by Jo Crow
“I’m following.” Detective Elkins nodded. “I guess my only question at this point is why haven’t you applied to be a member of our investigative force? We could use a detective like you on the team, if you can catch a murderer a day.”
“You can’t trip me up by goading me. I know what happened.”
No matter how much he made fun of me in his dry, sarcastic, grating way, I would not lose my temper like I knew he wanted me to.
“I’m sure. But you know, McNair, it’s been the same thing for years now. The first time we met, way back when this whole thing started, I heard all the same things from you. The refusal to acknowledge the truth. The obvious guilt. The stories…” Detective Elkins shook his head slowly, and I saw in his eyes not the immovable detective I’d always thought him to be, but a man who was fed up with his circumstances—tired of the bullshit he heard day in and day out. “You can’t blame me for not believing you. It’s always someone else’s fault. You can’t expect me to believe you’re innocent after every desperate move you’ve made to cover your tracks.”
My gaze fell. After everything I’d done, how could I expect anyone to believe me? I could barely believe myself. “You have to at least listen, even if you don’t believe me. Please.”
“I’m listening. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be entertaining you right now.” Detective Elkins rolled his shoulders back and craned his neck to the side. “Tell me more. I’ll hear it, but I don’t guarantee I’ll buy it.”
It was all I could ask for. “After I made my way to Amanda’s place, I told her someone set fire to my house last night; she asked me if I wasn’t the one who’d done it.”
Detective Elkins arched a brow.
“I told her of course not, and from there, she started slinging accusations at me. She told me that if everyone you meet is an asshole, then it’s likely you’re the problem, and the same principle was true about all the tragedy I’d suffered in life. Her mother’s death, my parents’ disappearance, and now the house? She told me I was the problem. She snapped. She told me I was stupid, and she wished she had planted the propane tank in my bedroom. She said I should have died from smoke inhalation, and it would have been easier and more merciful that way.”
Detective Elkins studied my face. I couldn’t get a good read on his expression—was it curiosity? Amusement? Doubtfulness?
“When I asked her why she’d do such a thing, she said she thought killing my parents might be enough to avenge her mother’s death, but since I’d come back to town, she’d realized she was mistaken, and she needed to kill me, too.”
“So you’re claiming Amanda Harwood came to your house last night and lit it on fire? That she planted the propane tanks and doused the place in gasoline?”
“Yes. And she was also responsible for the death of my parents ten years ago. She admitted to it.”
“And all of this happened this morning?” Detective Elkins asked. “Late this morning, after you left the scene of the arson?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” Detective Elkins shook his head. “It looks like Amanda had a very busy night.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You believe me?”
He kicked back in his chair. “Amanda spent last night with me. She left this morning, probably around eight, after I made breakfast. I am an incredibly light sleeper, McNair. She must have astral projected to your house to set up the propane tanks, douse it in gasoline, and burn it down.”
My mouth fell open. There was no way that was true. Amanda had confessed to it. The dead look in her eyes, and the malice in her voice…
“Then it was Blake Harwood.” The logical jump came to me all at once, and I was glad for it. “I saw him following me not all that long ago. He must have come in her place to do it. They must be working together.”
“More astral projecting, I see.” Detective Elkins laughed. “Or would this be summoning? Invocation? I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to call in a psychic.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. Frustration bled into my words. “What are you talking about? I saw Blake Harwood. You can ask Gino Hunt if you don’t believe me.”
“McNair?” Detective Elkins sighed. “Blake Harwood is dead, and has been dead for years. He died in the streets of Charlotte years ago from liver and kidney problems brought on by alcoholism and a drug habit. His body was identified via dental records, and the missing person’s case was closed.”
I gaped. I saw Blake Harwood.
Was I crazy? Was I seeing things? Hallucinating conversations? Setting fire to my own house while I was asleep?
“So.” Detective Elkins drummed his fingers on the table and looked at me expectantly. “Can you tell us why you started the fire, McNair? Or maybe we can back it up, and you can tell me what was running through your mind when you tortured your parents, killed them, then buried their bodies?”
I couldn’t take it. Not anymore.
“I don’t have anything to say,” I murmured. “If you want to talk to me from now on, you’re going to have to go through my attorney. I have no further comment.”
Not to mention no clue who to turn to when every piece of information I could get my hands on only served to incriminate me further, and my best friend was now my enemy.
30
I fled to Jerry Appleton’s house. There was nowhere else I could go. The staff house was unsafe, Amanda’s house was out of the question, and I had no other lifelines left. But could I trust Jerry? At that point, I honestly couldn’t be sure.
Hickory Hills had taken more than my parents from me—it had consumed my past, and now it had begun to infect my future. I’d never felt so alone.
Francine answered the door bell, and she went from overjoyed to see me to nervous. I noticed her hair was a shiny shade of chestnut brown left lightly curled—she’d gone to get it dyed—but I couldn’t bring myself to compliment her. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
“Clara, dear?” Francine asked. “Are you okay?”
