by Jo Crow
I set James on the hood and tried my best to hold myself together, but it was no use. Tears welled fat in the corners of my eyes, then fell down my cheeks silently. I was doing everything I could to hold my family together, but it wasn’t enough.
My fist slammed into the window before I realized what I was doing. My knuckles cracked against the glass, but I felt no pain. Another crack rang out through the night, but the window held.
All I wanted was a safe place for James. A place we could sit, where we could recover. Why weren’t we allowed that? It was such a simple human need.
Another crack.
James cried harder when he saw I was crying, and it broke down the last of my willpower. I started to sob, too, and hugged him tight as we cried together. I knew it was wrong, and I should have done my best to shield him from my fear, but they weren’t ordinary circumstances. I hadn’t just lost a job, or a friend, or a pet… I’d almost lost my life, and somewhere out there, someone was actively looking to harm us.
And now, without my revolver, we were defenseless.
Whoever had made the noise outside was still lurking around. It wouldn’t take any effort at all for them to do us in. I was in my pajamas, disheveled, and James was too young to take care of himself or to put up a fight.
We were done for.
I held him close and breathed in the scent of his baby shampoo and the fresh linen smell from his new pajamas. I memorized the size of his small fists and the mighty force of his grip. I let my hand trace across the back of his head to feel the soft hairs there and to internalize the size and shape of his skull. There might never be a time where I could do those things again.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He wailed.
We stood in the night for what felt like an eternity as the house burned and smaller explosions rattled the ground. I couldn’t call anyone. I couldn’t drive anywhere. I wasn’t wearing shoes, so walking anywhere would be a hazard. They’d finally done it—they’d cornered us.
We waited for death to arrive.
Sirens.
Flashing reds and blues were making their way down the private road to the staff houses.
James lifted his head to stare at the lights. He dragged his hand below his eyes to wipe away his tears, then sobbed one last time before he sucked in a breath and pulled himself together. I braced him as he sat on the hood and watched as the police rolled in and came to a stop a short distance away. Car doors opened, then slammed shut. In the flashing blue and red lights, I watched officers approach.
“Are you injured, ma’am?” the first officer to approach asked. He stood beside me. There was a name plate pinned to his uniform, but I couldn’t read it in the dark.
“No.”
“And your boy?”
“He’s fine, too. We got out before the explosion.”
Sort of. To be honest, my back stung; the heat radiating off my skin. I was still damaged from the encounter with the man in the mask, and with another fall now plaguing my body, I felt as frail as a ninety-year-old.
“Can you tell us what happened?” the officer asked. As he did, his partner joined him.
“I’ll tell you everything I can.”
So I did.
27
I sat by the tree on the front lawn as the police were joined by firefighters, and together got to work. Someone from emergency services had been thoughtful enough to give me a heavy blanket, and I’d draped it around my shoulders—not for warmth, but to give myself some semblance of comfort.
Somewhere along the way, someone had pressed a water bottle into my hands and urged me to drink. I held it in both hands now, pushing into the thin plastic grooves and listening to the bottle crinkle. The fire had been brought under control, but it wasn’t extinguished yet. Red embers glowed against the sunrise. I don’t think I will ever forget the sight of it.
Jerry Appleton had come with Francine to pick up James. I assumed word had got around town, because I still had no cellphone. We’d exchanged a few words but, otherwise, I hadn’t said a lot. I was in too much shock to hold a conversation.
There was a distinct difference between being brutalized in a parking lot and being the victim of a crime like this. Someone had tried to kill me in the middle of the night, not caring that a little boy lived in the house with me. I knew the masked man had brought up James’s well-being as a way to intimidate me, but to see it through? To know they were willing to go this far?
I could only imagine what would have happened if I’d decided to stay at Amanda’s house. What if she’d died? It was clear whoever it was would stop at nothing to see me removed from Hickory Hills, whether that meant by my own volition, or in a body bag.
It had to stop.
In another few hours, and after courageous efforts on the part of the fire department, the final embers were extinguished. I watched from where I sat, numb to what was going on around me. Nothing felt real anymore—or maybe it was that life felt too real, like I’d been walking through a fog all my life, and suddenly there was nothing but clear skies for miles and miles.
The world was evil. The world was cruel. There was no kindness. Men took what they wanted regardless of what others thought, or felt, or needed. My father, the townspeople, the murderer…
Was that same evil inside me, too?
I thought of James, and the time we’d spent apart since I’d got back. Did he think the same way of me that I thought of my mother? Loving, tender. Or like my father? Distant. Uncaring. Too busy to notice. When I found out I was pregnant, I’d sworn I would respect my child in the way I felt like my father had never respected me. I worried I was breaking that promise.
Firefighters moved into the house methodically. I watched them work without paying much attention, lost in my own thoughts. They came and went like heavily suited ants, carrying out debris and establishing clear, safe passage into their ant hill. The damage looked bad. If anything had survived the blaze, the smoke would be so deeply ingrained it would have to be thrown out. James and I already didn’t own much, but to know we’d lost the rest of our few possessions was a blow I wasn’t prepared to deal with.
