My mind spins as memories of my dad arresting my mother flood me, and now he’s after another one of my best friends.
“What are you doing?” Violet cries and reaches for my dad’s arm.
I yank her away before she can touch him. My dad and his deputies don’t like being grabbed on a good day, and today is not a good day. We can’t react—not yet. We have to let my dad play his hand.
“Luke, do you understand the rights I have read to you?” he asks.
Luke gazes at him, tries to focus and can’t. Right then, Lulu rushes in behind the deputies, her hair loose and her face blazing red. “This boy is sick,” she spurts. “He’s still under medical treatment for a TBI. He does not—he cannot—fully understand what you’re saying to him.” She thrusts out a handful of hospital papers.
My dad takes the papers and scans them, lets out a frustrated sigh. “It’s been a week. I was not aware he’s still under treatment.” He tries to hand the papers back.
“Those are copies,” Lulu snaps, refusing them. “Luke’s attorney will be in touch to straighten this out, Sheriff. If you don’t have solid evidence against him, you can expect a lawsuit for harassment.” She points at the stairs. “Now you may leave, and you should be ashamed of these dramatics.” She gestures at the deputies.
My dad sets his jaw and stands taller. “Ms. Sandoval, Luke lied to my deputies, and ten people are dead.” His voice ricochets like a bullet, striking each of us. “His mental state does not change my evidence or the fact that crimes have been committed.”
Lulu quivers angrily as she drags her eyes up to meet my father’s, but her tone softens. “This young man is not fit to travel, and he has a doctor’s appointment first thing in the morning. It’s in the papers there.” She points. “He’s fragile and I will ask his attorney to contact you tomorrow, after his appointment.”
My dad could force the issue and take Luke into medical custody right now, but Luke’s in no shape for questioning anyway. And if his condition were to go downhill, well, my dad won’t want that lawsuit on his head. He nods in resigned agreement. “Luke, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he turns toward Violet and me but won’t meet my eye. “Girls, I want your official statements on record about what you saw the day the fire started. Come down anytime tomorrow and my deputies will take care of it. Good night.”
Blood rushes to my head. Oh god, this isn’t good.
After he leaves, Lulu asks us to go home. “I think there’s been enough excitement around here for today.”
We glance at one another, reluctant to part. The shit has hit the proverbial fan and we’re scared, all of us. But Lulu insists. “Break it up, kids. You all need to go home.”
Reluctantly, we follow her downstairs. “Here,” she says, “I made dinner, but you can take it home.” Lulu opens a slow cooker and scoops out large helpings of beef stew into individual containers, hands one to each of us, and shoos us out the front door. Violet walks outside with us.
In the driveway, we huddle together. “What’s this new evidence?” Luke asks me. He strikes a match, and his hands tremble so hard he can barely bring the flame to the cigarette.
“I don’t know,” I answer, feeling as if I let him down. “No one tells me anything anymore.”
Violet throws up her arms. “Because look at the world of shit you’ve led us into!”
“Led you into! I’m trying to lead you out!”
She taps her foot. “I’m done, Hannah. I’ve had enough.”
The monsters shift, moving closer to me, and we face Violet together. “What do you mean, you’re done?” I ask.
She peers at us with her big brown, guilt-ridden eyes. “I started this; I’ll end it.”
“Violet!” Lulu’s head pops out the door. “Come inside now.”
Violet crosses her arms, looking like an expensive doll in her short skirt, Gucci combat boots, gauzy scarf, and shining Tiffany necklace. “It’s over,” she says, and then she stares straight at Drummer. “All of this is over.” She stalks back to her house.
Drummer calls after her, a desperate pleading pitch to his voice. “Violet, don’t do this! It’s not over. Please!” She ignores him.
“She’s losing it,” I say. “Violet can’t handle the pressure.” Drummer shakes his head, denying it.
“Hannah’s right,” says Mo, and Luke flicks his ashes onto the driveway, his hands still trembling.
