones aware of this trip. I’m not sure Phillip or Jeremy would tell George. Maybe if they ran into him and he inquired, but since this was such a last-minute excursion, the timing is suspect. That leaves my housekeeper, and she knows that she would, without question, be fired if she shared my personal business. And with what I pay her, she wouldn’t risk it.

  I slide my finger across the screen. "George, darling, how are you?"

  "Hello, Rose."

  His greeting holds a direct, edgy tone to it that pokes at my already compromised nerves. George, even in his sixties, is still the ultimate charmer and a man skilled at hiding a foul mood. A glad-hander to his core, he's known for wooing women, babies, and even men.

  Behind me, Rae and the bellman exchange pleasantries. The combination of George’s call and an audience prompts me to head to the master bedroom in search of privacy.

  “Why, George,” I say as I close the door. “You sound…off."

  I do a quick survey of the room. King bed, two dressers, television, an upholstered armchair and ottoman, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the ocean. I wander to the chair and ease into it, crossing my legs.

  “I've just received a disturbing call, Rose. Very disturbing."

  Uh-oh.

  He knows. Somehow, instinctively, I sense it. We’ve been friends for years, but we don’t discuss our personal or business issues. Perhaps with Simon, he did, but George and I have never gone there. Nor do I desire to. "I'm so sorry," I say, feigning ignorance. "What's wrong?"

  “I know you're on the island. Pleas
e, don’t deny it.”

  I have no need to hide it. "Why on earth would I deny it?"

  For a moment, there’s a pause large enough to hold an elephant. As confident as he sounded in his statement, I’m not sure he expected me to actually admit my whereabouts.

  “You're investigating?”

  I roll my eyes at the condescending tone. As if I'm some vapid female who will fall to his feet and beg forgiveness for whatever has displeased him. He should know better. "Watch your tone, George."

  My statement is met with another long silence. Good. Let him think about it. I unfold my legs and prop my feet on the ottoman as I stare at the blue-green sea and the sun dancing on the surface. A sense of calm eases my shoulders down, leaving me in awe that all these years later, after what I endured here, La Paradisio still gives me respite.

  "I apologize." He lets out a soft huff. "We're barely a minute in and I’m apologizing. I'm concerned for you, Rose. Opening up all these old wounds and rattling God-knows-whose cages."

  "Well, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine."

  "Is getting arrested your definition of fine?"

  Now I’m the quiet one. My mouth may not be moving, but my mind is blazing with questions. How did he know? Who told him? Why?

  One thing I know for sure is that my sons are off the hook. Even if they’d run into George somewhere and told him about my visit to the island, they’d never—ever—share that I’d been detained by the police. "Oh, George. Please. Calm yourself. It's not as if they threw us in a jail cell. It was a conversation with the police chief. We were out of there in an hour."

  “Rose, you must be careful. And who is this reporter all of a sudden?"

  Whoever his pipeline is, they’re thorough. “You have all sorts of information today."

  "I owned a property on that island. I still have many friends there. Including the police superintendent.”

  Ernesto Guerrero. That pain in the keister. "He told you? Obviously, confidentiality is not practiced here. I don't know why that surprises me. He was disgustingly condescending."

  "Can you blame him?"

  "I most certainly can. We were looking at the building. That’s all.”

  George laughs. “You were doing more than that and you know it.”

  Eh, he has me there. I tilt my head one way, then the other as I watch a wave build and build and—crash—water rolls to the shore. For whatever reason, George is worked up. My choices are to A) shut him down completely and tell him to mind his own business or B) tell him about Rae and attempt to draw information from him.

  The decision, considering my silence on this matter for thirty years, is remarkably easy.

  “She's a reporter,” I say. “From North Dakota. God bless that girl, she's been calling me for over a month for an interview. When she showed up at the house the other day, I spoke to her briefly. She wants to do a story on the Grande. An anniversary piece. George, she's quite passionate about this project. Frankly, you may want to speak to her yourself."

  "That's not happening. Unlike you, I have no desire to revisit it. For years I've had to deal with…with…you know.”

  Investigation aside, George's pain, like mine, has more than likely been buried under the rubble of that building. I lost a few friends. He lost so much more. Friends, customers, employees. All those people, under his roof.

  That, I simply cannot imagine, and my breath hitches. What am I doing? He’s a friend. Someone Simon and I shared years of our lives with.

  "All right," I say. "I understand you not wanting to speak with her. In turn, hopefully, you’ll give me the same consideration. We both lost people we cared about that day."

  “Well, obviously. I hope you know I’ll always be a friend to you, Rose. Always. But you have to agree this is…surprising. All these years, you've refused—fanatically—to discuss the Grande and now you want to talk to some hack from the middle of nowhere who managed to blow up her career before it even got started?"

  My goodness, he’s been a busy man. He may have done his research on Rae, but I won’t have him insulting a young woman he’s never met.

