by A. J. Banner
“You can use the tower as a writer’s studio.” She pointed at a particularly magical picture of the sunset reflecting off the windows of the tower.
I felt a small spark of excitement. “But it’s two hours away from here.”
“True,” she said. “You would be living in a whole new town, different surroundings. I could set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
I looked around at the shadows and empty spaces. Nothing is keeping me here. “Yes,” I said finally. “I would love to see the retreat.”
My first night in the cottage alone, I dreamed of our wedding. I stood at the altar, waiting for Johnny. When I turned around, Monique blocked my way. Monique in her clinging green dress, holding her champagne glass. Jules va bien? Quelle dommage. I wore a white wedding gown in the dream, although in reality, I’d worn a cream-colored dress with silver lace. Johnny and I had asked our guests to donate to charity instead of bringing gifts. We’d rented the Sitka Retreat Center, on a hilltop overlooking the ocean. Nothing had gone as planned. The cake had fallen over, and the young justice of the peace, who was new to weddings, had forgotten his lines. Johnny had dropped the ring.
In the dream, I tried to push Monique out of the way. I woke up alone, to the sound of dripping rain, and everything that had happened, and what I had found, pressed in on me.
Later that morning, I rode north with Eris in her SUV, to the writer’s retreat. We chatted the whole way, about real estate, the weather, ex-husbands. Eris had grown up in foster homes in California, and when she’d been emancipated, she had moved as far north as she could go before hitting Alaska.
When we finally reached the fairy-tale-like bungalow perched on a forested hillside overlooking the ocean, I thought I had found the house of my dreams, the one in which I had walked barefoot during my deepest reveries, before I’d met Johnny. Before I had fallen in love with him, I had imagined such a haven removed from civilization, awash in sunlight, replete with vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, plush window seats, built-in bookshelves. Small enough for just me.
“Furnished,” I said, walking into the living room. “Rustic couch, wow—is the house staged, or is this . . . ?”
“All the furniture is available to you,” Eris said, grinning. “Top-of-the-line gourmet breakfast nook, newly remodeled. New appliances. Did you see the granite island? Amazing the architect fit it into the layout, considering the house is so small.”
I pictured Mia playing in the living room in her princess nightgown, running into the kitchen for breakfast, her hair still messy from sleep. Light danced across cobalt-blue countertops, reflecting off inlaid, reclaimed glass. Blue was Mia’s favorite color.
“Lovely,” I said, but I hesitated, my mind pulled back to Shadow Cove. To Johnny.
“Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, another surprise in a small house. You’ll never be waiting for the toilet if you have a guest.”
“How did you know?” I inhaled the faint scent of new wood.
“You were talking about your dream house at dinner, remember?” Eris said, her left eyebrow rising.
“I was?”
“It was a quick comment, but I specialize in extrapolating from quick comments.” Eris laughed. “We all want the same things, don’t you think? A place to call home?”
“This house makes me feel hopeful again.” And yet . . .
“I’m glad,” Eris said, her voice buoyant. Close up, minute lines appeared next to her mouth, smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes—human touches on an otherwise flawless face. “This is exactly what you need.”
“Maybe so. I’ll think about it.” Or maybe Johnny and I will work things out. But how could we?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In a show of support, Orla, Pedra, and Eris took me to lunch at the Shadow Café. Orla was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and gray woolen slacks. Pedra’s black satin shirt and jeans fit her tightly, the buttons threatening to pop off. She sat to my left, emitting the strong fragrance of gardenia. Eris sat next to me in an understated olive-green cotton jersey, black slacks, and black walking shoes. The three of them had already declared their allegiance to me, although I had not yet decided whether to get a divorce.
“You’re sure,” Orla said to me. “About the move and all.”
“She’s sure,” Eris said, smiling. “The house is perfect. You’re going to buy the place, aren’t you?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I said. Johnny had been calling to check on me. He wanted to come back to the cottage. I had to admit, I’d been dreaming of him, missing him.
“We’re here for you,” Pedra said, patting my arm. “Díos mio. No single person should have to deal with so much all at once. The fire, and now this—”
“They found new evidence, you know,” Orla said, slicing into a salmon steak.
“Of what?” I said.
“They’re not telling anyone.”
“If they’re not telling anyone, how do you know?” Pedra said and gulped her iced tea.
“She doesn’t,” Eris said.
“Lukas is a volunteer firefighter,” Orla said. “Lenny isn’t interested.”
“You never mentioned that.” I felt a sudden chill. “What does he know?”
“He doesn’t know anything for sure.” Orla looked at each of us in turn, narrowing her gaze, and lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, forcing everyone to lean in toward her. “The arsonist might’ve set fire to the wrong house.”
I dropped my knife on my plate with a clatter. “What do you mean, the wrong house?”
Eris laughed. “Where did you hear that?”
Pedra sat back, her face pale. “Yeah, where?”
“A trusted source,” Orla said. “The fire might’ve been meant for another house on our block.”
The blood drained from my face. “Which house?”
