The Fireproof Girl

by Loretta Lost

  Dear Scarlett,

  Karachi is killing me.

  I’m getting too old for these deadlines. I’m cracking under pressure. What is wrong with me? You know the way I used to be—I used to thrive under intense working conditions. I used to rise to the occasion, no matter how many sleepless nights it took to get to the finish line. I used to become superhuman whenever I needed.

  Now, I’m just a mess. Do you think you could call me? Sneak away to a payphone somewhere and call me. No one will ever know. I just need to talk to you. There’s no one who knows me better than you do. There’s no one who knows exactly what to say to give me clarity and pull me out of this funk.

  More and more, I’ve found myself turning to Annabelle for help. Lately, I have been telling her a lot about you. I hope you don’t mind, but it feels good to open up. I promise that I am not telling her anything that would compromise your safety; I learned my lesson about that.

  She’s been a great help, and a great listener. Annabelle thinks that I should reach out to you, and that it would be healthy if we talked or met up. She thinks I need some sort of closure…

  My eyebrows pull together in confusion. He spoke to Annabelle about me? Why did she seem so surprised when she met me? He must have referred to me as his foster sister, and left out the part about the marriage. I select more letters and read them quickly, allowing a clearer picture to develop in my mind of the last few months of Cole’s life.

  One thing is clear: he was in a very vulnerable state. I can’t fathom what type of despicable person would want to hurt him when he was already at his lowest.

  I carefully sort the read letters into different piles, indicating which ones might have information that could be of use to the investigation, and which ones are mostly personal. I am so focused on my reading that I jump when my cell phone rings. I am not used to having a phone anymore.

  Reaching out to grasp the device, I see that it is the detective and I accept the call.

  “Rodriguez.”

  “Hey, Shields.” He sighs. “Rough day today. How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I say harshly. “But I can’t work with you. I don’t trust you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You betrayed me,” I accuse. “You told Benjamin that I was there, behind the glass.”

  “I did no such thing, Shields! It’s insulting that you would even suggest that.”

  I know it’s not his fault. I could see the honesty and shock on his face in the interrogation room, but I need to be angry at someone. It’s part of my method; anger will keep me sane. It will help me cope and keep me focused.

  “Agent Shields, I don’t know if he really knew you were there, or if he was just bluffing. He’s a twisted fuck, and he could have just been playing games to mess with us…”

  “He knew,” I tell the detective. “There’s no mistaking it. We both know that he knew.”

  “It doesn’t make sense for him to know, Shields. No one at the station would have divulged that information.”

  “It was more than that,” I tell him in a snappish voice. “Benjamin seemed to know things. He seemed to know about what happened at the cemetery. How I almost…”

  Shit.

  It clicks in my mind at the same time that I’m sure the detective is realizing it. Reaching for a bunch of Cole’s letters in one particular pile, I drop the phone onto the bed and put it on speaker as I rummage through the letters, scanning them.

  “Annabelle,” I say softly, with wonder. “She could have communicated with Benjamin.”

  The detective is quiet for a moment. “Do you think so?”

  “Something doesn’t add up about her. Cole spoke about her in some of the letters he sent to me, but she seems… different.”

  “How so?”

  “Cole said she’s involved with holistic therapy. Some clinic with an artsy name—The Mind Mechanic. I glanced at their website and it seems like they are aimed at overworked businessmen. Workshops and private coaching meant to unburden and cleanse to enhance the creative process and remove stress barriers.” When I first read about this, my first thought was that it’s the sort of thing I would tease Cole about. Then, I realized that he must have been really miserable, lonely, and desperate if he even tried new age therapy.

  He was probably having trouble sleeping again. I glance down at the letters, and idly touch the pile that mentions Annabelle. “She just sounds so wise and supportive from the way he described her. Was she pretending to be nice to him when he was alive for some reason? For his money? Is she a charlatan, or did she just take off her mask and reveal her inner bitch when he died?”

