The media has tried Drummer and found him guilty. Reporters camp on his lawn, and his mild-mannered father goes into hiding while his mother takes her cue from Lulu Sandoval: she condemns the press and proclaims Drummer’s innocence.
Traffic control becomes an issue in Gap Mountain for the first time ever. Between the tourists, the reporters, and the fire cleanup crews, the main streets are clogged. Sam’s Market is doing huge business selling Gap Lake T-shirts and snacks. Mono County sends more deputies to help with traffic and nosy people, and Violet’s family has their own police liaison, a female officer who stays at the Victorian estate and keeps the Sandovals informed about the search for Violet.
The arson cases against Luke, Mo, and now Drummer are fast-tracked and somehow, I’m the only one who is clean in this entire mess. Yes, I was under some suspicion due to being included in Violet’s last text—tomorrow I’m telling the police everything—but not one friend has ratted on me, and there’s no evidence linking me to the Gap Fire.
I can guess what’s happening behind closed doors. Each monster will be offered a plea deal on the arson charges to turn state’s evidence for the prosecutor. Whoever takes the deal first probably won’t go to prison. They’ll get community service hours and maybe a fine.
Luke’s lawyer gets aggressive with her offense by suggesting that public-safety personnel are responsible for the deaths and destruction caused by the Gap Fire. She asserts that the county and the town did not employ a viable emergency evacuation plan or emergency alert system, in particular where the elderly and hard of hearing were concerned. My dad is as pissed as a wet cat about it.
I wait and wander, feeling lonely. As crowded as Gap Mountain is, I have no one to talk to. I jump at every noise. I miss my dog, I can’t focus or complete my sentences, and my dad is suspicious. He doesn’t push me, but I wonder how much he suspects. When I told him about the FBI visit, he was surprised. “They didn’t tell me about it.”
I know what this means: they believe his judgment is off, at least when it comes to me.
I book another appointment with my psychologist.
Later, I head into Gap Mountain and work a six-hour shift at the Reel Deal. Kids and parents ask me how I’m “holding up,” because they know Drummer and I were inseparable. Some ask if he “did it.” I tell them to “get fucked.” After two hours, Mr. Henley ends my shift early with a warning to “be nicer.”
I don’t want to return to my empty house, so I drive to Target in Reno to shop for dorm supplies. Sorrow has colored my whole world gray. My dog is dead, my Jeep is gone, my friends are facing criminal charges, Violet was most likely murdered, and I think I’m a witness—and maybe also an accessory. At least the Gap Fire is extinguished.
I shouldn’t be shopping, I should be searching for Violet, but all the leads have dwindled. Last night, the news reported that imprints of Violet’s heavy Gucci combat boots and several of her dark hairs were discovered near the lake where the scarf was found—indicating that her body may have indeed been dumped there. Where do people put things they want to disappear? Gap Lake.
I step on the gas pedal and make the long drive to Reno in silence. At Target, I yank a cart out of a line of red carts and push it inside. I get one with a wonky wheel but don’t have the energy to return it. As I pass a mirror in Sportswear, I glimpse myself and pause. In my two-inch-heeled cowboy boots, I tower over the clothing racks. Even though I’m lean and tan, I don’t look healthy. My best features, my large green eyes, are shaded with dark circles, and my face looks long and pinched. The healing scars create violent pink slashes across my skin. I’m a hulking, gangly, banged-up giraffe pushing a shopping cart.
I shove on, roll over a dropped hanger, and steer the cart into the bedding department. I had planned to do this shopping with Violet and Mo. We were going to caffeinate at Starbucks, drive to Reno, buy our supplies at Target, and then eat lunch at Chick-fil-A. We were going to end the day at Dutch Bros for another coffee and then gossip all the way home—a perfect day.
Instead, I’m standing by myself in Bedding, staring at comforters and sheets in tightly packed bags. A lump fills my throat as I grab a gray-and-pink ensemble in size Twin XL and drop it into my cart. I move on and select towels, a makeup mirror, a power strip, a desk lamp, a pop-up laundry basket, and sets of hangers and closet organizers.