“No idea,” Orla said. “Maybe ours.”
Eris frowned. “How could an arsonist make that kind of mistake?”
“Our houses all look practically the same,” Orla said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pedra cut in, looking up from her plate. “The houses have personalities.”
“Can’t tell the difference in the dark,” Orla said. “Everything looks the same at night.”
“What possible evidence could they have?” Eris said.
“I’m guessing a cell phone,” Orla said.
Eris’s nose crinkled. “You’re only guessing?”
My heart fluttered against my ribs. Why hadn’t Ryan Greene mentioned any of this? Perhaps, when he’d come to the cottage, he hadn’t known.
“My son thinks he saw one in an evidence bag,” Orla said.
“If you say so, but the phone could’ve belonged to Chad or Monique.” Eris poured the dressing on her salad.
“Then it wouldn’t be evidence,” Orla said.
“Of course it would,” Eris insisted. “But the investigators aren’t going to share their findings with volunteer firefighters.”
Orla gave her a sour look.
“What would be on a cell phone?” I said. I felt unsteady.
“Addresses, incriminating messages,” Orla said. “Disposable phone, mind you. Untraceable.”
“What kinds of messages? What addresses?” I insisted.
“Maybe the target address on the block?”
“It’s all speculation,” Eris said. She dug into her salad. “They didn’t find any cell phone. And why are we talking about this, anyway?”
“They’re analyzing evidence, most likely,” Orla said. “Gas spectrometry and chromatography. I did some research on fire for a fraud case a couple of years ago. They can analyze accelerants found beneath carpets or floorboards—”
“Accelerants?” Pedra said.
“You know, gasoline or whatever fueled the fire,” Orla said.
I was no longer hungry. Most of my pasta salad still sat on my plate. The smell of the smoke seemed permanently embedded in my nose.
“Doesn’t every arsonist u
se an accelerant?” Eris said. “They spread gasoline around or throw a Molotov cocktail through a window?”
“If they find the fuel, it has its own kind of fingerprint, like DNA,” Orla said, gesturing with her hands. “Sometimes they can trace it right back to the gas station where it was purchased, and they can look through the video and maybe find out who bought that particular can of gasoline.”
“Whoa,” Pedra said, shaking her head in wonder. “Amazing what they can do these days.”
“A long shot,” Eris said. “Isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Orla said. “They have sophisticated forensic methods these days.”
Eris’s brows rose, and her lips turned down at the corners. “If that’s true, I’m impressed. Maybe the arsonist is the same mentally disturbed criminal who’s been setting other fires around town.”
I went numb. My pasta blurred. Was Orla correct? Had the investigators found a cell phone in the rubble? Had the arsonist torched the wrong house? I needed to talk to Ryan Greene right away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ryan Greene ushered me into an airy office decorated with commendation plaques and photographs of three children—two young boys, one teenage girl—but no wife. I noticed, for the first time, no wedding ring on his finger. How could a man so good-looking not be married? For any number of reasons. He’d cheated on his wife, or she’d cheated on him, or he was emotionally unavailable. Or she was. Or he was gay. No, probably not. I reined in my imagination and focused on the filing cabinet with papers piled on top.
“What can I do for you?” He sat behind his desk. He looked freshly showered and shaved.
I took a seat across from him. “Mr. Greene—”
“Call me Ryan.”
“I’ll get right to the point. There’s a rumor going around about the investigation.”
“Not surprising,” he said, sitting back.
“Was the fire meant for our house? Or another house on our block?”
He did not flinch or blink, and his steady breathing did not change. He rested his hands on his desk. “What makes you say that?”
“Was it?” Time slowed, dust particles hanging suspended.
“Who suggested this?”
“What does it matter? Is it true or not?”
“The investigation is ongoing,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk.
“You’re not denying the rumor.”
He was quiet a moment, then he said, “Do you believe your husband was where he said he was the night of the fire?”
His question slapped me in the face. I looked at the big photo on the wall, of his smiling, tanned children, and my mind went numb. “Of course I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?” But I wasn’t sure at all.
Ryan shrugged, unfazed by my discomfort. “Just asking.”
“No, you’re not. You think he had something to do with the fire.”
“We’re investigating every lead.”
“And my husband is a lead? Is that why you can’t tell me what’s going on and whether or not you found a cell phone?”
“A cell phone? Is this part of the rumor?”
“Yes, that you found a cell phone as evidence.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
“But you’re not denying that you might have evidence that suggests the arsonist was trying to target another house on our block, and from your line of questioning, you think my husband might’ve been involved. Are you crazy?”
“I have been called crazy on occasion,” he said, breaking into a smile.
“How could anyone mistake the Kimballs’ house for another one on the block? The houses have identical blueprints, but they have individual personalities—”
“Arsonists make mistakes. Happened recently in Chicago, another time in Wales. One was a revenge fire, a bomb thrown from a car at the wrong house. Another one in Bend, Oregon. Kid thought he was setting fire to his ex-girlfriend’s house, accidentally targeted the elderly couple next door. You take two identical houses with highly combustible cedar siding and cedar shake roofs . . . Both go up in smoke. You fill in the blanks.”
