Rise from Ash

by Fleur Smith

  When I was unable to clear my mind of him, I thumped my hands against the steering wheel in frustration. “Damn it, Clay!”

  The sky darkened as storm clouds closed in around me. I leaned forward to glance through the windshield at the grey sky and hoped the weather would at least provide me with a distraction—hoping the slick roads and occasional car to pass might offer something else to concentrate on.

  Before the threatening clouds had utterly eclipsed the sun, the first drops of rain hit the windshield. Fat, heavy, tear-shaped drops fell against the glass as if the sky itself was joining in my grief. Each drop glistened in the fading sunlight like tiny, rainbow gems. I flicked on the wipers and turned my full concentration onto the sound they made as they scraped across the glass and the sight as they scattered the fallen jewels. It wasn’t a perfect diversion, but it was better than the alternative.

  By the time the sun had beaten back the clouds, it was hanging low in the sky, sending arcs of reds and purples reaching across the horizon. The sun stretched through the trees at an angle, spilling dappled light over the road and creating a hypnotizing, strobe-like effect that made my eyelids droop. I’d been pushing myself too hard, and the discovery of Clay’s letter had only made things worse. But in my dreams, I could be with Clay. My eyelids sank into another protracted blink.

  I leaped to attention, stopping the car from veering off the road, and shook my head to clear it so I could focus.

  Time dragged on relentlessly as I tried to concentrate on the road and not on remembering the way Clay looked at me while we made love—with his gaze so intense and full of desire—or wondering about the contents of the letter that sat less than a foot away.

  Hours of night driving, of staring into the inky blackness with eyes filled with unshed tears, tugged at my eyelids relentlessly until it was almost impossible to force them to stay open for even a moment longer. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and rested my forehead against the top of the steering wheel. Allowing my eyelids to sink closed, I relished the burn that accompanied the momentary relief.

  While I rested my eyes, I tried to plan my next move. The letter called to me from my bag and the temptation to reach out and grab it was so intense it was almost impossible to resist. The only thing that stopped me was the certainty that I wouldn’t be able to force myself back onto the road if it contained the hate-filled diatribe I feared.

  Just find somewhere to stop. Somewhere safe. Open it there.

  In the moments when the sunbird’s true voice came to the fore and her soothing and calming demeanor took over, it all but confirmed I’d gone insane and had merely been talking to myself the other times I’d thought she’d responded.

  Nodding, as if the sunbird could actually see me, I replied, “You’re right, let’s go.”

  I blinked my eyes a few times and turned up the air conditioning to help me stay awake and concentrate on the drive. I promised myself that I would stop at the next town I found.

  When I pulled back onto the road and closed in on the next town, all of my rules for survival ran through my mind, and I plotted a way to lose the car and find a place to stay as quickly but safely as possible.

  I did a short lap of the town, keeping an eye out for a motel within walking distance of the spot I’d selected to dump the car but far enough away to not be spotted performing my misdeeds. I didn’t drive too fast or too slow because I wanted there to be nothing to draw any unwanted attention to the car—or to me.

  After my plan was all lined up—with a hotel and a dumping ground both within walking distance of each other—I drove to my selected destination and traveled away from the buildings of the quarry, as far into the inky black night as I could before stopping. Once the engine was off, I leaped into action, emptying the vehicle and ensuring my backpack was packed and ready for fast retrieval once the car was alight.

  Glancing around briefly, I did what I could to confirm that I was alone in the darkness. When I had, I set to work.

  Within seconds, I could feel the familiar sensation of heat prickling just beneath my skin as invisible flames licked at the air. Taking a deep breath, I reached into the passenger seat and pressed my fingers against the soft fabric. As I exhaled, I concentrated on the burning in my hand, imagining it leaping from my skin and away from my body. The heat became almost unbearable in the moments before my hands grew numb. The first curls of smoke reached my nose, and I knew it was enough. It was one of the advantages to stealing cars with a cheap fabric interior over plush leather seats—flammability.

  Before I stepped away from the car, I watched the embers I’d set take root and grow into flames. Burning the car was a risk, a trail Clay could use to track me. It was better than leaving my fingerprints in a stolen car though. Either way, it was an obvious breadcrumb trail for anyone who knew what they were looking for, but at least with no fingerprints the police wouldn’t be able to track me as well.

  Regardless, I hoped to be rested and far enough away by the time anyone found the burned shell. One night’s rest in the motel I’d spotted would be all I would allow myself.

  Knowing that the fire was set well enough that it would spread rapidly to engulf the rest of the car, I stood, swinging my bag up onto my back as I did. Keeping my head ducked in case of CCTV cameras, I skirted around the outside of the buildings and headed back toward the road. I was at the end of the street before the flames caught the almost empty fuel tank of the Honda and exploded with a loud bang.

  In my mind, I envisioned the plume of thick black smoke that the explosion would have released into the air behind me. There was no need for me to turn around, I’d done the same thing often enough that the sound was enough to inspire a perfect rendering in my mind.