Afterward, I make my way to School Supplies and load up on binders, college-ruled paper, highlighters, pens, dividers, and spiral notebooks. I realize I’ll need basics, like a stapler and a three-hole punch for my desk, and add those to my cart.
On the way out, I pass the pet department and stop to stare at the shiny food bowls, new leashes and collars, toys, and bones. I’ve never left Target without a treat for Matilda. Tears flood my eyes as I stand there sniffling. An older woman stops. “Oh honey, are you all right?”
“My dog…”
She doesn’t know me, but she pats my arm. “They never live long enough, do they?” she murmurs.
I shake my head, sobbing in front of this stranger.
“What was your dog’s name?”
“Ma—Matilda.”
When I’m done crying, the lady looks directly into my eyes. “Matilda was loved. That’s all you can do, honey, love ’em, care for ’em, and let ’em go.”
I nod and wipe my cheeks with the hem of my tank top. “Yes, okay, thank you.”
“She’s safe now. No more pain. No more worries.” The woman strolls toward the cat aisle.
In a blur of tears, I go through self-check—to the annoyance of others, since I have so much in my cart. I swipe my dad’s credit card and then load everything into his pickup. I leap into the driver’s seat and start bawling all over again. But I don’t think I’m crying about Matilda anymore; it’s Violet. She’s safe now. No more pain. No more worries. Is Violet truly gone forever? I should have told my dad about the necklace and the spots of blood in my Wrangler before it was junked. I shouldn’t have burned Drummer’s clothes, or mine. What have I done? Who am I protecting?
My head drops into my hands. “Remember, Hannah!” I shout. My head throbs and I smash my fist on the dashboard. “Remember!”
I was in my barn when Violet’s text came: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything. I was angry; I remember that.
I clench my teeth. Telling the truth should have been a group decision. Who did Violet think she was to decide that on her own? Why would she send herself and her best friends to jail?
Rage and shock build inside me, exactly what I felt that night. I know why: because Violet can’t take the pressure, she can’t live with her guilt. But we can! We have to! We were born and raised in Gap Mountain. To confess is to lose everything—the trust of our town, of our teachers and friends and the citizens we’ve known our entire lives. We don’t have six-million-dollar trust funds or nine-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers to fall back on. Violet is an outsider in every way. She’s not a monster, not anymore!
I let out a stream of curses and beat my steering wheel. A family across the lot sees and turns quickly away. I slam the truck into reverse and peel out of the Target parking lot. My heart thuds and my anger flares bright red. Violet, you spoiled brat, you brought this on yourself!
Deep down, my brain knows exactly what happened that night. The trauma I’m hiding from isn’t the bear attack; it’s whatever I witnessed in that attic.
36
August 18
Days Violet has been missing: 16
Time: 9:05 p.m.
I run a red light and speed all the way home, just as the sun is setting in the west. Thankfully, my rage ebbs by the time I arrive, replaced by guilt that is as black and cold as my rage was red and molten.
I slam the truck door and enter my house in the dark. I need a shower. I feel dirty and sad and confused. I trip over a chair in the kitchen and wander into the family room feeling
lost, devastated, alone. I stare at Matilda’s ashes on the mantel and imagine the Tiffany necklace inside, surrounded by my dog’s scorched bones. The box gleams and Violet’s face appears in my mind, bloodless, her eyes blank. I touch the wooden container. “Why did you ruin everything?”
I decide not to shower—I don’t want to see myself in the mirror—so I unload my purchases and then curl up in the recliner with my laptop. Logging into my SDSU portal, I make sure there’s nothing on my to-do list.
Afterward, I browse news stories about Violet. She’s trending again on social media: #FindViolet #WhereIsViolet #MissingTeenHeiress. Photos of her jumping her show horses, skiing in Switzerland, boating in the Bahamas—all featuring her charming dimpled smile and gorgeous body—have popped up in every story about her.