I wanted to curl up and forget I existed.
More time passed. I didn’t know how long, but the dawn had given way to daylight. Emergency vehicles came and went from the scene, cycling in new responders. I noticed Detective Elkins among them. Although he nodded to me in passing, he didn’t stop to chat. Instead, he was escorted by a firefighter into the ruins of the house. I zoned out and closed my eyes, only opening them again when a hand grabbed my shoulder.
I shrieked and automatically went for the revolver I once kept holstered on my thigh, but my hand closed around air. When the panic cleared, I realized I wasn’t in danger—Detective Elkins was standing over me, his face blank. “McNair?”
“I’m awake.” I pressed a hand over my heart to try to calm it down. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“I have a few questions to ask you. Are you lucid enough to talk?”
“Yes.” That I didn’t want to talk didn’t make a difference. I knew Detective Elkins wasn’t going to let me go until I gave him what he wanted. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anywhere I could go, even if I’d wanted to.
“This was the house you were living in with your son, correct?”
“Yes.” I let my head fall back against the tree. “This is the house we were staying in.”
“And no one else has been staying in your house with you?”
I noticed there was another officer standing beside Detective Elkins, likely there as a secondary source to confirm whatever report they were going to have to file. I didn’t know the ins and outs of being an officer, but it made sense to me there should be another witness to our conversation. “No one.”
“Have you had guests in the house at any time since you moved in?”
I blinked, trying to remember. When I looked back, there was that fog—billowi
ng, thick, and impenetrable. “No. No one’s come to visit.”
“And your son is how old?”
“Two.” I closed my eyes again. “Jerry Appleton came to pick him up. He’s at the Appleton house now, safe.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I heard the sound of ruffled fabric—Detective Elkins had put his hands in his pockets, probably. “The arson investigators have determined the source of the fire was criminal. There were several propane tanks discovered around the property—one even inside the house.”
I lifted my head and opened my eyes, confused. “Inside the house?”
Detective Elkins nodded. His face betrayed nothing. “There were also buckets thought to once contain gasoline left by the back door. This was no accident.”
I didn’t need a detective to figure that one out. Nothing since I’d arrived in town had been an accident.
But I couldn’t figure out why someone would sneak a propane tank into my house without coming to kill me in my sleep. It was obvious this was a crime, so why not take it to the next level and kill me?
There was a piece I was missing—something that niggled me in subtle ways and refused to be silenced.
Detective Elkins drove it home. “Why did you start the fire, Clara?”
My eyes widened as my gaze locked on his face. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you start the fire?” Detective Elkins asked again, voice stern and unwavering.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Were you trying to get rid of the evidence?” If Detective Elkins wanted a confession, he was in for a long wait. I had nothing to confess. I hadn’t started the fire, and there was no evidence. He had to be confused.
When I said nothing, Detective Elkins shook his head. “You’re in hot water, McNair. The evidence is stacking up against you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I held firm. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
The glint in Detective Elkins’s eyes was bitter, but he did as I asked. “The garden shears? The ring? The gun?”
“What?”
“We’ve got the forensics team identifying them now, but having all three of them in the same place? There are coincidences, sure, but three missing items in the same location in the possession of one of the primary suspects?”
My throat went dry. I still had no idea what Detective Elkins was talking about, but I knew whatever it was, it was bad. What else could go wrong? I’d tried my hardest to stand tall and proud, but I couldn’t stop falling on my face. “What missing items?”
“A set of garden shears was found in the living room, propped casually against the wall; they were branded with the McNair name; forensic testing in 2007 determined it was likely an implement like garden shears was used to cut off the fingertips of Richard and Glenda McNair.” There was no more kindness in Detective Elkins’s eyes. “The platinum ring—black opal and diamond—which was seen on Glenda McNair’s ring finger in every photograph of her following her engagement to Richard McNair—a ring which she undoubtedly wore on the night she vanished.” Each word clamped down harder on my throat like I’d been locked in a vice. “The gun—a revolver taking .38 specials—the same kind that killed Rachel Harwood on McNair grounds ten years before your parents disappeared. Surprisingly, also the same kind the forensic team suggests killed your parents, after they were tortured in the shed. That’s a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Garden shears? My mother’s ring? I hadn’t been in possession of either. “Can you show me?”
Detective Elkins shook his head. “Civilians aren’t permitted to enter an unstable structure. It’s too dangerous. Not that you’d need to see them, anyway. You see, Clara, when you have a murderer, they—”
“I am not a murderer!” I’d lost so much of my spirit to the fire that the intensity of my words shocked me. I crushed the water bottle in my fist. What little water was left splashed over my fingers. “If you want to throw allegations around, you can do it elsewhere. Unless you arrest me, I’m still a free woman, and I will fight until the end to prove I’m innocent! You had nothing on me ten years ago, and you have nothing on me now, because I didn’t do it!”
