Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  Hauntings.

  This girl.

  A pip.

  An idea swirls in my head. Do it. I rise from my seat and walk to the patio doors, staring out over the pool as I sort the chaos of my thoughts. Do it. Don’t do it. Settle it once and for all.

  Indecision paralyzes me. The formidable Rose Trudeau isn’t so formidable.

  Fraud.

  Well, no more.

  I turn back to Rae. “I think we should go there. For the story.”

  The story. Who am I kidding? I’m the coward hiding behind a journalist’s dream. But I’m also a woman who understands Rae’s passion. Her drive to succeed.

  I’m not above using it.

  A trip to the Grande with me would make her the only reporter to ever accomplish that. In return, I would have the ability to finally face what I’ve avoided for so long. And I get to do it while helping this young woman.

  My guest nibbles her bottom lip, clearly considering my words.

  “La Paradisio,” I say, “as you’re probably aware, is a US territory. No passport required as long as you have your government ID.”

  The air has a sudden charge to it and I don’t fight it. I let the tension linger. She wants this. I can sense it even from twenty feet away.

  “I can’t,” she says. “If I haven’t mentioned it, I’m broke. I literally have three days’ worth of expense money.”

  I wave my arms, gesturing to my kitchen and ridiculously expensive lemon of a refrigerator. “Have you noticed I’m loaded? I’ll cover the cost of the flight. In fact, we’ll borrow the jet.”

  That last part may have been a tad unfair. This girl has never been out of the country and I’m dangling in front of her a trip to the islands—in a private plane—to chase her dream.

  It’s right there. Close enough for her to really want it. To go for it. All so I can use her story as an excuse to slay my demons.

  I should be ashamed and, yet…no.

  Not one molecule of guilt in me.

  She cocks her head. “Don’t tease me, Rose.”

  Oh, she’s a hoot, this one. I march back to her, gently smack her leg, and collect the soiled plates. Before I can grab hers, she snatches the last bite of her burger from it.

  “Think about it,” I say. “We’ve already talked about connecting with the investigating officer. What if he’s retired and we have to hunt him down? It’ll be easier if we’re there. Plus, you’ll get the feel of the island. Experience it firsthand. It’ll give your story depth.”

  Now I’m pushing it, but the more I talk, the more I’m starting to believe it. This plan, although spontaneous, might work for both of us. Rae will get her story and I will finally face the emotions buried in the rubble of the Grande.

  My stomach seizes again. Just the thought terrifies me, but…it’s time.

  I want my life back.

  13

  Rose

  * * *

  The plane pulls to a stop at the Ramone Perez Regional Airport, otherwise known as “the airstrip.” Rae sits across the aisle from me in jeans and a pair of flat sneakers—thank God she ditched the hideous boots. Her headphones are in and she’s staring out over the tarmac and the high-rises beyond.

  La Paradisio. The place I loved for so long and then abandoned. There’s an excitement brewing inside me, but right along with it is a swirling ball of dread. It’s an odd, unexpected mix that sends my blood pressure skyrocketing and sets me on edge.

  Rae peels her gaze from the window. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.”

  The cockpit door opens, the pilot nodding at us as he unlocks the outer door.

  Here we go.

  He pushes the door open and a burst of salty, moist air enfolds the cabin. I close my eyes, let myself drift back to a time when La Paradisio air immediately relaxed me.

  This too, I want back.

  I open my eyes and unbuckle my seat belt. Rae is already out of her seat, her eyes nearly dancing with energy that inspires me to get moving.

  In minutes, we’re through customs and tucked into a cab, heading east, toward the ocean. I’ve booked us a suite at a hotel three miles from the remains of the Grande. Having no idea what the sight of the burned-out shell would do to me, my goal was a simple one; be far enough away that I can’t see it if I choose not to.