A clattering noise outside the house startles me, and I whirl, a scream rising in my throat. There’s a figure in the back window! It’s staring at me. God! I stagger for my dad’s loaded rifle, cock it, and run outside, heart hammering.
“Hey!” I shout. “Who’s there?”
The clattering sound comes again, and I charge toward it, rifle lifted to my shoulder. The night is inky black, the moon a dim crescent. “Hello?”
No answer.
“Drummer?” I call out. It could be him. He’s out on bail. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll remember whatever it was he did and tell on him. Or maybe it’s Luke, here to shut me up—when you finally remember what you saw, don’t fucking tell. Did he do something to Violet that night, or was he just afraid to talk because he thought the phone line was tapped? I wish he’d answer my texts. Shit. “Who’s there?” I call out again.
Slowly, I creep toward the noise as my breath stalls in my throat. “Luke?” Something flutters and I shoot at it, hear the twang of the bullet striking metal. Fuck, I just shot our BBQ. “Calm down, Hannah,” I whisper.
More deliberate now, I use the rifle’s long nose to poke at the dark shrubs in case someone is hiding. I prowl toward the front of the house, where rustling sounds reach me from the driveway. It’s a bear. It’s got to be a bear.
Inching forward, I turn the corner and three black-eyed creatures zip past me: raccoons. “Holy crap!” I lower the gun, pause to breathe.
“Hannah?”
I recoil and fall backward, landing on the grass. It’s Justin! “What are you doing here?” I grip the gun barrel tighter and stare up at him.
He’s clad in a jeans jacket, cowboy hat, and boots. He spreads his hands, eyes wide. “Don’t shoot me. I came to talk, that’s all. You didn’t hear me knock, so I went back and looked through your window.”
“Talk about what?”
He narrows his eyes. “You have a boyfriend?”
I blink at him. What in the hell is he talking about?
Justin shakes his head. “He texted me his photo, on your phone, remember? Called me an asshole. What are you playing at, Hannah?”
Oh my god, he’s talking about Drummer. I laugh. “I’m not playing. He’s not my boyfriend.”
Justin appraises me, his jaw circling. “So what is he? Another guy you lead on, like me?”
I push myself to my feet. “I—how did I lead you on? I slept with you!”
“Once,” he says, lowering his gaze like a sulking boy.
“Wow,” I sputter. “That’s…wow.” Since when is sex on a first date not good enough?
He shifts, adjusts his gigantic rodeo belt buckle. “Do you want to see me again or not?”
Oh, I get it now: his feelings are hurt. He either really likes me or he wants more sex, and he drove all the way here to feel me out. Well, I want someone I can’t have too. It sucks. He’ll get over it. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. “I won’t ask you again.”
God, I hope not. “Okay,” I say contritely.
He backs away, stiff but trying to act casual. “Why are you out here with a gun anyway?”
“Because you scared me!”
He nods. “I thought maybe it was because of the missing girl. You oughta be careful.” His gaze shifts and he stands taller. His eyes drift across my body, reminding me what we did in his car. I brace, wondering what he plans to do next, but the moment passes and he opens the door to his Altima, tips his cowboy hat. “Nice knowing you, Hannah.”
As he rolls down his window and starts his car, I bend over, drawing a deep breath. When I glance up, I see the figure again, reflected in the window, and fall back. The figure also falls back. “Oh,” I cry out. It’s just me, not some killer. A high-pitched laugh pours from my throat as I hunch over, giddy with relief. Of course it wasn’t Drummer or Luke coming to shut me up. I stare at myself and begin to laugh. Once I start, I can’t stop.
“Psycho,” Justin murmurs as he backs down my driveway. Then he’s gone.
When I’m done laughing, I flip the safety on the rifle and walk back inside.
* * *
—
After my dad gets home, we eat a late dinner in the kitchen. “Where’d you go today?” he asks casually.