“It’s not okay for Violet to decide things on her own.” I look at the monsters. “Right?”
Slowly, they nod.
Drummer pulls on his hair. “Let’s come back tonight, after Grammy’s had her wine. Violet’s not thinking straight. Nothing is over.” The rest of us agree, and we drive to our homes, waiting for dark.
* * *
—
At 8:25 p.m., Violet sends a group text to our regular phones: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything.
I drop the manure rake I’m holding. My heart stalls.
Luke: WTF! You cant
Mo: what do you mean by everything?
No answer from Violet. No gray dots, nothing. I dial her phone and the call goes straight to voicemail. I dial Drummer, my hands shaking. He doesn’t answer either.
I pull up the location-sharing app. Shit. He’s already there, in the attic! He went to her house without us. Fucking Drummer. He can’t handle Violet on his own, not about this.
I rush out of the barn to my car and text Luke and Mo on our prepaid cells: meet at the attic. Now.
Luke: 10-4
Mo: I’ll try
I crawl into my Jeep and feel my regular phone slide out of my pocket and shatter on the ground. Shit! I can’t think, can’t breathe.
I slam the Wrangler into gear and spin the tires, throwing rocks into the shrubs as I fishtail onto the main road. My boxy Jeep leans precariously around the bends, but I don’t care. I just drive.
We have to fix this together; we have to change her mind. And if Violet’s so hell-bent on telling the truth, she and Drummer can start by confessing to me, and I don’t mean about the fucking fire!
21
August 5
Gap Fire: 100% contained
Fatalities: 10
Time: 8:00 p.m.
My throat aches and I feel like I’m floating. Where am I? Something beeps and I recognize the sound but nothing else. The bed is stiff, the air cool. I open my eyes, not surprised to see a hospital room. I’m shocked, don’t get me wrong. I have no idea how I got here, but I’m not surprised. The regular beeping noise was a dead giveaway.
Hey, I’m not dead, that’s good, but there must be something wrong with me. I try to speak; my mouth feels full of paste. I sit up and tingles rush across my body. That’s pain, but it’s dull. Drugs, yeah, I think I’m on some good fucking drugs.
My head swivels to check out my body. I’m wearing a hospital gown and fuzzy socks from home. My left arm and shoulder are bandaged and numb. My scalp itches something awful. I flail around for a button or something that will call a nurse. I grab the TV remote by accident, and the television mounted on the wall flickers on. It’s a news station, but the sound is muted. I survey my bed for another button.
Right then a nurse enters, hips swishing. “You’re awake,” she says brightly.
Her relaxed greeting surprises me, because I feel as if I teleported here. Wasn’t I just at my barn?
I try to speak but moan instead.
“Relax, honey,” she says as she places a cuff around my upper right arm. “How is your pain from one to ten, ten being the worst? You can hold up your fingers.”
I stare stupidly at her.
“Are you having pain right now?”
I shrug. I can’t feel much but a distant throbbing, as if my pain is on the other side of a wall. I smile at her and she smiles back. “Let me know when you start feeling i
t, all right?”
I nod obediently.
She takes my blood pressure and temperature and checks my bandages. “You have a catheter in, but we’ll take it out if you can stay awake. For now, if you have to pee, just let it flow.” She smiles as if peeing through a tube is a glorious thing.
“Wh-what happened?” I croak.
Her smile droops. “Your father is in the waiting room. I’ll fetch him,” she says. “And I’ve paged the doctor. She’ll be here soon.”
My dad enters moments later in full gear—gun, handcuffs, radio—and my heart thumps. His uniform never used to scare me, not even when I was a little girl, but everything has changed. Arson. Murder. Dad arresting Luke in the attic. I turn away from the memories.
His eyes are raw and puffy. “How you feeling, Bug?”
I push out a few words. “Okay. Was I in a car accident?” I ransack my brain. The last thing I remember is getting into my Jeep. I was scared about something, really scared, and angry too. I probably shouldn’t have driven.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “No. It was a bear attack.”