  The cab driver hums along to a Spanish song on the radio as he stops at an intersection with a healthy lack of signage and then rolls into a right turn. On either side of me are small, stone bungalows with sand as their front yards. No grass or pretty flowers, but palm trees hover overhead, breaking the spell of beige surrounding us.

  I lower the window a crack, allowing the fresh air in. Moisture lies heavier on the air than when we exited the plane. We’re close to the ocean. I lower the window a bit more and tilt my head back.

  The driver glances at me via the rearview mirror. “You smell?”

  Given the number of Americans who travel to the island, many residents are bilingual.

  I nod. “Yes. I adore the salt air.”

  He points out the windshield where, in the distance, the tops of the high-rises soar above homes.

  How far south are we?

  In the thirty years since I’ve stepped foot on this island, there’s been hurricane damage, new construction, and probably many other changes that have made the roads far less familiar than they used to be. I peer out my window, searching for any landmark that might jolt my memory.

  Nothing. Not one thing looks familiar.

  My shoulders droop, but what did I expect after all this time? That I’d step out of the plane and the island would somehow be frozen in time, with my favorite eateries and shops waiting for my return?

  I know better. Life brings change, so I push my drooping shoulders back as the high-rises draw closer. We reach a T intersection where the driver turns left, then another quick right and we’re there. Oceano Street. But where on Oceano? North?

  Or South?

  Please not South.

  The sparkling water and white shimmering beach are just as I remember. In another block, all that beauty will be tucked behind the high-rises, so I keep my gaze fixed on the ocean and simply breathe.

  As we cruise along, a smattering of pedestrians, some in bathing attire, some in shorts, stroll the sidewalk.

  South.

  The lack of activity is the telltale. At least some things remain. Back in the day, El Monde, the busier downtown area of the island, drew activity-seeking tourists, leaving the southernmost end of the island for those who prefer quiet.

  If memory serves we’ll drive right past the Grande.

  The panic begins to rise, my heart slamming against my chest wall, and I hold my breath, concentrating on staying calm. I count to three, exhale, and look over at Rae, who is watching me. Studying.

  “We’re going to pass it,” I say. My voice has a rough edge that cracks and I clear my throat. “The Grande.”

  “I wondered.”

  “You know?” the driver asks. “The Grande?”

  “Yes.” I wave my hand at the window. “We visited often.”

  “The fire.” He tsk-tsks. “Sad.” He points out the windshield and to the right. “Next block.”

  “The next block?” This from Rae. “No way.”

  Yes, way.

  I’m paralyzed. Virtually hardening to stone while the buildings and slivers of beach in between roll past me. I’m not ready for this. If I’d been thinking straight, I’d have told him to go the other way. The more northerly route. It would have added at least ten minutes to the trip, but it would have given me extra time to prepare myself.

  The cars in front of us ease to a halt in front of Madrid, a Spanish restaurant that served the best paella on the island. My God. Thirty years and Simon’s favorite restaurant is still standing.

  Which means…

  One block up, there it is, the top of the Grande where, last time I was here, helicopters flew dangerously close
to the roof, lowering rescue baskets for stranded guests. Hundreds of people were flown off that roof.

  The pressure in my chest spreads, wrapping around my rib cage and squeezing the muscles in my back. A squeak—a horrible little cry—leaves me and I gasp. Oh, the humiliation of weakness.

  “Rose,” Rae says, “are you all right?”

  Please. I’m far from all right. Still, I give her a crisp nod, my attempt at holding it together.

  “It’s odd,” I say. “To suddenly see it.”

  Traffic starts moving again, the hotel coming closer and closer. I want to look away. My closest friend died in that building. I have to look away. Don’t I? My life changed that day and it’s more than grief. There’s the guilt. I got out while she burned to death. When I’m feeling hopeful, I consider the fact that the smoke may have caused her demise rather than flames melting her skin.

  Not that asphyxiation is all that much better.

  What am I doing?

  I shake the thought away as the cab comes to another traffic-inflicted stop. Right at the corner of the Grande.

