Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  “Not all the news is bad,” Luke says. “I found my cat.”

  Mo claps her hands. “Where? How?”

  “She’s been living in some guy’s barn, and he finally caught her and brought her to an animal rescue. Her paw pads are burned, but she’s okay.”

  We release a collective breath, as if finding the cat means everything is going to be okay, which obviously it’s not. “Are you still staying with Mo?” I ask.

  He stretches his legs, stares at his hands. “Nah, my mom took me back because Aiden wouldn’t stop crying for me.” A fond glow lights his face at Aiden’s name, and then he lowers his voice. “What has your dad told you about Violet? Does he have any leads?”

  I drain my soda and enjoy the sugar that floods my system. “I don’t think so. Everything he told me was also on the news.”

  Luke finally looks at me, his forehead crinkled with thought. “Is it true you really don’t remember anything about that night or the bear attack?”

  Blood on white carpet, angry voices, a hunched figure in the window—I have memories but I don’t actually remember. “It’s true.”

  He clears his throat, his eyes shifting between Mo and me. “So, uh, you don’t know if you went to Violet’s after getting her fucked-up text? You told us to meet you there.”

  My stomach rockets to my throat. I peer at him, mentally circling like a wolf, and tug on my long sleeves to hide the fingernail scratches. Does he know something I don’t? I decide to hold my cards close. “No, I mean, I don’t remember. Did you go?”

  Luke flushes. “I didn’t make it.” But his nostrils flare, and that’s Luke’s “tell”—has been since he was seven. It means he’s lying or hiding something.

  I untie and retie my Converse shoes, thinking. “Maybe she freaked out. Maybe she drove off the road or something like you did, Luke.”

  He scowls at me. “I didn’t drive off the road because I freaked out. It was an accident.”

  My mouth pops open then closed. I know better than to prod Luke when he’s pissed.

  He stands, paces slowly. “I was angry ’cause it’s my fault you got arrested, Mo”—he peers hard at her—“I brought that shit into the woods. But I didn’t mean to crash. I just lost control.” His laugh is humorless and cold. “Wrecked my mom’s car too.” He drags his fingers across his shaved head.

  Mo appears at his side, tries to soothe him. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers. “We were all there, and I didn’t get arrested for the fire, I got arrested for lying.”

  He pinches the bridge of his crooked nose. “You were protecting me,” he rasps. “You lied to protect me.”

  “All of us,” she corrects.

  He continues, shaking his head. “Did you know, Hannah, that after your dad impounded my car for the DUI, his department used its GPS to track my movements on July seventh?”

  “No!”

  Luke continues: “That piece-of-shit Chevy placed me at the Gap Lake parking lot at three p.m.—that was his ‘new evidence’—but my lawyer says tracking my car on an unrelated offense is illegal. She’s trying to get it thrown out. I might go free, but Violet’s text makes us all look guilty: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything,” he says, imitating her higher-pitched voice. “Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?”

  “She’s missing, Luke. Don’t be a dick,” Mo scolds.

  Luke bends in half and moans like a wounded animal. “I’m confused,” he cries. “Violet should be here, with us, drinking fucking Coke. She should have just stayed quiet and lived her perfect life. I—I miss her.” His tears drop and splatter my floor.

  “Luke, it’s okay, we all miss her,” Mo says, reaching for him.

  “We’re all guilty,” I murmur.

  Luke gapes at me, panic flitting across his features, and Mo sputters, “Guilty of starting the fire, yeah, but not of hurting Violet.”

  I crush my empty soda can. “Right, but her text gives each of us a motive.”

  “Not you,” Luke rasps as he sits back down. “The police have no idea you were at the Gap.”

  My throat tightens. “I’m not talking about what the police know. I’m just saying the timing is odd. She threatened us and now she’s missing.”

  Our eyes shift to one another, and Mo shivers. “You’re scaring me, Han. None of us would do anything to Violet. That’s fucking ridiculous.”

  I shake my head, also confused. Voices, blood, and a figure in the attic window—I saw and heard these things. I must have been there, and I wasn’t alone. At least one of the angry voices was male. And while I couldn’t see the person in the window very well, he looked as tall as me. The other angry voice was female. I peer at Mo. “Did you go to Violet’s house? You said you’d try.”