  “You’re sounding a little jealous, Shields.”

  “I realize that, but I’m serious. How else would Benjamin be able to reference what happened at the cemetery?”

  “If this is true, it means you blew your own cover, Shields. If you hadn’t put the gun to your head, he never would have made the connection between Scarlett Hunter and the twelve year old girl who left him a suicide note and disappeared.”

  I can’t respond to this ironclad logic.

  “Luckily, there’s still a way out for you. He doesn’t know about Sophie Shields. I can scrub your name from the investigation, and you can lay low for a little while, before returning to your cushy job in DC. How does that sound?”

  I press my lips together, thinking about this. When Zack reenters the room, holding a bottle of water, I hold up my finger to indicate that I am on a call.

  “No,” I tell the detective finally. “Not yet. I want to know what happened to my brother.”

  “Your husband.”

  “Whatever!”

  Zack makes a face, tossing me the bottle of water. I catch it and roll my eyes, before opening it and drinking. I am surprised at how thirsty I am.

  “So, Shields, Are we still working together?” the detective asks. “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course. I was just blowing off steam.”

  “Aren’t you delightful?” Rodriguez mutters. “How the hell did Cole ever put up with you? I’ll never understand.”

  But somehow, the way he says it makes me think he likes me.

  “I’m going to look into this Annabelle chick,” he says. “For now we’ll assume that she could be working for or with Benjamin. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  Hanging up, I look at Zack curiously. “You were gone a long time considering that you only brought back a bottle of water.”

  Zack smiles. “Did you get a lot of reading done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I got you a surprise.”

  He steps away to the door, and I am surprised when a bellboy enters pushing a cart containing trays of hotel room service dinners. There is even a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket.

  “Dinner is served,” Zack says, reaching over to lift one of the metal lids to reveal a plate of cooked lobster in a creamy sauce, topped with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese. There is a bit of pasta on the side. “Lobster Thermidor,” Zack explains.

  My first experience with Lobster Thermidor was while playing Sims. My character was a chef, and Lobster Thermidor was one of the best dishes she could cook. I am both surprised and impressed, and slightly embarrassed that the bell boy is witnessing me sitting here in just a towel. Zack gives him a tip, and he leaves, while I inhale the delicious food.

  “This looks amazing,” I tell Zack. “Much better than just a bottle of water.”

  “You’ve had a rough couple days, and I thought that you needed some proper nourishment.”

  “Nourishment doesn’t have to be lobster, Zack. This seems a little extravagant.”

  “Hey, I am employed now, so I have a little extra spending money, don’t I?” He grins at me. “I wanted you to relax and get pampered a little. I want to remind you that life is good.”

  Oh. So that’s what this is about.

  Zack unscrews the bottle of wine and pours a bit into a glass bef
ore offering it to me. When he sits on the side of the bed and begins massaging my sore feet, I am momentarily startled, but then grateful. I sigh at the sensation, allowing the tiredness and pain to be kneaded out of my muscles. I take a small sip of the wine, which happens to be a chardonnay. A good pairing for lobster.

  “I was thinking about the way you kissed me earlier,” Zack says softly. “I don’t think you’ve ever kissed me like that. I’d really like to do that again.”

  Ripping my feet away, I place the wine glass down on the night table a bit abruptly. “Zack, I still have so many letters to read and so much work to do. The wine is a nice gesture, but I can’t afford to relax too much.”

  Zack sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. Did you find anything good in the letters?”

  “Not too much. I’m a little suspicious of Annabelle—I think you heard some of that conversation. The detective is looking into that for me.”

  “Something about her did seem off,” Zack says with a nod. Then he frowns. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did he mean by ‘take the pin out’?”

  This question catches me off guard, and I stare forward vacantly, remembering the past. I shake my head, unable to speak about it. I do not realize that Zack is moving toward my bag and retrieving the crumpled note.