  Of course.

  I’m here. The place we flew so far to see. I gather my nerve and force myself to peer out the window. The ravaged skeleton stands surrounded by a rusty, decrepit chain link fence with an equally decrepit “for sale” sign barely hanging on. The building’s cement outer walls are intact, but between the fire and years of neglect, there’s nothing left. Just a cavernous shell of what was once the most elite property on the island.

  My mind drifts, giving me a visual of the glass-enclosed first floor.

  The casino.

  And the curling, black smoke as it slithered along the ceiling.

  “It’s so sad,” Rae says, jarring me from my mind travel.

  I have to agree. “That it is.”

  The cab inches closer and I lower the window the rest of the way, nudging my face into the warm, moist air. Gayle. Somehow, just being here, I feel close to her. My heart is pounding, my legs tingling with the need to move.

  “Deten el auto,” I say.

  The driver eyes me in the rearview.

  “Rose?” Rae says. “What’s happening?”

  “Well, if I remember enough of my Spanish, I’ve just asked our driver to pull over.” I face her. “We’re getting out. Well, at least I am.”

  Our driver inches out of traffic, pulling right up onto what used to be the sidewalk.

  I dig into my purse and hand him a fifty over the seat. “Espera por favor.”

  He accepts the bill and nods. I push the door open.

  Rae scrambles after me, sliding across the seat. “Rose? Are you sure about this?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll wait for us. If you’d rather stay in the car, that’s fine.”

  “No. I’m good. Believe me. I just thought—”

  “What? That it would be hard for me? It is. At the same time, I can feel her. Gayle. And I haven’t felt that in a very long time.”

  I walk along the crumbling sidewalk, thankful I chose to wear flat, closed-toed shoes. There’s a wide gate just ahead and, before I lose my nerve, I march toward it.

  “There’s a lock on the gate,” Rae says.

  “I see that.”

  I pause, my hands on my hips. I want in and I’ll be damned if this lock will keep me out.

  Rae pushes on the gate and the chain holding the lock gives enough slack that there’s a decent sized opening. “We can fit through here. If you’re up for it.”

  I’m up for it. I gesture to the gate. “I’ve come this far. Might as well.”

  “You’re awesome, Rose.”

  For now, I’m awesome. I’m running purely on adrenaline and something tells me I’ll be an emotional disaster when this all sinks in.

  My young friend wedges her body into the opening, then leans in, pressing against the gate and creating enough of an opening that I slip right through.

  It shouldn’t have been that easy. Should it?

  Instinctively, I brush my hands together, breathe in the salty air, and lift my gaze to the building that left me wrecked.

  14

  Rae

  * * *

  $163.70

  * * *

  As far as I’m concerned, Rose Trudeau is the bomb. The bombiest bomb ever. All I wanted was an interview—the interview—that dozens of journalists haven’t managed to nab.

  Now, with $163.70 in my account after paying for the hotel room, buying a pair of flip-flops and dropping off my rental car, I’m standing in front of the Grande—what’s left of it anyway—after Rose and I blew right by a “no trespassing” sign.

  I turn to face her. “What would you like to do?”

  She gives me her Haughty Rose look. “As if I should know? You’re the journalist.”

  I have no argument. Zero. She’s right though. I started this, I need to control it. And I will. Even if I’m winging it. But holy smokes, I seriously can’t believe she’s been willing to do this. That she’s taking a chance on me.

  I’m…humbled. And a little scared. I can’t disappoint her.

  I won’t disappoint her.

  “Let’s do this.” I wave a hand at the rubble in front of us. “Can you walk me through it?”

  Rose points to an area straight ahead where thick cement beams support what’s left of the building. “That was the casino. That entire front was all windows. The sides also.”

  I snap a few photos. Once I lower my phone, Rose takes two steps forward, then abruptly stops. For whatever reason, I’m tempted to reach for her. To give her a human connection, someone to latch on to.

