I finish the workout and perch on an outcropping of granite. My legs dangle over a sheer drop to a rocky surface fifty yards below. Here, it feels as though I’m the only person in the entire world, even as, out on the water, a single motorboat speeds across the surface, leaving a wake in its trail. I close my eyes and allow the sounds of nature—the breeze, the birds, the rustling of leaves—to fill in the quiet, as I contemplate what I learned yesterday.
For me, my father’s been a blank slate waiting to be filled in. Some of his story I found in newspaper articles and police reports during my research—his job, his reputation, his motive for murder—but yesterday added shading to that image. He sang tenor and had a beautiful voice. He played ukulele and dreamed of a world away from Hero. He was Paul’s friend. He danced to Blondie on a night my mother would yearn to relive decades later.
The edges of his character have begun to soften. He wasn’t the monster I grew up believing he was, but a person, one who made terrible mistakes. And maybe this story is worth pursuing, whether I turn it into a podcast or not.
A scent brings me back to the present.
Smoke.
I pull my legs from over the cliff and scan the clearing and the crumbling cabin for another hiker. “Hello?” I call out.
No one answers, but the scent is stronger now, too strong to be from a cigarette. I search the horizon. Below, on the lakeshore, a plume of smoke rises from Burkehaven. Then a burst of flames erupts through the trees.
Fire.
I instinctively reach for my phone only to remember leaving it behind at Idlewood. I take off along the ridge, my feet pounding as I leave the summit, pass the shooting range, and scramble sideways down the steep trail, grasping at tree roots and granite to keep from falling until I emerge on the street below. At the turnoff to Burkehaven, I thump my fist on the bungalow’s kitchen door. When Hadley doesn’t answer, I test the knob. The door’s unlocked. I shout Hadley’s name, then use the wall phone to dial 9-1-1, before sprinting the last half mile through the trees to Burkehaven.
Thick, black smoke fills the air.
The half-constructed house on the point is in flames. At the dock, a maroon Bryant 219, the same type of motorboat we have tied to our dock at home, the same type Andrea Haviland floated in yesterday afternoon as she yelled into her bullhorn, tugs at a single line.
Glass shatters. Flames shoot toward the sky.
I shout Reid’s name, then Mrs. Haviland’s, wondering who could be here, who might be trapped in the fire, as I jog along the muddy path, shielding my face from the intense heat. A shower of embers singes my skin, while smoke fills my lungs. I throw myself into the frigid lake water. As I emerge, someone stumbles from the house, silhouetted against the flames, and collapses in the courtyard.
“Who’s there?” I shout, pressing forward. “I’m coming.”
Behind me, something rustles. I turn. A tree limb swings. My head explodes with pain. And the world goes black.
Chapter Nine
Someone says my name, though it’s easy enough to ignore as I slip through the hazy, kind world of unconsciousness. I want to stay here, far from the unthinkable, far from the violence that brought me to this place. But the voice returns, this time with urgency.
“Charlie!”
Fingertips dig into my shoulder as my body shakes and my senses come into focus one at a time. First, something cool and wet runs along my face. The sun glows behind my eyelids, and the taste of copper fills my mouth. With the strong scent of smoke, I’m yanked into the real world as the back of my head begins to throb.
“Charlie Kilgore, if you don’t wake up, I’ll kill you.”
I open one eye, then the other. Seton kneels over me in her police uniform, her face etched with concern. My thoughts are muddled as I try to remember what brought me here and touch the tattoos running up her forearm. “Did these hurt when you got them?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Not as much as your head hurts right now. Glad you’re back.”
“How did I get here?” I ask.
“You tell me.”
Above her, thick smoke billows into the sky, nearly blocking the sun. The radio on her shoulder chirps an update I can’t quite follow. She dips into it, saying something about an ambulance as I struggle to sit. “Don’t move,” she says. “The EMTs are on their way.”
I try to speak, but my mouth is coated in ash. Seton pulls a bottle of water from a bag and holds it to my lips. I suck at the liquid, attempting to wash away the foul taste as she runs her hands through my hair. “You scared the shit out of me,” she says. “What happened, anyway? Did you run into a tree?”
I touch my head. My fingers come away covered in blood. “I don’t know,” I say as images creep into my memory like forgotten dreams: an explosion, a fire, someone fighting to escape.
Concern flashes in Seton’s eyes. “You’ll remember soon enough. And head wounds bleed a lot. It’s probably nothing, but we’ll want to be sure you don’t have a concussion or smoke inhalation or a fractured skull. Do you think you can stand? We should move away from the smoke.”
Nothing happening right now makes sense. Fifty yards down the shore, a fire rages, and yet there’s no urgency to Seton’s actions. “We have to get to the house,” I say.
“And do what?” Seton asks. “I alerted the fire department. They’re on their way. My job is to contain the scene and make sure no one does anything stupid, and the only person to contain right now is you, so sit tight and don’t make trouble. I told you yesterday the Lantern Festival was a fire hazard. Guess who’s right again.”