  He reads it out loud, clearly and questioningly. “Dear Serena. If I’m gone and buried, please take the pin out. We always promised we would. Forever, Cole.” He pauses and looks at me. “What does that mean? Is it some inside joke?”

  Hearing the words read aloud like that causes my face to scrunch up in thought. The phrasing is strange, and it doesn’t sound like Cole. If I’m gone. And buried.

  “Is it like a pin number for a bank account you guys shared? A safe or a safety deposit box?” Zack asks.

  I stare at him in confusion. “No.”

  “It seems like an odd note for someone’s final words. I suppose he didn’t know they were his final words, but he must have had some idea if he wrote you a note at all. He didn’t even say that he loved you.” Zack shrugs. “I guess I was just expecting something a little more epic. A little more dramatic. It was his last chance to reach you. I just thought… he wouldn’t hold back.”

  I look at Zack with puzzlement. “What did you say?”

  “Hold back?”

  Then it hits me. The pin. Buried. “Zack! You’re brilliant.”

  “I am? Why?”

  “It’s… a code. For a code breaker.” I smile.

  “Are you sure, Soph?”

  “It’s a game. Cole’s playing a game with me.” I throw my legs off the side of the bed and move to gather my clothes. “I need to get out of here.”

  Before I can start getting dressed, Zack grabs my wrist. “Sophie, please. Stay and eat with me first. Then we’ll go anywhere.”

  “I can’t. Cole could be alive. He could be out there somewhere, waiting for me to find him. What if he needs help?”

  Zack looks at me sadly. “Your husband is dead. Your brother is dead. You can’t waste your life pining for a dead man. I’m right here, and so is our lovely dinner. Let’s just sit and eat for a minute, and try to relax and enjoy ourselves, okay?”

  “No. I’ve got an idea and I need to check it out. If I’m right…”

  “Whatever it is can wait. You need to take care of yourself better, and let me take care of you. You’ve been running all over this city in the rain. You just had to watch the interrogation of the monster who ruined your childhood. You need to take it easy for five minutes, Sophie. Just sit and eat with me. It won’t hurt anything. You don’t need to be in such a crazy rush.”

  I look into his sincere face and hesitate.

  “You’re always running off to do something. Well, there’s no use in running off to chase down a ghost. I’m right here.” He steps forward and places my palm on his chest. “I’m flesh and blood, and breathing. I’m a warm bodied human man. That’s got to be better than a ghost—the ghost of a man you haven’t seen in years. He was already gone, while I’ve been right here beside you, all along. A ghost won’t keep you warm at night.”

  My lips part slightly to respond, but I’m not sure what to say. Am I chasing ghosts? The idea chills me to the bone. Am I insane? When my phone rings, I hastily rush to pick it up.

  “Detective?”

  “Hey, Shields. I’m having some trouble getting in touch with Annabelle, so I’m driving to her house to see if I can talk to her. Do you want me to text you the address?”

  “I actually have something else I need to check out, based on the note Cole left for me.”

  “Oh, really? Do you think it meant something?” he asks.

  “Yes. Can you handle looking into Annabelle while I follow this lead?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I couldn’t handle one entitled blonde.”

  A small smile touches my lips. “You think she seems entitled?”

  “She’s a plastic princess. For the life of me, I don’t know what Cole saw in her.”

  For the second time, I hear alarms going off in my brain at the Detective’s words. The way he just spoke about Cole almost makes me wonder… were they friends? Is this personal for him? Is that why he’s being so nice to me?

  “Do you know what he saw in me?” I ask the detective, before I realize how suggestive that sounds.

  “Sure. You’re batshit crazy. Just his type.”

  My smile blossoms into a full-fledged grin. “You knew him well, then?”

  “I… well, we met a few times. He always seemed like a smart guy, but I suppose even the smartest men can be dumb when it comes to women.”

  “Do you mean me, or Annabelle?”

  “Both,” the detective says with a chuckle. “I’ll keep you posted, Shields. Text me if you find anything.”