  This has to be brutal for her. The woman made famous by a magazine cover baring her emotional devastation to the world. As much as I want her version of the story, it doesn’t seem fair. She’s not exactly young and has admitted how insanely painful this was.

  “Wait,” I tell her.

  She turns back. “What is it?”

  “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “Of course we should. My dear, we’ve come a long way. You wanted your story. I’m giving it to you.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, please, Rae. Now you’re worried?”

  The way she says it, practically spitting the words, gives me pause. I should probably deny my concerns and avoid a potential lecture from Haughty Rose. But no. If something happened to her, physically or emotionally, I’d feel responsible. And after what I’ve been through in Sasper, I don’t think my career would survive it. More than that, I’m not sure I would. “Well,” I say, “Yeah. I kinda am worried.” I look back at the ruins of the Grande. “Rose, it’s…a lot. Even for me and I wasn’t here that day.”

  She pegs me with that steady blue gaze I swear could slice someone in half. “I appreciate your concern, but this lady can take a lot.”

  “I know that. It’s just—”

  “Halt!”

  I spin back and see a man—a cop—getting ready to squeeze through the opening in the gate. He’s not fat, but he’s got a belly on him, so the task won’t be as easy as Rose and I had it. He’s going for it though, and my insides go loose enough that I’m wishing for a bathroom.

  “Uh-oh,” I say. “Guess we shouldn’t have ignored the signage.”

  The cab driver is still at his car, casually leaning against the front passenger side. After that fifty bucks she laid on him, maybe he could have warned us?

  Rose grasps my arm. “Stay calm. I’ll handle this.” She lifts her chin, offers a soft smile that’s neither too over-the-top nor subdued. Somehow, she’s transformed to Queen Rose, the woman I met on her front steps two days ago.

  “Hola,” she calls, holding a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  The officer gets through the gate, giving his shirt a tug where it has apparently gotten caught on the fence and ripped. Whoopsie.

  He waves a fist at us and lets fly a stream of Spanish that, if I knew the language, would probably singe my ears. I may not comprende, but hi
s harsh tone is a definite indicator that he’s fairly pissed.

  Rose offers up a cheery wave and responds in Spanish, keeping her voice level—friendly, friendly, friendly—but gets hung up and snaps her fingers, searching for the word.

  “English!” the cop barks and I throw my shoulders back.

  I don’t like being yelled at. By anyone. “Crabby, isn’t he?” I mutter.

  The sun is beating down on us, the heat prompting a line of sweat to trickle down the back of my neck. The cop comes closer and another blast of heat—probably all that fury flying off him—accosts me.

  Aside from his full middle, the officer is lean, appearing more middle-aged given the crow’s feet around his eyes. He pinches his lips together for a full three seconds, clearly trying to control his temper.

  Rose takes two steps, meeting him partway and cutting off his stomping approach. “Excellent. You understand English.”

  He squeezes his thumb and index finger together. “Little bit.”

  Rose holds her hand out in greeting. “Hello. I’m—”

  “You no read?” He points to the giant sign—written in both English and Spanish—we blew by.

  We both play dumb and peer around him. If we’re not Oscar contenders, Hollywood has gone nuts.

  “No trespassing!” he thunders.

  This guy is starting to piss me off. Yes, we’re trespassing. Probably half the people on this island have done that. He doesn’t have to scream.

  I can’t lose my cool though. Totally unprofessional. I take a long slow breath, inhaling the moist salty air as I move to stand next to Rose. “You know, you’re kinda—”

  Rose squeezes my arm again. “Please, dear. I’ll handle this.”

  Of course she will. Queen Rose.

  “I apologize,” she tells the cop. “You see, we’ve just flown in. I haven’t been here since,” she pauses, looks back at the burned-out ruins of the Grande.

  “Out!”

  The cop jabs—poke, poke, poke—a vicious finger at the gate, and I’m starting to think this guy has an anger management problem.