“Should we call the fire department?” Helen asked.
“I think it’ll be okay,” Nate said. “The front door’s open. Let’s let it dissipate a bit, then we can open all the windows.” He looked at Helen. “How do you feel?”
“I have a headache and I’m a little dizzy, but okay,” she said.
“Me, too. We got lucky. Good thing you woke up when you did.”
Good thing Hattie woke me,she thought.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Must be a leak somewhere,” he said.
They sat outside, holding hands, taking deep breaths.
In a few minutes, they went in and started cranking open all the louvered windows.
“Nate,” she said, “when I went to bed, all these were open.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Positive. I could hear the frogs.”
Soon, Nate deemed it safe enough to turn on a light. “Helen?” he called. He was standing in front of the stove.
“Yeah?”
“Come take a look at this.” He was pointing at the stove. “The gas is wide open, every burner turned on but not lit.”
“It wasn’t a leak,” Helen said, her whole body tensing.
“You didn’t leave the stove on, did you?” Nate asked.
She shook her head. “I didn’t use the stove at all tonight. And why the hell would I turn on all four burners? When I got home, I hung out here on the computer for a while.”
And I saw your fucked-up nature journal, full of the elusive white doe.
“I’m sure I would have noticed if the gas was on then—I was, like, five feet from the stove.”
“Are you sure?” Nate asked.
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Then what…”
“Someone came into the trailer,” Helen said, the panic returning, replacing the relief. “After we went to sleep—someone came in here, turned on the gas, and closed the windows.”
“But how…who…?” His voice trailed off, then he jumped up. “The cameras would have caught them! We’ll see who it is! Have evidence.”
He went over to his laptop and blinked at it miserably. “The cameras have all been disconnected,” he said. He tapped the keys. “The recordings from tonight are all gone. There’s nothing here. It’s been wiped clean.”
“We need to call the police,” Helen said. She was already dialing 911.
. . .
A state trooper pulled into their driveway twenty minutes later. He was an older man in his early sixties, with a ruddy complexion, and introduced himself as Trooper Bouchier. He listened to their story. Helen let Nate do most of the talking, fearing that her voice would tremble. The trooper looked at the front door, the windows, and the gas stove. He watched patiently while Nate showed him his computer with feed from the outdoor cameras.
“See,” Nate said. “All the footage from tonight has been wiped clean.”
