I wince, my attention back on the body. “I guess you can’t really blame him. We did leave him with her.”
“Knocked him out and locked him in. I know.” She shudders. “I still can’t believe it was Scarlett this whole time. She seemed…harmless.”
“I know. I can’t believe it took me so long to realize.”
“Don’t do that,” Izzy warns me. She directs my attention to the green outside. “Look who showed up.”
“Is that Ford?” I ask, noticing a disheveled blond boy in pajama bottoms and a gray hoody. He rakes a hand through his usually coiffed hair and stares up at the gallery.
“Yep. He saw the fire from his room and ran over here. He’s fuming, something about you destroying his grandfather’s legacy?”
“Clifford Heywood,” I breathe, remembering the name from the first article I read. “That’s who he was painting. His grandad used to own The Four.”
“Well, good luck quizzing him about it after this. He’s furious.”
“God, how many lives have I ruined this week?” I try to put my head in my hands, and wince. Izzy gives me a look and waves for the attention of a passing paramedic.
“You do know Noah is only alive because of you.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m thinking of the three people who aren’t.
Izzy changes the subject. “You think they’ll cancel the coursenow?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” I say, “but probably. I wouldn’t be able to do the writing class now anyway.”
I unfold my hand gingerly so the paramedic can finally treat it, and she takes hold of it in gentle purple-gloved hands. Her magnetic name badge saysEmma, and her eyes widen as she turns my palm face up.
“This looks pretty sore.” She smiles apologetically, then looks at Izzy when I don’t respond. “Is she in shock?”
“No, she’s just making sure Scarlett doesn’t hurt anybody else,” Izzy says, pointing at the sheet.
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore. The body is being moved soon,” the paramedic says. Her Irish accent is calm and soothing, but when I look at her face, I see she’s not that much older than us—in her early twenties at most. I wonder what kinds of things she’s seen in this job. I start to ask what will happen to Scarlett when two more paramedics walk into the gallery, wheeling a gurney between them. “Right on time.” Emma smiles, offering her other hand to me. “Let’s get you onto the ambulance so I can get this treated. Hopefully it won’t scar too badly if we act now.”
“Okay,” I say numbly, getting to my feet.
I don’t move, though; instead I watch the paramedics crouch down and remove the sheet from Scarlett’s body, allowing a wave of burning flesh and hair to escape. Izzy and Emma avert their eyes as one of the paramedics unfolds a body bag and lays it on the floor.
“Come on, Fliss,” Izzy urges, taking hold of my elbow.
I tear my eyes from the scene and start to walk with her,surprised at how wobbly my knees are. I falter and suddenly can’t think of anything better than sleeping for a week, until a male voice fills the foyer.
“Call in to Blackwood Hospital, emergency response incoming! We have a pulse!”
Emma looks at us and hesitates before dropping my arm and racing over to the other paramedics, speaking urgently into her radio as she does. I grab on to Izzy as we watch the scene unfold with horror, getting swept to the side as several more people descend on Scarlett’s body, including two more paramedics with a crash cart and bodyboard. Chaos breaks out as the uniformed officers stationed outside rush back in, everyone either shouting instructions or talking into radios as a swarm of people work around what is left of Scarlett.
“Patient is intubated and breathing. We need to move her to the ambulancenow.”
Izzy breathes sharply as Scarlett is lifted onto the board and carried past us. The skin I can see is red and puckered, the remnants of her beautiful hair now just charred clumps that are stuck to her head. I cover my nose and mouth as my stomach heaves, but I can’t keep it in. I turn around and vomit onto the floor as she’s carried out of the building, my body convulsing so much it drives me to my knees.
“Did that really just happen?” I ask, blinking back tears. “How the hell did she survive that?”
“I don’t know,” Izzy says, her voice hoarse as she helps me up.
We huddle back under the blanket, forgotten in the chaos, until a group of firefighters emerge from the front stairwell.
“Are you two being looked after?” a firefighter asks, approaching us. I don’t answer her, instead looking at the painting in her hands. It’s the first of The Four, and though the edges are charred, it looks like the frame protected most of it.
“They’re okay? The paintings?”
