by CJ Lyons
“Woo her?” I ask, holding back my laughter.
“Yeah, woo her. You know, pay attention to her hair and shoes and all that crap. And you’ve got to pay attention to how you look as well. And smell. And find interesting things to say and then places to go and things to do that keep her happy.” He looks up at us. “You girls have no idea how hard it is to be a guy. Not to mention the time and money. To do all that and keep it secret from the woman you live and work with and find the energy after working all day and coming home to run around after a little kid? Trust me, your father was not having an affair.”
He says it with such authority that both Rory and I are overcome with the giggles. Which of course brings on a fresh wave of agony as my muscles ripple and stretch beneath the burn dressings. But I ignore the pain. This feels good—not just finding something to laugh about, but knowing that I’m not in this alone.
“Okay,” I say, wheezing. “For now, we’ll believe you, Max.”
Then we sober up as we realize there’s another reason why my father could have done what he did. Instead of taking her place back at the desk, Rory unplugs the laptop and slides down to squeeze in between Max and the bed, sitting on the floor. As if she needs his warmth to fortify her. “Maybe he was sick.” Rory is the first one brave enough to face the ugly truth that has crowded out our laughter. “Like a brain tumor or something.”
“The medical examiner would have found it,” Max answers without looking up from his laptop. He scrolls down to a document. “Nope, no evidence of any underlying medical problems. Tox screen was negative as well.” I know he’s reading from the autopsy report, and I can’t help but shudder, my aura wrapping around me, hugging me like Helen’s comfy old sweater had before I lost it in the fire last night.
Because that only leaves one answer. A disease that would have been invisible after my father’s death.
“Maybe it wasn’t a physical disease.” My voice is low. Joe and Darrin are in the guest room next door and I don’t want them to hear. “Maybe it was a mental illness.”
“People don’t snap just like that, do they?” Rory asks. “I mean, that’s only in the movies, right? There must be warning signs, indications . . . something.”
Max looks up, first at her and then at me. His aura sags from its usual dark red to burnt umber with hints of yellow ochre. Sorrow and fear. “Maybe there was. Maybe no one saw enough to put it all together in time. Like a jigsaw where you have the edge pieces and I have the inside ones and neither of us can tell what the picture should be.”
“So where do we look?”
I think I have the answer. Or an answer. “There’s nothing here. But when we moved out of the lake house, Darrin and Joe stored all of Mom and Dad’s personal stuff in the attic.”
I usually never think of the lake house as “my” house—Joe’s lived there, taking care of it, for as long as I can remember. It’s the gathering place where all of us, even Max and Rory’s families, go on hot summer days when all you want is to leap into the crystal cool water and stay there forever. But now I’m seeing it in a new light. Not just as the house where I was born, or our vacation getaway.
Now it’s the house where my parents lived and loved, the home they built together. If I’m going to find any answers, it will be there.
“Road trip,” Rory shouts, as always finding the fun in any task. “We can head out first thing in the morning. It’s so pretty up there this time of year with the leaves changing. We can build a fire, roast some marshmallows—”
“Search for evidence that Ella’s father was homicidal . . .” Max’s tone is half-joking, half-serious, but his expression is all concern. “Ella, maybe this isn’t a good idea. Why don’t we wait, talk to Joe and Darrin again? After all, you’re not a child. Once they understand how important it is to you, they’ll tell you the truth.”
“You didn’t see how upset they were yesterday when I told them I knew.” I cringe as I remember the inky black shrouds of fear and grief I’d awakened. “No.” I hop off the bed, barely feeling the twinge of pain the movement brings. “You’re right. I’m not a child. I don’t need anyone to coddle me or sugarcoat the truth. Let’s go. Right now.”
Rory’s aura flashes bright—not because she’s happy, but because she wants me to be happy. Max’s is dark with worry. And mine? My aura wafts around me like a fog bank rolling over sand dunes. I can almost hear the roar of the ocean—or maybe that’s the roaring in my head as I realize exactly what I might find.
Because if my father was sick, sick enough that it drove him to kill . . . what’s in store for my own future?
CHAPTER 35
Ella
Rory and Max talk me out of leaving right away for the lake. Turns out I couldn’t have gone if I’d wanted. While we’re still in the midst of our online sleuthing—and coming up woefully short—a knock comes on the door.
“Ella?” It’s Darrin. He opens the door. “The police are here to talk to you. About last night.”
Last night, I’d been asleep when they came to the ER, and I’d forgotten that they were meant to come back today. Rory and Max quickly pack their stuff, and we all walk downstairs together.
“Don’t worry,” Rory says as she hugs me, forgetting about my burns until too late. “We’ll figure this all out. Let me know what time to pick you up tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Darrin asks.
“We’re going to the lake house,” she answers for me, heading out the door. “Ella needs a change of scenery, don’t you think?”
“Sounds good to me.” He nods. “Joe will probably want to get back up there soon as well.”
Max bumps my shoulder with his, a silent show of support. Then he jerks his chin in a nod and rushes to catch up with Rory.