  The echo of the blast gave me a renewed push. I walked faster and fought the urge to run because it would only make me look guilty. Even as I rushed from the scene, a stab of guilt raced through me. Once more, I’d given in to the darkness and potential for evil that lived within me to destroy yet another innocent person’s car. I tried not to think about the trail of damage I’d caused that littered most of the country.

  Instead, I turned to my earlier hopes about what the letter might contain. With the words painted on the wall of the hotel fresh in my mind, the optimistic thoughts now seemed foolish. It wasn’t like Clay would have forgotten what I’d done to his family—to his twin sister.

  Rubbing my hands together softly, I longed to shift the sting of tenderness that had replaced the heat of setting the fire. The lingering cold tingles that inhabited my body after the burn had once been an odd and almost welcome sensation, but now they were little more than a reminder of the cost of my secrets.

  Ducking under a fence, I crossed a vacant lot to get back to the main road. I trailed along it, pushing the dark thoughts out of my mind and sticking to my original plan to head toward the motel just a few miles closer to town. The one problem I faced by following the highway was that it left me exposed to the prying eyes of passers-by. There was no shelter for me, and the mere thought of someone in the Rain spotting me was enough to send the prickling heat over my skin again.

  With the fear of capture racing through my veins, I couldn’t settle into an entirely natural rhythm. My heart hammered against my chest as though I’d been running for miles, not strolling for a few hundred yards. While I walked, I kept peering over my shoulder for rogue headlights following me and kept my ears cocked for the sound of any approaching cars.

  “Calm down,” I urged myself. You look nervous.

  I took a few deep breaths and tried to force my feet to move slower—to fall into a casual gait. It took almost half a mile before I believed that I might actually pass for a regular hitchhiker.

  I’d walked almost a mile when a fire truck whizzed by with its sirens blaring. As it passed, I turned to follow its path, watching with what I hoped was an appropriate level of curiosity. Ignoring it outright would have been just as dangerous as showing obvious interest; either
action would have been a flag to anyone watching.

  It was almost a relief when I spotted the motel “vacancy” sign flashing in the distance. I did everything I could to resist the urge to break into a run at the promise of sanctuary. Regardless of how much I fought against that need though, my feet quickened a little of their own accord.

  Once I was inside the safety of one of those untainted rooms, I could find out what Clay wanted to tell me. I couldn’t even pretend to want to go slow any longer. Before another yard had passed beneath me, I was sprinting toward the opportunity to read Clay’s words.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “IT’S A SHAME about those campers up near Bryson City, isn’t it?” the motel clerk asked as she ran through my booking.

  She was pleasant enough in nature, but her constant chattering was beginning to grate on my nerves. She’d been nattering about nonsense ever since I walked into the reception area twenty minutes earlier—first to the customer checking in before me and then to me. If there’d been another motel nearby, anywhere else I could have stayed, I probably would have left long before she’d even realized I’d gone, but I wasn’t willing to give up the safe harbor just because she was a Chatty Cathy.

  Her direct question to me caught me by surprise because I hadn’t really been paying any attention to any of her previous words, just nodding in the appropriate places as I moved through the booking process. Only the silence that now engulfed us made me realize her last utterance demanded some sort of reply. I tried to recall what it was she’d said, or asked, but I didn’t have enough local knowledge to understand her question.

  Not having any clue what she was talking about, but wanting to get away from the people around me and into the privacy of a room, I nodded before saying what seemed like an appropriate reply based on her expression. “It’s terrible.”

  She nodded back at me, her expression solemn for a fraction of a second longer before she smiled again and began to chatter mindlessly about some new topic as she processed my payment. Her conversation ranged wildly between bear attacks and local attractions. Trying to keep my features set in a polite expression, I wondered just how evil it would make me if I gave her a little burn—just enough to quiet her incessant blathering.

  Knowing that I could never willingly hurt anyone, especially when it wouldn’t be worth the hassle it would cause for me, I forced my lips into a smile, all while silently pleading with her to just shut the hell up and finish my booking already.

  Once she had finally completed checking me in, I grabbed the key from her and rushed to find my room. The instant I unlocked the door, I walked straight to the bed and upended the contents of my backpack across the mattress to see what I’d managed to salvage and try to assess what I’d lost in the rush to leave the ransacked room.

  So many of the new clothes I’d procured on the way to see Dad had been strewn across the last motel room and were now gone. I couldn’t assess the extent of my missing inventory though because in the middle of the resulting mess sat the one item that both terrified and thrilled me the most—the letter I’d found at Dad’s grave.

  Leaning forward to examine it closer, but not daring to touch it with my heated hands, I wondered whether I was far enough away from Charlotte—from Clay—that I could spend a moment to unravel the mystery behind the letter he’d left for me. It was a massive risk. If it contained what I worried it would, it might shatter my sanity completely. I might be unable to move on from the motel for days. I’d be a sitting duck if I risked anything more than an overnight stay, but would I even want to keep moving if it was as bad as I feared?

  The thought of the heartbreak I would suffer from the most hate-filled words he might offer paled into insignificance beside the idea of not reading his words. It would be agony to leave the note unopened for even an hour longer. Questions circled my mind in a dizzying rush.

