Because even with the firetrucks closing the street, police rushing to put up yellow tape, it’s clear.
It is our house.
Our house is on fire.
Flames lap at the sky, an acrid scent seeping into the car, the filter unable to take out the stench of hell before it spits air at us.
Jansen sits up suddenly, shoving the rest of Clara onto my lap, her eyes blinking open in confusion. “Fluffington,” he gasps, then leaps from the still-rolling car, sprinting toward the fire, dodging a yelling police officer.
“Damn it,” Trips yells, jumping out to chase after him, more police crowding where the two of them broke through.
Walker’s wide eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Park,” I say, not knowing what to do.
Clara shakes her head, her mind still locked in a well-fucked haze, exactly where it should be, not forced to come back online to face yet another disaster.
We’ve had our fill. We don’t need any more.
The car halts, the clicks from the cooling engine filling the silence as we stare at the fire eating all our worldly possessions.Our home, gone. Clara slowly sits up straighter, finally understanding what she’s seeing. “Oh,” she breathes.
Oh. What else is there to say?
Tears trail down her cheeks, and Walker climbs over the console to bundle her close to him, whispering who knows what. It won’t make anything better. Our house is burning down.
Slowly, the firefighters get the flames under control, ashes mounding against the windshield wipers, but the three of us don’t move from the cooling vehicle, shock locking us into this strange vignette: Walker holding Clara while I stare out the front, my brain hollow. Because our home is a skeleton of wood and water surrounded by uniformed police officers I won’t risk approaching, no matter the horror in front of me.
A knock on the window makes me jump, time meaningless as the blaze gets under control. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to my eyes, the sight of a plain-clothed officer Tom Reed next to the car not making any sense. I open the door, sliding out, but before I can close it, Clara scoots to the edge, her feet dangling, pushing the door wide, so she’s part of whatever the cop is going to say.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Have you gotten closer?” Clara asks, her voice scratchy.
“I’ve been inside the line.”
Clara wraps her arms around herself, Walker quickly dropping his suit jacket over her shoulders. “Did you see Jansen or Trips?”
The cop nods, the streetlight bleaching the color from him on one side while the other glows with the lingering embers. “They’re with your cat in the ambulance. It’s okay. Singed paws and some smoke inhalation, but it should be fine.”
A strangled sob shakes out of her, and I reach for her hand. She holds on with all the strength she’s capable of, and it’s the first thing that makes it through my quiet brain, the fear and anger that floods me catching me off guard. I close my eyes, trying to get it under control before I snap at the cop beside us.
“I hate to do this,” he says, his voice forcing my eyes open in time to see him passing Clara a card inside of an evidence bag. “We found this nailed to a tree by a snow-covered hammock out back. Is it Bryce?”
Even in the dark, I can tell that the scratched letter is in the same hand as all the other cards. ‘You take from me, I take from you. Tit for tat. PS - with extra tat for almost getting me killed.’
“Yes,” she says, handing it back. “Are you fools actually going to do something about it now? Now that he’s run off with a fifteen-year-old and burned down our house? Is that enough evidence for you to believe he belongs behind bars? Or do you still need more to get off your asses and actually do something?” Her anger is choked with tears. “We all know the next escalation will come with a body bag. And I’ve already cheated the Grim Reaper too many times this year. I don’t think Death is endlessly forgiving. Do you?”
Her dark eyes blaze with fury as she meets the cop’s gaze in the half-light, ashes and flurries swirling between them, the gems in her crown flashing as she slowly shakes her head at his silence.
“We can’t find him,” he admits.
“Well, we know he was here not too long ago. Why don’t you start there?” Her anger is beautiful, as regal as the crown on her head.
“It’s not my case anymore. I came because I recognized the address on the radio.”
“So you’ll do nothing.”
He stares toward the house—toward what used to be our home. “We rescued those girls with some help from your friend Summer.” A hint of color coats his cheeks, but he keeps speaking, not elaborating on whatever that means. “The case against Trevor Westerhouse should land tomorrow morning. And I don’t know how much you know about your father-in-law, but we’ve got reason to believe he won’t be free for much longer either.”
“Do you expect a cookie for following our crumbs? Because I’m fresh out.” She snaps her fingers, a cruel half-smile on her face. “That’s right—I left them in myhouse.Maybe you can get one of your firefighter buddies to grab one for you. I’m sure they’re still fine.”