  "George, I’m sorry to tell you your information is flawed. Rae is smart, ambitious, and rather fearless."

  "She wrecked a town."

  A man would say that. How is it that the woman is to blame when the man broke the law? Some things never change. “She did not ruin the town. Charlie Carter did. I can't believe you're defending that man."

  "I'm not defending him. I don't even know that son of a bitch. I'm just saying you hardly know this girl."

  "I know enough. Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine."

  Tension pulls at the base of my skull. I don't need this from him. Who does he think he is, questioning me? I've spoken to my sons, the two people whose opinions matter most, and although Jeremy had concerns, he wished me well on this journey.

  I shake my head and watch another wave break. After this, I'm taking Rae for a walk on that beach. The ocean air used to always settle me. Hopefully it still will.

  “George,” I say, struggling to keep the softness in my voice and avoid turning this into a full-blown argument. “I appreciate your concern. I truly do, but I'm committed to this. It's something I have to do."

  “I don’t need to remind you, of all people, that this case has never been solved. The arsonist might still be on the island. That's my concern, Rose. You are quite literally playing with fire."

  I rest my head back. He has a point. A very good one that I hadn’t given full consideration. If the arsonist, having murdered all those innocents, still lived on the island, how would he—or she—take to our snooping around?

  Probably, not well. But…justice. For all the lives lost.

  For Gayle.

  My gaze on the sea, I place my feet on the floor and stand. “I can make a difference, George. And since Simon died, I haven't been able to do that. "

  "Rose—"

  “Thank you for your concern. But on this we’ll have to agree to disagree. Maybe I am playing with fire, but after all these years, someone has to."

  18

  Rose

  * * *

  RaeLynn continues to surprise me.

  After a morning spent making calls and trying in vain to find former employees of the Grande, we pull up in front of a light pink stucco bungalow with a tile roof partially shaded by palm trees that ward off the bright afternoon sun. The neighborhood, in my opinion, fits solidly into middle-class, as referenced by the well-maintained homes and landscaping. No chipped facades, broken sidewalks, or rotting window trim.

  I peer at the older model Honda in the bungalow’s driveway. Gabriel Sanchez's perhaps? I'm not even sure this is his home, but my companion feels fairly confident—the latest surprise she’s given me—so I roll with it. I slide some bills from my wallet and hand them up to the cab driver.

  "Keep the change."

  "Thank you, ma'am." He hands over a business card. "My number. Call me when you need a ride back to hotel."

  We exit the vehicle on our respective sides and the driver pulls away, leaving me standing on the curb. Playing with fire. George’s words float in my mind. It’s not too late. I could still back out. Tell Rae it’s too painful. She’s asked several times if I’m sure I want to do this, so I have no doubt she’d understand.

  Rae steps to the curb and points to the bungalow. “Cute house.”

  The cab turns right at the corner, leaving my view, and I have an instant desire to start running. To chase him down and forget I ever agreed to this.

  But…Gayle. And me. I need this. I know it. I’ve been living in this world of denial, staying busy, burying my pain for so long, I’m not sure what that pain should actually feel like. I can’t live the rest of my life sticking to this routine, simply passing time until I die.

  I want my joy back. I want to matter again.

  I nod once and for all Rae knows, I’m simply agreeing with her about the house. “And how do you know he liv
es here?"

  “Research. I couldn't exactly pull up his name and address on the Internet—although I did try." She waves one hand in the air. "I had to do some digging."

  Oh, goodness. In this digital age, that could mean anything. “What kind of digging? Was it even legal?"

  She snorts and offers me an eye roll. “Of course it was legal. I did it the old-fashioned way."

  The old-fashioned way, I assume, probably doesn't include going through old phone books. "What does that mean?"

  "While searching online for Detective Sanchez, I found a video from a local news report. He was being interviewed.” She points to the house. “The house numbers—at least the two, three, and zero — were right behind him. I searched for all addresses in La Paradisio that started with those numbers and then checked the street view until I found one that looked right. It wasn't that bad. There are only one hundred and fifty addresses that contain those numbers."

  One hundred and fifty. The girl has patience. “That must have taken you hours."

  She shrugs. "It's not like I have a riveting social life since everyone hates me. I did it while binge-watching television."

  "RaeLynn, I appreciate your dedication to your craft, but my God, a girl your age should be out socializing. And…dating. You’re adorable. Why do you not date?"

  “Maybe because I stink at it?” She laughs, then shakes her head. “I’m good. Really. I’m focused on getting my life back on track. Now let's do this before someone wonders why two strange women are standing on the sidewalk."

  With that, she turns from me and starts up the concrete walkway. Clearly, she’s not ready to discuss her lack of dating, so I tuck it away for a later conversation and fall in step beside her. "Have you contacted Detective Sanchez at all?"

  “I called him two months ago. I got his number from one of the La Paradisio officers."

  "They just gave you his number?"

  She flashes a triumphant and toothy smile. “I had to do a little convincing."