I had no words. Instead, I burst out crying.
This town was going to take everything from me. The longer I stayed here, the worse it got. The more I tried to fight the injustice, the deeper into trouble I sank. Between the evidence planted in the staff house and the confession I’d just given Detective Elkins, I felt like I had no hope left.
Hickory Hills had killed my mother and father, and now it was going to kill my son, too. If I wasn’t killed, I’d be thrown into jail and left to rot for a crime I hadn’t committed.
“Oh, Clara,” Francine murmured. She swept me into her arms and held me close. “Come inside. Come sit down. James is sleeping right now. Why don’t I make you something to drink? It’ll help calm your nerves.”
I nodded and followed her into the house. Francine directed me by the hand like I was a small child. At that point, I was starting to think it wasn’t so far from the truth. There were so many wrongs in my life that I didn’t know how to make things right. I was an adult, but I felt like a toddler.
Francine directed me to the couch and made sure I sat. She pulled a crocheted blanket from the back of the couch and covered me in it, then patted my hair like I was her daughter and hurried from the room to clatter around in the kitchen. As I waited for her to return, I toyed with the open spaces in the granny square blanket. It was a small distraction from the war zone going on in my head.
What was going to happen now Detective Elkins had me on record, seemingly lying in order to incriminate someone who had an alibi? Amanda had led me to believe she had set the fire last night, but that couldn’t be the case if she’d spent it with Detective Elkins.
I’d dug my own grave. She’d set me up to fail, and I’d fallen right into her trap. It no longer felt like Amanda was being manipulated into acting out against me—everything she’d said while I was with her was meant to trick me into making inferences that would make it look like I had something to hide.
I twisted the knot of yarn between my fingers, back and fo
rth, my index finger moving slowly so best to feel the weave of the fibers.
Francine re-entered the room. I’d expected her to come back with coffee or tea, but she carried a lowball glass of amber liquid. I reached out from beneath the blanket to take the glass, but before she let it go, she held my gaze. “After the day you’ve had? You need this.”
She didn’t know how right she was.
Once she let it go, I took it back beneath the blanket and cradled it in both palms. It wasn’t until Francine left the room that I took it back out and smelled it. As far as I could tell, it smelled like alcohol—rum or whiskey, I couldn’t tell which—but I knew from my nights on the town that date rape drugs were colorless, odorless, and tasteless. If Amanda had turned against me, could I trust the Appletons? There was no way to tell anymore.
I set the glass on the coffee table behind a lamp. If it was out of sight, Francine might forget about it.
There was noise upstairs, followed by descending footsteps. Jerry rounded the corner first, Francine just behind him. The corners of his lips were pushed inward, and concern furrowed his brow. “Clara, I’m glad they came to their senses and let you leave. In front of a burning house is no place for a young woman.”
“I chose to stay,” I murmured. My throat was froggy from crying, so I coughed to clear it and tried again. “I needed to make sure I was there. All of my belongings were inside. I’m glad they gave me the keys back. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.”
“Our car isn’t more important than your well-being.”
“I don’t know how I could have paid you back. It’s just… it’s a mess.” I hadn’t even thought of filming until that moment, but I was sure I had at least fifty angry voicemails from Samuel, demanding to know where I was. “But I got it back. I can pay to have the inside detailed if it smells too much of smoke.”
Jerry set a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Stop. You almost lost your life to a house fire. The last thing you need to worry about is paying to detail my car.”
Tears welled in my eyes all over again, and I nearly lost control. Jerry and Francine had no idea what had happened, or what I’d just done at the station. “It’s not just that.”
“What do you mean?” Jerry asked. He took his hand away, but remained standing before me. “What else?”
“It was…” I glanced at Francine who hovered in the doorway. It was clear she was concerned, but I had no idea whether or not that concern was genuine. I didn’t know anything anymore. I’d never been so lost. “I need to speak to you as a lawyer. Is that… is that okay?”
Jerry nodded. He didn’t look toward Francine, but I noticed his body language shift subtly. “Let’s go talk in my office. Are you well enough to stand?”
I nodded. My head wasn’t right, but I could stand. I could carry on. I had to: I knew that if I stopped, I’d be admitting defeat.
I folded the blanket in half, then in half again and laid it on the couch. I followed Jerry back to the stairs. Francine stood in the doorway until we’d passed. The sight of her tensed shoulders and uncomfortable posture gave me hope she was still on my side. But then I wondered if I was reading her wrong: Was she nervous for another reason?
Plush carpet cushioned our feet at the top of the stairs, so clean I regretted I was still wearing shoes. It lined the hall, and we followed it to the second to last door. The tiny room Jerry revealed beyond the door was big enough for a twin-sized bed and a few pieces of accompanying furniture; for a home office, it worked great. Jerry whisked me inside, and once we were both through the door, he locked us in. The way he twisted the lock on the handle so quickly made me nervous, but then Jerry met my eye and allowed his expression to fall.
“I’ve never seen you this upset. What has happened?”