  “I will.”

  When I hang up, I see that Zack is standing a few feet away and looking at me sternly, with his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re not going anywhere until you eat, young lady. I have been worried sick about you all day, and I am not letting you leave this room unless you’re well fed.”

  Glancing at the room service, I feel guilty for rushing out without at least trying the lobster. Zack has been so thoughtful and sweet, and I have to accept his kindness.

  Still, it feels like there’s a fire lit beneath me, and I need to move.

  “Two bites,” I say, negotiating.

  He nods. “If you can stop after two bites, then you’re welcome to leave. It looks really good.”

  It is a bit disconcerting to pull into the parking lot of my old high school driving a Bugatti. I can still remember what it felt like to be a teenager in this place, and how miserable I was back then. I didn’t really imagine that I’d ever be successful, or own a car at all; I was never completely certain I could survive the week. As the car pulls to a halt in a teacher’s reserved parking spot, I place a hand on my side, over the scars that were burned into me by Mr. Brown’s cigarettes.

  Covering the damage with tattoos did help put that part of my past behind me, but being in this schoolyard brings it all back. I remember the pain. Fire burns slowly, especially such a weak fire. Just barely touching the cigarette for a moment wouldn’t have done too much harm. But I remember the way he held it there, purposefully, and pressed it in deep. I remember the gleeful look in his eyes as he gained pleasure from tormenting me. It was like he was trying to burn holes right into my bones, to match the holes in his soul.

  For the life of me, I will never understand how people can get off on harming a child.

  In some ways, Mr. Brown was more frightening than Benjamin. At least Benjamin pretended it was done out of love, and it was almost possible to believe that he just couldn’t control himself. Sometimes, I wanted to believe that. At least he made a sick attempt to soothe the wounds afterwards with gifts and attention. The professor just had a demon inside, unleashed by booze; he never even remember
ed what he’d done in the morning, so he could never acknowledge it or apologize.

  I suppose I am lucky that neither man was my real father. There’s a sort of freedom to having no father at all, and being able to imagine that you could have come from anywhere or anyone. Being born to a truly bad man must be a terrible burden to bear. I don’t think I ever would have gotten over it if Mr. Brown was my flesh and blood—these scars I wear would have been a lot heavier.

  Stepping out of the car, I walk to the front to pop open the trunk and retrieve an item. My hand clenches around the wooden handle of a slender implement. I had to stop by a hardware store on the way over here to purchase it. If my hunch is right, this could give me some much-needed answers.

  Shutting the trunk, I walk briskly out into the football field.

  It’s nighttime, and the stars are peeking out from gaps in the clouds. I remember all those beautiful things Cole said to me in this field, all those years ago, and how much those words meant. I remember all the promises we made. I sometimes tried to tell myself that they were the silly promises of children, but maybe I was wrong. No. If he really meant to send me back here from his deathbed, then it must have meant just as much to him.

  Enough thinking.

  When I reach the goal post in the far south of the football field, I search for letters carved into the paint. It seems like they have repainted it sometime in the past thirteen years, so I am unable to find the carving. This disappoints me, until I reach out and run my hand over the pole.

  My fingertips graze over the bumps and scrapes of time, and wonder if I’m crazy.

  Did Cole ever write on this pole at all? Was I just imagining it all?

  Feeling an odd impression beneath the paint, I pull out my cell phone to use the flashlight. I use my fingernail to scrape away some paint, and peer closer, until sure enough, I see it.

  2003

  CS

  PIN

  I get a little shiver of victory. My thumb moves over the word PIN hopefully, praying that this is what Cole was talking about—and somehow knowing that it is. I look down at the earth below the goal post with interest, wondering what, if anything, lies beneath. This feels more real than it did at his tombstone. Somehow, I know that these letters are the real marker of a grave—of our grave. Maybe we both left part of ourselves dead and buried in this field, all those years ago.