“A bear? Are you joking?” I laugh and it hurts. “Owww!”
My dad holds my hand. “You don’t remember?” I shake my head. “The doctor warned me you might not remember everything right away. Animal attacks are traumatic.” He glances at my head. “And you might have a concussion.”
“Like Luke?”
“Not that serious.”
I glance at my bandages. “A bear, really? Where?”
My dad’s eyes water. “At our house around midnight. We think she got you when you opened your car door. She dragged you out and…and mauled you, then she climbed into your Jeep and completely destroyed it. Looks like you had food in it.”
I groan. “The beef stew.” My head starts to ache. “Violet’s grandma gave it to me to bring home. But that’s all I remember. What time is it?”
He glances at his watch. “It’s eight-fifteen at night. This happened three days ago, Han.”
“Three days?” I study my bandages, suddenly fearful. The attack must have been terrible if I’ve been unconscious for three days! I grab my covers and throw them off.
“Easy, Hannah,” Dad says.
I count two legs and two arms with ten fingers. I gently pry up the bandage on my lower arm. There are deep claw marks and some scratches. Half-moon indents on my forearm seem out of place yet familiar, like human fingernail marks, and a wave of dizziness assaults me. I replace the bandage and fall backward. “I’m okay, right?”
He squeezes my hand. “You’ll heal. You have bite wounds, whiplash, and some torn muscles in your shoulder. You’ll never play softball.” We both laugh at this inside joke. The last year I tried out for softball, I ducked each time the ball flew my way. “Nothing is broken,” he adds, and then squeezes my hand tighter, his eyes brimming, his voice thinning. “The worst damage is to your head and face.”
Face? I reach up and feel my head. It’s bandaged and sore.
“The bear got her jaws around your skull when she dragged you.”
I see that my dad is relying on years of training to tell me this without breaking down, and I listen in utter fascination. “So I was in her mouth?”
He nods and suddenly I feel the blood drain from my face. Shivers of horror roll through me. “I have to see.”
“You’re all covered up, there’s nothing to see,” he assures me. “They had to shave off parts of your hair for the stitches.”
I grip the bed as nausea rolls through me. “Oh, god.” I touch my face; feel a bandage over my cheek and one on my forehead. Frankenstein comes to mind. “Am I scarred?”
He blinks and tears roll down his unshaven cheeks. “You’ll be just fine, Bug. A plastic surgeon handled the facial lacerations.”
“Stop,” I cry, gasping. “No more.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I need water.”
He wipes his eyes and collects a cup of ice chips for me.
I crunch on ice and lean back against my pillow. I need to think about something happy. “What did Matilda do?” I imagine brave old Matilda, ferociously barking and chasing off the bear.
Dad lowers his eyelashes. “She was brave,” he answers. “She protected you.”
Something in his voice warns me there’s more to it. “Dad? Is she all right?”
Now his tears flow in rivulets, and he collapses into his hands. “I’m sorry, Han. I didn’t want to tell you this today.”
My injured scalp prickles, and goose bumps erupt across my arms. “Is she dead?”
He nods. “It was quick.”
A shriek pierces the air—mine. My throat closes and I sob so hard the physical pain from my injuries rears up and suddenly everything hurts. I grab my pillow and bawl into it. “No, not Matilda. Not my dog!”
My dad holds me, cries with me.
Pins and needles shoot throughout my battered body, and the pain is blinding. The nurse rushes back into the room, her face ashen. “Is she remembering?”
“No, I told her about our dog.” His voice cracks and the nurse flashes him a stern look.
She bustles to a machine, presses a button, and her frown turns sympathetic. “I’ve upped her morphine. Your daughter needs to rest, Sheriff Warner.”
He nods and stands to leave, but I grab his hand. “What happened to the bear?”
Dad grimaces. “Bug, all that matters now is whether or not she had rabies.”