There was a moment when I didn’t know if I could tell him. I’d gone ahead and told Detective Elkins, and it had only made my life more complicated. But even as I gave up hope, the words began to tumble from my mouth. “They’re going to throw me in jail.”
“Explain.”
And so I did. The details came fast and free, and by the time I was done, I was breathless. Jerry stood, arms crossed, as it sank in.
“I’m not a criminal defense attorney…,” he said at last, but the way he let his words trail off, I knew there was something more he wanted to say.
“But?”
“But I have been around long enough to know a thing or two about law. It’s going to be okay, Clara. We’re going to find a way out of this, even if it doesn’t feel like it. The worst they can do is lock you away, but with the ongoing threats against your life, perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing.”
It hurt to think prison was the safest place for me—I would be freest with my liberty taken away. I squeezed my eyes shut to chase away tears. James started to cry down the hall. I recognized the pitch of his wailing—he’d had a bad dream, and he needed reassurance. I started to move toward the sound, but Jerry stopped me. I’d barely noticed I was moving until I ran into his palm and was brought to an abrupt halt. My body was on autopilot.
But it was the jolt I needed. Of course I couldn’t give in. The tumors were coming back—I’d witnessed the creeping return of his symptoms. The good health he enjoyed was temporary.
He would die alone and scared.
I couldn’t let that happen.
“I can’t go to jail. I can’t leave James.” I looked at Jerry, resolute. “The things that were recorded in the interrogation room together with the evidence found at the house mean I’m in a lot of trouble. I need help before it’s too late.”
If it wasn’t too late already. Not even the best attorney could save me from being arrested.
“Take a deep breath. You’ve got to approach this from a calm and rational angle. I know you’re scared, but acting out of fear will not help your case.”
The reassurance grounded me, and I nodded to show I was listening. Amanda had set me up to fail in the most malicious way she could—calming down was another matter entirely, but I did my best to take Jerry’s advice. I still had my freedom. I was innocent.
Jerry pointed to his desk. We’d been standing while I told him my side of the story, both of us too wired to sit. Along the hall, I heard Francine opening a door, and James quieted down.
“I’m going to start pulling up some resources, and you’re going to sit here with me and transcribe everything you remember happening with Amanda Harwood, even the smallest details. Be as accurate and as thorough as possible.”
I nodded, too numb to question him.
As my world fell to pieces, we sat down and got to work.
We didn’t stay at the Appleton house that night. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, no matter how terrified I was. Jerry and Francine both pleaded with me to change my mind, but I held firm.
I couldn’t risk putting them in danger. I wouldn’t let anyone else around me be hurt by the sins of my inheritance.
We couldn’t go back to the staff house, nor any of its derelict cousins. The money in my wallet wasn’t going to stretch to cover a prolonged motel stay, not to mention I didn’t trust any place in Hickory Hills.
There was only one option left.
After saying our goodbyes to Jerry and Francine, James and I returned to the McNair house.
A skeleton staff kept the house spotless. My father’s trust kept the electricity paid and the heating and cooling on. But it wasn’t home.
Not anymore.
James walked beside me as we entered through the doors, holding onto my hand loosely. I could tell from the clumsy way he walked he was tired, but the bright expression on his face did away with that exhaustion. He was wired, astonished a place this big could exist.
To me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The cramped apartment we shared in Los Angeles was the anomaly—wide-open spaces and more rooms than I knew what to do with were par for the course.
I understood Amanda’s resentment toward me, though. Compared
to her home life, this house had to have been a slap in the face—an even harder slap, knowing my family had taken from her family without reserve.
James let go of my hand and staggered forward. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the polished floor, and he spun in a slow circle, the grin on his face big enough to fill up the entire front room. There was nothing here to remark upon other than the double staircases leading to the second floor, but it was enough. James was in awe.
“Welcome home, baby,” I murmured.
Except home felt less like home than it ever had before.
After running laps around the house in typical two-year-old style, James curled up on one of the couches in the parlor and fell asleep. For a while I sat beside him, listening to the way he breathed and observing the dark as it stretched across the room. How eerie it was to be back in this place after so long to find it unchanged. Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been replaced. It was as though I’d walked into the same house I’d walked out of when I was eighteen, as though I’d stepped back through time.
But, this time, I couldn’t run off to Europe to bury my head in books. I’d run away from my problems, hoping to escape them forever, but they’d dragged me back and refused to relinquish their hold on me.
When I was sure James was deeply asleep, I lifted him carefully from the couch and carried him up the stairs to my old bedroom. It was the same as I remembered it—even the clutter on my dresser. From the Jonas Brothers posters on the walls to the dried-up stubs of Delia lipstick and Lancome Juicy Tubes lip gloss in seven shades of shine scattered across my vanity, Clara, at eighteen, would have felt right at home. The room had been dusted and the sheets were freshly washed, but no one on staff had bothered to tidy up my mess, as if they expected me to come back home.
I guess, in the end, they were right.