Darrin leads me into the living room, where Helen and Joe are back in their usual positions on the couch. Joe still looks pale—his aura has faded like an autumn leaf left to rot. There’s a police officer sitting across from them in the chair that’s usually mine, but Darrin pulls a chair from the dining room over for me. I thank him with a glance and sit down, my back straight so my burns don’t touch the wood.
“Ms. Cleary, I’m Officer Hardy,” the policeman starts. “Like I was just telling your grandmother and uncle, these are only preliminary questions to see if there is a case here. If there is, I’ll be making a report to the detectives and they’ll take things from there.”
I gulp and nod, not quite sure what he wants since he hasn’t yet asked me a question. I decide to ask one of my own. “Did the fire investigator find anything?”
Hardy focuses on the small notepad he cups in his hand. He’s also recording us on his phone, I see. As the silence lengthens, I decide the pad is just a prop, a way to help him control the conversation.
Joe jumps in to answer—he can’t stand silence. “They think it’s arson, honey. That someone purposely started the fire and locked the door—locked you inside.”
“And we all know who that was,” Helen says, her aura sparking with anger. “That boy, Alec. I knew he was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him.”
I can’t believe it. The space heater was ancient. And that door always stuck. Besides, why would anyone want to kill me? I couldn’t be that wrong about Alec. I just couldn’t.
“Alec didn’t do this,” I mumble. I want to say it loud and clear, leave no room for doubt, but I’m too overwhelmed, the emotions in the room suffocating.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Officer Hardy says, never actually answering my original question. “Your family was telling me that Alec had upset you with some distressing news. That it was the first you’d learned how your parents died?”
I nod again, feeling like a dumb bobblehead. Helen answers for me. “We never told her, she was so very young. And that boy, he had no right to interfere. He only did it for the money—he’s working on a true crime tell-all book.”
“More than the money,” Joe adds. “He’s obsessed with Ella. Why els
e would he be stalking her?”
“Folks,” Officer Hardy says in a polite tone, obviously exasperated by their interruptions, “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I can speak to Ella alone? I just think we’ll get through this faster, then can let her get the rest she needs after everything she’s been through.”
“Don’t you need her guardian present?” Helen says in a righteous tone.
“She’s eighteen,” Darrin puts in. “So, no. But I’ll stay. As her legal representative,” he adds for Hardy’s benefit. He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t seen the inside of a courtroom since law school and his practice consists solely of the legal needs of Cleary and Sons.
Helen and Joe aren’t happy, not at all, but they finally bustle out to the kitchen, where they can eavesdrop without Hardy seeing them. As their auras swirl out behind them, I finally have air to breathe without their emotions choking me. Darrin’s aura is his usual steadfast blue—almost a match to Officer Hardy’s navy-colored aura, barely a ghost around his uniform.
I relax the tiniest bit and explain about using the garage as my studio and the set up—how I always kept the space heater near the door, away from where I was working so that I wouldn’t risk spilling paint or water on it. How the door locked from the inside with a simple push of a button and you needed a key from the outside, but it was old and often stuck. How I’d been working on Rory’s painting when Joe brought me a snack, and how Alec showed up to talk and, yes, Joe did hear us arguing and I was upset with him, but no, I hadn’t thought it was anything serious. After all, I barely knew Alec, had just met him.
Of course, that led to exactly how I’d met him—Officer Hardy definitely grew more interested when I described swimming alone and Alec showing up. He grew almost smug when I explained about the fire starting, blocking my escape out the door, and Alec showing up again, just in time to help me get out.
But then he surprised me. “Sounds like the timing fits, but there’s one other person who could have started the fire.”
I glance up in surprise. “Joe? He was long gone.” No way would he have snuck back inside the garage after Alec left—I mean, he could have, anyone could have, the easels blocked my view of the door and the space heater—but why would he? I remember the strange breeze I’d felt a few minutes before I saw the first smoke. I’d thought it was part of remembering my past, but maybe it’d been someone quietly opening the door?
The thought ambushes me, my aura flashing sick-bile green. No. Starting a fire? With me trapped inside? No one I knew could be capable of that, I’m sure. Especially not Alec. The past few days, the only moments of peace and security I’ve felt have been when I’m with him. Despite all the terrible memories he’s brought to life.
“Not your uncle,” Hardy corrects. Silence thuds between us as I realize what he’s asking. “You, Ms. Cleary. You were upset. You’d just learned some awful things about your parents. Your uncle and Mr. Ravenell both describe you as agitated. Has anything like this ever happened before? Do you think you might have—not realizing how serious the consequences could be—could you have started the fire yourself? A cry for help, maybe?”
His tone is gentle and I understand why he has to ask—it’s his job to pursue any possibility. What I don’t understand is why Darrin not only doesn’t look surprised, but is nodding as if he thinks Officer Hardy is on the right track. What did he and Joe and Helen tell Officer Hardy before I joined them? Something about my father?
Or something about me?
I slump in the chair, forgetting about my burns until pain spirals across my damaged flesh. “No, sir,” I say, trying to sound calm and confident and, well, sane. “I wasn’t anywhere near the space heater when the fire began. I don’t know how it started.”