I squeeze his fingers; force him to look at me. “Tell me, Dad, where is she? She killed my dog. She almost killed me.”
He releases a shallow breath. “I shot her.”
I fall back on my pillow, feeling sad and relieved, and whisper, “Good.”
Dad clears his throat. “Animal control took the body, and they’re testing her for rabies. Look, I’ll be close if you need anything, Bug.” He steps out the door of my private room.
The nurse takes my blood pressure again and glances at my wounds. “How is your pain?”
I gaze at her, my mouth slack. There is no number for my pain. The morphine hits and she must see it in my eyes because she says, “Is that better?”
I wipe my tears and shrug. The edges of the physical pain soften, and my muscles uncoil.
“Try to rest, Hannah. Press this button if you need anything, okay? The on-call doctor will be in to check on you soon, and here’s a warm meal if you’re hungry.” She slides a dinner tray from her cart to mine.
She leaves the room, and Matilda fills my brain. I remember her as a puppy, trotting toward me with her big ears flopping, her red hair shining. I see her soft brown eyes gazing up at me from her favorite spot on the kitchen floor. I hear her tail thumping when she’s too lazy to stand up and greet me.
I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe she saved me from a bear! When I needed her most, she was with me, attacking an animal four times her size and strength. I cry quietly.
A doctor arrives. She asks me a bunch of questions about my name, the date, the president’s name, and the last thing I remember, which is driving away from my house. “Do you know where you went, or how you got back home?”
I shake my head.
After a few more questions, the doctor seems pleased. “You’re young and healing fast,” she says kindly. “I expect your memory will return in time. Don’t try to rush it.”
Do I want to remember being inside the jaws of a bear? Do I want to remember Matilda’s final moments? I don’t think so.
The doctor leaves after encouraging me to sleep. I’m warm and floating now, and the painkiller elicits a sense of well-being. This helps me think about Matilda without crying. I haul up truckloads of memories: Dad and I teaching her to hunt, the time she had to wear a cone on her head and she kept bumping into furniture, her s
nores in my ears at night, how she ran from me when I turned on the hose for her bath, how she always lay down with a dramatic flop.
I doze off and then wake and chew more ice chips. A new nurse comes in, checks my machines, murmurs a few words, and leaves. I turn up the volume on the television and start changing channels, settling on a local news program. I’m relieved to hear that the Gap Fire is 100 percent contained. It’s over.
I’m about to change the station when Violet’s picture fills the screen, bringing an instant smile to my face. “Violet,” I whisper.
It’s her senior photo, and she looks gorgeous. Her dark hair cascades in shining waves around her dimpled smile. Her deep brown eyes sport pinpoints of light, her teeth are a perfect pearl white. She leans against a bridge that spans behind her like a path to her future, leading over glittering water to a field of blooming mustard flowers. The evening sunlight illuminates her natural walnut highlights and bronzed cheeks.
My thoughts sharpen as an odd sensation of love and terror fills me. Why is Violet on TV?
The newscaster explains:
Seventeen-year-old Santa Barbara resident Violet Sandoval remains missing tonight. Police have no new leads in this startling case. The accomplished teenager disappeared from her grandmother’s home in Gap Mountain, California, on August second. If you have any information about her whereabouts, please call the number listed below.
A montage of recent photos ends the clip: Violet dressed for her homecoming dance, Violet and Lulu posing outside the Victorian home, Violet with one of her horses, and a candid shot of Violet sticking out her tongue.
Missing? I shake my head, and the hospital room suddenly tilts. I throw up my hand as if to catch myself and accidentally overturn my dinner tray. It smashes to the floor.
I try to stand up, but too many tubes are holding me down. Why is Violet missing?
Sounds scream through my brain: squealing tires, angry voices, and a growling bear. I see blood dripping on white carpet. I glimpse a hunched figure in a window. I remember Violet’s last text: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything.
Lies Like Wildfire Page 15
