“My name should appear in the report,” says Jack before he can stop himself. “All of our names should be there.”
Everyone, including Lydia, looks at him like he’s just committed treason.
“What?” says Jack, grabbing the report from Ritchie and waving it in the air. “Put my name on this thing. In big letters. I want it to read: JACK GIBSON STARTED THE FIRE.”
“You didn’t, though,” says Ritchie.
“How do you know?” says Jack. “You only know what I told you.”
Anderson is on him in a flash. “So, itwasyou who told!”
Jack hadn’t intended to out himself, but what does he even care at this point? “We’re responsible for the deaths of close to a hundred people.”
Under the table, Placide slams his shoe down on Jack’s foot, and Jack winces in pain. “I won’t be silenced,” he wheezes.
“You really went to the committee?” says Anderson. “After all of this?”
Jack glances at Lydia, whose eyes have turned to slits. “I was trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing would have been for you to never have been born.”
“Stand down, Mr. Anderson,” says Ritchie without so much as raising his voice. “There will be no retaliation.”
“We would never,” says Anderson indignantly. “This company is like a family.”
West lets out a choked laugh. The deed to the property, which was once held by his actual family, sits in front of him.
“Well,” says Ritchie, “I would advise the whole ‘family’ to leave town as soon as possible.”
“I can get everyone on a boat leaving Norfolk by week’s end,” says Placide.
“I wouldn’t dally getting to Norfolk, if I were you. Once word gets out that the fire can’t be blamed on the city’s Negro population, there are going to be a lot of disappointed people.”
SALLY
An hour passes, and thentwo, and still Mr. Scott and Sally do not run out of things to say to each other. But the sun has risen, the streets are growing crowded, and soon the burial committee will arrive, ready to receive the girl under the stairs. Sally should go and offer to help Mrs. Cowley move her onto the porch.
“Do you need anything else?” Sally asks Mr. Scott as she stands to go. It’s funny, but she doesn’t want to leave.
“Will you return?” he asks, and without realizing quite what she’s doing, she squeezes his hand.
“I will,” she says. “Soon.” It isn’t an empty promise.
On her way downstairs, she stops to check on Margaret.
“Archie not here yet?” she says, feigning surprise when she notes he has not yet arrived. But Margaret is asleep and cannot appreciate the barb.
Sally regrets not closing the window last night. The room smells better—cleaner—but it’s chilly. Thankfully, someone had come in during the night to put more coal on the fire and an extra quilt on the bed. She assumes that someone was Mrs. Cowley, and she is, as always, grateful for her kindness and good sense.
Sally closes the window, then shovels more coal into the grate. Finally, she turns her attention to Margaret, who sleeps deeply in the middle of the bed. Sally smooths the quilts, but it’s not until she gets them pulled tight around Margaret’s shoulders that she realizes her sister-in-law is shivering.
“Margaret,” she says softly, “are you cold?”
Margaret doesn’t respond.
“I left the window open last night, which was silly of me.”
The talk is just nervous chatter. It’s not until Sally touches her hand to Margaret’s head that she realizes something is wrong. “Margaret?”