Officer Hardy regards me with solemn brown eyes, his aura expanding as if it’s sighing. He flips his notepad shut and tucks it into his chest pocket. “All right, then. I think we’ve gathered enough to get started.” He stands. “Thank you very much, Ms. Cleary. We’ll be in touch.”
And then he leaves. But his presence isn’t gone, not really. The doubts he’s sown sprout like rotten apples strewn around the living room.
Darrin knew my father better than anyone. He knows me better than almost anyone. And he thinks I might have tried to hurt myself? That I’m unstable? What was the word Officer Hardy used—agitated?
That’s when I realize I can’t take the not knowing. Not another minute. As soon as I can sneak past Joe and Helen, I’m heading to the lake house. If there are answers there about my father, I need to find them. Now. Tonight.
CHAPTER 36
Alec
The clock on the wall says it’s just past four. I have to blink twice and think about it before I realize it means four in the afternoon. Other than bathroom breaks and trips to grab overpriced junk food, I’ve spent almost sixteen hours in this windowless room. With precious little to show for it.
Throwing my glasses to the table, I rub my eyes. The laptop has too many open windows, forming a kaleidoscope of color. Each contains a single verified fact. Taken one at a time, they each make sense, a few even irrefutable. But put them all together and they form an incoherent mess.
I gave up on the murders a few hours ago, focusing instead on the fire I’ve been accused of setting. Who could have started that fire? Why? Who would stand to gain? Why would anyone want to kill or hurt Ella? She poses no threat.
At least not until she started asking questions about her parents’ deaths. Thanks to a bumbling fool from South Carolina.
My phone rings and I jump, grabbing my glasses before answering. It’s Dad. I swallow, my mouth murky with Dorito breath, and try to act casual. “Hey.”
“Don’t you ‘hey,’ me. Want to explain why the hell a Cambria City cop is calling me? Telling me my son is in danger of being charged with half a dozen felonies? What have you gotten yourself into up there?”
“Why did they call you? I’m nineteen—an adult.”
“Courtesy call. It’s what you do when you see some poor kid halfway across the country from his home getting ready to ruin his life. Thank the Lord this Officer Hardy called me at work, otherwise he would have gotten your mother.”
“You haven’t told her?” I exhale with relief. Facing Mom’s wrath would be worse than any sentence a judge could hand down.
“Say the word and I’ll take off work, head on up.” Coming from Dad, this is crazy talk. The only time the man has ever used his vacation time was the day I was born.
The thought splashes cold against the fire of my worry, clearing my head. “Hardy doesn’t think I did it,” I say slowly, my thoughts trying to make sense of the jumble of facts I’ve been juggling. “Only reason why he’d call you before there were any formal charges.” No cop would risk their case like that, showing their hand to a concerned family member of a suspect. Not unless that suspect wasn’t really a suspect. “So what does he think happened?”
“He says the family thinks the girl might have done it herself. Says she’s been acting erratic. Might need help.” Dad pauses. “After what happened to her when she was little, wouldn’t be too surprising. Maybe you stirring things up actually helped them to see how troubled she is.”
It’s the closest Dad will ever come to admitting that a civilian—Dad prefers the term amateur—investigating a case could possibly be a good thing.
“There’s nothing wrong with Ella,” I snap, frustration propelling me to my feet. My back and neck creak in protest, but I ignore them.
“You barely know the girl, son,” he says. “You can’t be sure.”
“I think her family’s up to something.” I still haven’t found any actual proof that Ella’s grandmother, uncle, and godfather are involved, but they’re also still my only suspects. Other than her father, of course. I start pacing, making a complete circuit around the table before a thought stops me. “If Ella is declared mentally incompetent, that would give Ella’s family access to her money, right? In a way, it’d b
e even better than killing her since there’d be no investigation into an unstable teen trying to self-harm.”
I stand in front of the white board with Helen, Joe, and Darrin’s images while I wait for Dad to consider my theory. I can’t believe I’m thinking this way—this is how psychopaths think, driven by their own selfish needs, giving no regard to humanity.
The three most important people in Ella’s life conspiring against her? Cold and calculating to the point where they don’t care if she lives or dies? People who’d lived with her for fifteen years, family who’d sheltered and protected her . . .
“Hard to believe.” Dad echoes my own doubts. Although I’m also thinking that the timing of the fire, right after Ella’s trust opened up, is highly suspicious. “What proof do you have?”
My gaze returns to Helen’s and Joe’s photos. Funny; other than their red hair, neither looks much like Ella’s mother or Ella herself. Nothing too strange about that—I don’t look like either of my parents, and instead take after my maternal grandfather. Just one more stray fact to throw into the chaos.
“No proof,” I admit. “Just a lot of facts that don’t add up.”
“You know …” Dad’s tone is the one he uses to break bad news. “There is another option.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about and I don’t want to hear it. He’s suggesting that Ella is as unstable as her father. No. Despite the turmoil of the last few days—turmoil I’d caused—despite almost dying, she hadn’t broken. Instead, last night in the ER when we talked, she’d seemed stronger, as determined to find the truth as I was.