“There’s nothing keeping you here for now.” Detective Elkins took a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them beside me—they belonged to the car I’d borrowed from Jerry. My wallet, smelling badly of smoke, landed beside them. “You’re still a free woman while the investigation continues, but if you leave town there will be consequences. I counseled you before to go to Charlotte, but I retract that invitation. Until we know beyond the shadow of a doubt you didn’t have anything to do with the items we just recovered? You’re here to stay. We will issue a warrant for your arrest if you leave town.”
“I did nothing!”
“If you did nothing then the fingerprints we recovered from the shears should reveal you never touched them, or that they weren’t used in the torture of your mother and father, and you’ll have absolutely nothing to worry about.” Detective Elkins took a step back. “If it turns out that’s not the case—if it turns out you were attempting to burn the evidence, the little shrine to your victims—then we’ll be talking again.”
Whatever kindness and trust I’d earned from Detective Elkins was gone. He turned and walked away, leaving me with my thoughts.
Amanda gave me the gun. The garden shears I couldn’t explain; I remembered using a similar set at Amanda’s place. But I couldn’t understand how they could have gotten into the house.
I wasn’t going to find out anything sitting by the tree, watching firemen flit in and out of the staff house like clownfish through anemone. There had to be a rational explanation for what was going on and, with any luck, the person linked to two of the three items recovered by Detective Elkins would help me find it.
28
Amanda’s car was parked outside her townhouse, but it took her a few minutes to answer the door. She was in workout clothes, her hair twisted atop her head in a tight bun, her makeup yet to be done. When she saw me, she hesitated, and her lips twitched. “Clara?”
“I…” I looked down at myself. I was in my pajamas, barefoot on the stoop. I knew I was a mess, but I didn’t have the resources available to be anything more than that. “I need to talk to you. I’m sorry I’m here unannounced, and looking like this, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You smell like smoke.” Amanda stepped back from the door. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ve got some clothes I was going to donate that you can have. We’re about the same size.”
“I… thanks.” I bowed my head and stepped into the house, following her through the living room to her bedroom. While Amanda rooted through her dresser drawer, I stood awkwardly by her bed with my arms crossed. I didn’t want to sit out of fear the smoky smell would leach from my clothes and infuse her bedsheets.
Amanda tossed me an old sports bra and a pair of worn jeans. She slid a battered shoebox with some old but seemingly sanitized canvas shoes across the floor in my direction, then tossed me a pair of socks. As she kept rummaging, I dressed. Tossing aside my pajamas was satisfying in a way I’d never thought it would be, and when at last she handed me a faded T-shirt, I felt like everything was going to be okay. Amanda was there for me, and she was going to help me see this through. With a little bit of laughter and a few quirky statements, I’d regain my confidence.
But Amanda wasn’t laughing.
She looked me over gravely, then shook her head in sympathy. “Do you want something to drink?”
“I’m actually okay. Right now, the thought of putting anything in my stomach is making me sick.” I tugged the T-shirt down over my shoulders, feeling a little bit more like myself just for being dressed. “My house burned down last night. Someone set it on fire.”
“Are you sure you didn’t do it?” Amanda asked casually. I balked, surprised she could even suggest such a thing. “You we
re pretty drunk last night. Are you sure you didn’t leave a candle lit, or get up to something ridiculous because you weren’t in your proper state of mind?”
I couldn’t believe the accusation. “Really, Amanda? You think I’d burn down my own house?”
She shrugged. “I mean, probably. You know how they say if everybody you meet is an asshole, that maybe you’re the problem? Trouble follows you wherever you go. If you think about it that way, why is it such a stretch to think you’re the one who set fire to her own house? You’re a walking disaster. How many people have died around you? How many attacks have you survived?”
Was I dreaming, I wondered? Amanda had been nothing but supportive since I’d come back to town, but the woman I was speaking with was totally different from the one I’d met the night before—the fun girl at High Fliers. I stared at her, trying to figure her out, when Amanda rolled her eyes skyward and huffed like she was annoyed at me.
“If this is your attempt at humor, it’s falling a little flat today.” I offered her a worried smile. “Did everything go okay last night at the bar? Was the performance good?”
“You really are dumb, aren’t you?” Amanda asked bitterly. “I guess a solid education doesn’t fix stupid. If you have enough money to throw at diplomas, who needs actual intelligence? That’s how you’ve always lived your life—how you’ve always lived your life.”
“I… no?” I pushed my lips together, feeling more nervous by the minute. “Amanda, are you okay? Did someone slip something in your drink? You’re not yourself.”
“No. The only thing wrong with me this morning is you.”
This was getting out of hand. “If this is a prank or something, you got me, okay? I don’t really want to be a part of it anymore. I’ve had a hard enough time trying to get along with everyone in town…”