  Why now?

  Why those flowers?

  Last time he’d left me magnolias, I’d assumed they were a warning. Instead, they’d been an offering of peace. Could it possibly be the same this time? He had to know that at least part of me would assume so, but maybe that was part of a trap. The last time had led me to the best time of my life—quickly followed by the worst. A niggling headache built at my temples as my head and heart locked in a tight battle for supremacy.

  Even if the flowers did mean peace, then what was the meaning of the hateful words painted across the motel walls.

  Unless that wasn’t him?

  “But who else could it have been? Who else knows me enough to know the cuts those particular words would leave?”

  The sunbird didn’t respond. She knew as well as I did that there wasn’t anyone.

  Even as I continued to wonder about the flowers, more questions raced through me.

  Why would he have left the letter and flowers there? With my father—the one place Clay had to know I’d go eventually.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, I resolved to do what I could to find out.

  Immediately.

  I took three more calming breaths, trying to get the heat coursing through me under control. Once I was confident I could handle the plastic sleeve without immediately melting it against the note, I plucked the letter from the middle of the pile on the bed. Willing myself to find the strength to open it, I uselessly tried to convince myself that nothing written inside was able to hurt me.

  Not as much as the person who wrote it. The sunbird reasoned.

  My fingers shook as I gently traced the letters of my name with my fingertip, allowing my fingertips to caress the indented lines that Clay’s hands had carefully etched.

  The not knowing was worse by far.

  Moving to sit cross-legged on the bed, I closed my eyes, willing time to reverse, to take things back to the way they were when Clay and I had first met. With memories of happier—simpler—times playing in my mind, hoping to quell the fire in my fingertips, I held the letter in my hands tenderly.

  My hands shook as doubt crept back in. I went to drop the letter back on the bed. “I’m still too close to Charlotte.”

  The sunbird refused to allow me to let it go. It doesn’t matter. You have to know.

  Tears pricked at my eyes as I asked the one question I desperately needed an answer to. “But what if he still hates me?”

  Then nothing has really changed has it? At least you’ll know.

  I blew out a breath and nodded. “At least I’ll know,” I repeated.

  As if the statement had given my curiosity the permission it needed to leap to the forefront of my mind, it burned through me. Whether the note contained hope or heartache didn’t matter anymore—I just needed to know. Without allowing myself to overthink it any longer, I gripped the plastic tightly in my hands and ran my fingers across the smooth surface to ensure my heat was under control.

  Refusing to give myself a chance to stop again, I tore off the tape that had sealed Clay’s words within.

  The moment the seal was broken, I became obsessed. I yanked the crisp white envelope out of the sleeve.

  My breaths came in short bursts, and my ribcage ached from the pounding it received from my heart as I slid my finger underneath the unsealed flap of the envelope. I lifted a folded sheet of paper from inside.

  My heart sank to my feet as I read it.

  It was far worse than anything I’d feared.

  The sheet was almost blank.

  All that Clay had written was an address and a date a little over a year in the future.

  Disappointment seeped into every pore of my body. Although I’d debated with myself about all the horrid things that I might find in the letter, I hadn’t expected it to be something so short and impersonal. A tirade of abuse would have almost been preferable—at least it would have made sense.

  Fat tears trailed down my cheeks, and I sniffed as my sorrow overtook me. I’d been so confident he had something desperately urgent to tell me, for good or bad, but there was nothing. It was impersonal, almost cli
nical. I hadn’t truly appreciated how desperate I’d been for some contact from him, how much I’d craved it until the letter had forced my hopes to rise to a pinnacle before crashing them heavily down around my heart.

  Turning the paper over, I hoped to find something else—anything else—written on it, but it was bare. I flipped the page around again, studying the address, hoping that it would spark something in my memory, but there wasn’t anything familiar about it at all. My mind considered every possible reason for why he might leave me that address, and why that date. Something about the date echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t recall what it was.

  The date. The flowers. The address. “Does he want me to meet him there on that date?”

  He can’t really think you’d risk that, can he?

  “Even if he did, why does he want to wait so long?” A little over a year . . . it just didn’t make sense. Especially when he had no way of knowing when I’d go to see Dad.

  So that he can set the trap?

  I scoffed. “With his resources, he wouldn’t need more than a week. Look at what he arranged with Dad’s funeral on his own in Charlotte. Besides, if it’s a date for some reunion, he couldn’t know whether I’d see the letter before then.”

  My mind brimmed over with memories of our times together, and how he’d always been able to convince me to do anything he’d wanted me to. There were so many times that his persistence had led me to do things I had initially resisted. Something about him just made it almost impossible for me to say no. And this wasn’t any different. If he wanted me at that address on that date, I wasn’t sure I could resist. Even as I sat there contemplating the letter, part of me leaped at the mere chance to be by his side again, whatever the cost.

  Maybe he can just expect me to turn up wherever, and whenever, he asks.

  Turning the letter over in my hand, again and again, I tried unsuccessfully to decipher some fresh clue from it. I studied his handwriting again and the reality of what it represented sunk in.