“Reno. Got my dorm supplies.”
He shakes his head. “College is coming up fast.”
“Yeah, I leave next week.”
“Oh, here,” he says, handing me an envelope. “We got the payout check for the Jeep today.”
“Thanks.” Icy relief dribbles down my spine. “So it’s really gone?”
“Yep.” He stands, adjusts his belt. “I gotta tell you something, Bug. The district attorney wants to prosecute Drummer for Violet’s murder. He’s not cooperating or confessing or leaving the DA much choice.”
I gape at my dad, noticing every silver-blond hair on his head, every tiny follicle of stubble on his cheek, every vein in his eyes, as my heart thump-thump-thumps.
He continues with a wince. “Thing is, I know Drummer, and he’s a terrible liar. I don’t believe he’s innocent, and I don’t believe he acted alone. I believe Luke helped him.”
“How can they try Drummer without a body?” I blurt out.
He nods. “It’s a long shot, and the FBI is not recommending it. A conviction would be tough, but the semen sample proves he was with her when she went missing, and the pressure is on. There’s some legal precedent, I think.” He picks at his nails. “If you know anything or remember anything, Hannah, you have to come forward.”
“But no one has proved that Violet is dead,” I point out. “And Drummer was dating her, which explains the sex. It doesn’t mean he raped her or killed her.”
My dad shakes his head grimly. “Absolutely no way to prove the sex wasn’t consensual, so no rape charges. But Drummer, Luke, and Mo are arson suspects, and Violet threatened to confess something to the police that involved them. That gives all three of them strong motive for murder. Only Mo has an alibi.”
My dad clears his plate and runs water over the dirty dishes, then sits down next to me. “Hannah, these are your best friends.” His blue eyes search mine. “Now, I know you and Violet were riding when the wildfire started, but I believe you know more than you’re letting on. You kids talk about everything.”
I stare at my hands so I don’t have to look at him.
He goes on. “I get it, policing your own kind sucks. I’ve been doing it my whole career. I—I had to arrest my own wife.”
His voice grows thin, and I feel a lump form in my throat. “Please don’t talk about Mom.”
“Honey, the—”
“Law is the law,” I finish for him, then lift my head. “Arresting her might have been the right thing to do as a cop, but not as my dad.”
“Hannah,” he scolds.
I stand up. “You ruined us.”
“She ruined us,” he rasps. His face turns red.
“No, it was your guilt!” I cry. “You never let it go, you neve
r got me a new mom, you never looked at me without regret. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep my friends out of jail.”
His fists shake by his sides, his flint-colored eyes narrow, cutting straight through me. “Like hiding a body?”
I gape at him.
“Drummer’s car is clean, Hannah, no blood. The Sandoval vehicles are also clean. We believe Violet is in Gap Lake, but we don’t know how Drummer moved her there. Tell me why that bear attacked your Jeep. Did it smell blood?”
My scalp prickles and my body goes preternaturally still. “It smelled beef stew.”
My dad’s stony expression cracks, and his face morphs into a clownlike grimace. He tries to hold my hands, but I won’t let him. “I’m scared for you, Bug,” he says. “I think Drummer used you and your Jeep to move Violet’s body, and I think that when you remember, you’re going to be very, very sad.”
I step back, shaking my head.
“I’d like you to defer college and stay here, keep seeing your therapist.”
A bitter laugh bursts from my lips. “Nope, no way. I’m going to college. You can’t stop me.”
“I’m not trying to stop you, I’m trying to help you. You aren’t well.” His voice changes, becomes soothing, gentle. It’s how he talked to Mom when she was drunk.
I blink and hot tears slide down my cheeks. He’s scared, that’s all, and he’s projecting. I disarm him by rushing forward and hugging him, which makes him cry. I’m stronger than he is, stronger than my mother was. “I’m fine, Dad. Don’t worry.”
He cries harder and I’m not sure if it’s because he believes me or because he doesn’t.
Lies Like Wildfire Page 23