  Her eyes widen. “No, my parents wouldn’t let me leave. We watched a movie with my brother.”

  I look from her to Luke. “Weren’t you two together? You were living at Mo’s.”

  “He left after dinner,” Mo says, biting her lip as if she’d rather not have told me this.

  Luke recoils from her. “What are you getting at, Mo?”

  She blinks. “Nothing, just wondering where you went. You didn’t answer when I called, and you didn’t call me back. It’s not like you.”

  Luke leaps to his feet and looms over us, his expression raw. “You think I hurt Violet?” he asks, spit flying from his mouth.

  “No!” Mo cries, holding out her hand as if to ward him off. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m fucking tired,” he says, his eyes cutting to mine. “You said you’d take care of this, Hannah.” He flexes over me like a marble statue—beautiful, strong, and pale—frozen in a moment of livid fury. Is he guilty or scared or both? I’m not sure.

  He scoops up his jacket. “Hanging out was a stupid idea. Fuck you both. Don’t call me.” He kicks a kitchen chair on his way out, and then we hear his bicycle chain squeaking as he rides away as fast as he can.

  Mo starts to cry.

  “It’s the head injury,” I tell her. “Luke didn’t mean it.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It’s us, our group. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  It’s true and I put my arm around her. “No matter what, this was going to be our last summer together,” I say. “You realize that, don’t you? College will change us. We’ll meet new people and get married and get jobs. We’ll move away.”

  Mo sniffles as I follow my thoughts to their inevitable end. Our loyalties will shift with time. Maybe they already have shifted. The days of being the monsters are almost over, and it’s too bad we have to go down like this—in flames.

  24

  August 7

  Days Violet has been missing: 5

  Time: 3:00 p.m.

  After Mo leaves, I do my chores, using my good arm. I fly-spray the horses, shovel manure, sweep the stalls, and think about Violet. Her case has snatched national headlines due to her grandmother’s wealth, because our town is currently famous for the Gap Fire, and because Violet is a gorgeous teenager headed to Stanford University. The terror I felt when she threatened to tell on us has drifted away like the smoke from the wildfire. Now I simply miss her.

  When I’m finished, I head inside, down a bottle of Gatorade, and notice the dust building up on the baseboards and tables. Damn house is already getting dirty. This makes me wonder how Lulu is going to get the blood out of that white carpet. Right then my phone rings, startling me.

  It’s Justin, from Bishop.

  I stare at his name on the screen, my heart fluttering. Do I answer? Oh fuck, why not? After the bear attack and the news about Violet, our evening together doesn’t feel so…monumental. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” he says, “I just saw your name in the paper.”

  My throat closes and my brain stumbles. “What paper?�
� Shit, am I in the news? I grab the remote control and turn on the TV, wait to see if my face gets plastered on the screen. “What did I do?”

  He laughs. “Damn, girl, are you wanted or something? I read you got bit by a bear.”

  “Oh, right.” I lean one hand on the counter to catch my breath. “Yeah, I’m fine, just banged up.”

  He absorbs that, then drops his voice an octave. “Anything I can do to make you feel better?”

  I remember his lips kissing my chest, his hands all over me, his eyes drilling into mine. “I look terrible,” I say, glancing at my scarred face in the mirror.

  “I don’t care.”

  He doesn’t care? What the hell does that mean? “I’m not really up for it, Justin. I’m sore.”

  He’s quiet a moment. “I could give you a hot bath, and you could take a painkiller. I want to see you, Hannah. I like you. A lot.”

  My spine tightens because I’m not sure if I believe him. Does he want me, or more sex? It’s confusing. “Can I call you when I feel better?”

  He releases a deep sigh. “Sure, if that’s what you want. Hey, I was wondering, do you like to ride horses?”

  Do I like to ride horses? We really don’t know each other at all. “Yes.”

  “I got two ropers if you want to go on a trail ride sometime.”