“I’m filling in the blanks with ‘arsonist targets the Kimballs’ house for whatever reason,’ and the result is tragic for them and for us.” But a memory nagged at me. Once, soon after Johnny and I were married, I’d nearly turned into the Kimballs’ driveway late at night but had corrected my mistake at the last moment. After that, Johnny had posted a reflective mirror at the end of the driveway, to identify our house as ours. But an arsonist would not have known. “Why would anyone want to harm someone else on our block? We’re all nice people. We don’t have any enemies.”
“Felix Calassis seemed to think otherwise.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that there was someone dangerous on your street that night. I couldn’t get anything else out of him. Do you know of anyone dangerous?”
“No,” I said, going numb.
“You’re an author. Ever get any deranged fan mail?”
“Not really, no.”
“Your husband? Disgruntled employee or patient?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How is your marriage? Are you currently residing with your husband?”
A tight ball of fury rose up inside me. “What does that have to do with anything?” The air grew thick and oppressive.
“Look, if I didn’t ask all the questions, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
I got up, my legs shaky. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”
I left in a rush, sat in the car, and took several deep breaths before driving away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
On Sitka Lane, I parked at the curb and tried to steady my nerves. A cleanup crew had scoured the two burned properties, which now appeared stark and abandoned. On the Calassises’ front lawn, a rusty wheelbarrow lay on its side, spilling flowers. Next door, a large Mayflower moving van was parked in the driveway. A young, harried couple carried boxes inside the house, while two young boys played in the front yard. The SOLD sign had disappeared, replaced by a bicycle with training wheels, and toys were scattered across the lawn.
I got out of the car and went up to the porch to knock on the Calassises’ front door. Maude answered in sweats and slippers. “Sarah, good to see you. Please come in. I heard about you and Johnny.”
“We’re only separated.” I had called him on the drive over, to ask about the woman who had stalked him.
It’s in the past, he’d said. I miss you. I’m coming to your book signing.
I’d hung up, perturbed. The trouble was, I missed him, too.
“I hope you two work things out.” Maude let me inside and shut the door. The smell of floral air freshener mixed with a sour odor of stuffiness. A wave of nostalgia washed through me. The layout of the house felt familiar—the stairs leading up from the foyer, the hallway back to the family room. But Maude and Felix had chosen gaudy, art deco furniture; the walls were painted in Gothic shades of crimson and blue.
A boy shouted outside, and Maude flinched. “Those kids are driving me crazy. We have friends who wanted to buy that house, but . . . someone else must’ve made a better offer.”
“That happens.” Eris had not mentioned receiving competing offers for the house on the corner.
The flat drone of a television drifted from the second floor. “I wonder if I could talk to Felix,” I said. “He tried to tell me something the other day.”
“You can try,” Maude said. “Sometimes he remembers things, but I don’t know when they happened. Could’ve been last week or last year. He’ll give you a jumble of information—real or imagined, I can’t say.”
“I’d like to try.”
“He’s upstairs. Follow me.”
Maude led me upstairs into a back bedroom decorated in turquoise. Felix looked frail on the bed, reclined against numerous pillows, watching a nature show on a flat-screen TV against the opposite wall.
“Felix,” Maude said, rai
sing her voice, “you have a visitor.”
He turned down the TV volume, looked up at me, and smiled. “My dear girl.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come and sit.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. He recognized me. I sat next to him on the soft mattress. The covers were crumpled around him, a few crumbs on his pillow, on his cheek. I rested my hand on his. “You told me to be careful. Do you remember that?”
He glanced at a heron diving across the TV screen. “Careful?”
“The night of the fire? What did you see? Were you looking through your binoculars?”
He gazed off into space. Maude lingered in the doorway. The phone rang, and she rushed back down the stairs.
“Felix,” I said, taking both his cool, papery hands in mine. “I need you to talk to me. Tell me what you saw the night of the fire.”
His eyes cleared a little. “I always knew that woman was trouble.”
“What woman? Monique?”
“He was talking to her, arguing with her.”
“Who? Who was arguing?”
He withdrew his hand, pulled at a stray strand of gray hair on top of his head. He was looking out the window, toward what? I went to the window. From here, I could see the Ramirez house, right into Jessie’s room downstairs, at an angle. I could discern the outline of the dressing table. “You saw Jessie,” I said. “Jessie and Adrian, maybe?”
Felix looked at me, still without understanding. “Trouble,” he mumbled.
I wanted to reach in and unlock his brain, find the truth. “You saw Jessie?”
“Jessie,” Felix echoed.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs. I stepped away from the window as Maude came back into the room. “Sorry about that. How’s it going?” Maude looked from me to Felix and back. “Did you find out what you needed to know?”
“Not really. I’d better go.” I headed for the door. “I’m afraid Felix couldn’t tell me a thing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