  A real cowboy, I should have known it. My shoulders loosen, because I’ve been around enough rodeo boys to understand the drill. He’s circling me, keeping his reins tight until he’s sure he’s got me where he wants me. Then he’ll swoop. The key is to keep moving until I’m sure I want to be caught. “I’ll call you.”

  “ ’Kay,” he says.

  I hang up and reach to turn off the news when Violet’s sunny image fills the screen, followed by a press conference that is happening live outside the new command center my father set up at the church. Dad is at the podium, looking grim. FBI agents, county officials, his deputies, and a representative from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children stand behind him.

  I sink to the floor and watch.

  Camera shutters click away as my dad begins speaking:

  We now suspect foul play in the disappearance of Violet Sandoval. Evidence we collected from her grandmother’s home on August second has been analyzed and expedited at the Department of Justice crime lab in Fresno, California.

  He pauses before continuing:

  Broken fingernails and blood droplets have been identified as matching Violet Sandoval’s DNA. A window on the third level of the family’s home shows signs of forced entry, and cash was stolen from her purse. The fingerprints lifted from the window are being run through the Automated Latent Print System to be matched to possible known perpetrators.

  My dad swallows and glances down at the podium.

  Finally, and most upsetting, detectives discovered deposits of fresh semen in the Sandoval attic. The sample was hours old at the time of collection, and we are not ruling out sexual assault.

  There’s a flurried reaction from the press.

  My hand flies to my mouth. Broken fingernails? Blood? Semen? What happened in that attic? I grab my sleeve and pull it down, hiding the deep half-moon indents on my arms. I need to remember.

  My dad plows on as the reporters quiet:

  We are investigating the possibility that Violet was removed from her home by force, possibly by more than one suspect. We’re asking for the community’s help in solving this case.

  He goes on to request that people report any odd behavior they might have witnessed the evening that Violet disappeared or in the preceding days—noises coming from a car trunk, anyone purchasing rope or knives or zip ties, suspicious vehicles in the area, signs of fresh campsites in the woods near the Sandoval home. He takes a few questions.

  Sheriff Warner, has there been a ransom demand?

  He shakes his head.

  There has been no communication or request for money.

  She has a follow-up question.

  Has kidnapping been ruled out in this case?

  Nothing has been ruled out.

  A male reporter asks:

  Has the semen been matched to a known offender?

  The sample is being cross-checked against CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System created and maintained by the FBI, and against voluntary genealogy databases. This may help us develop a suspect list through family trees. At this time, we have not identified a specific suspect related to the DNA.

  Do the genealogy databases you’re referring to belong to companies like Ancestry.com or Family Search?

  Yes, sir.

  A female reporter blurts out:

  Is it legal to access that DNA, Sheriff Warner?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Another question from someone in the back:

  Sheriff Warner, do you believe that Violet Sandoval is alive?

  I will not speculate on her condition. That’s all for now. We need to get back to finding her.

  He walks away, followed by his task force, and the number for the FBI tip line flashes on the screen.

  Bumps erupt across my arms, and I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut, but I’m also really proud of my dad.

  My phone rings again. This time it’s Mo. “Did you watch the press conference?”

  “Yeah, I can’t believe it.”

  “Maybe Violet’s disappearance doesn’t have anything to do with the fire or us,” Mo says. “Maybe she was kidnapped!”

  “But the timing is suspicious, Mo. Do you really believe strange men randomly kidnapped her on the same night she threatened to tell on us?”

  She gulps. “Well, we didn’t do it! Jesus, Han.”

  Drummer’s face appears in my head. I didn’t kill her, he said at the hospital, but no one knows for sure she’s dead. “Of course we didn’t,” I murmur.

  “There are search parties meeting every day. Do you want to join one when you feel better?”

  My scalp prickles. “Sure, I guess so.”

  “They’ll find Violet, Han, they have to. She can’t be gone. I gotta go. Get some rest, okay? You sound tired.”

  “Bye, Mo.” I glance at the scratches on my arm that look like fingernail marks and then quickly cover them again. The detectives found broken fingernails in her attic, which means somebody’s skin is beneath Violet’s nails. I was there, I’m sure of it, and my stomach lightens as a new thought dawns: Maybe I tried to help Violet, and if I saw who took her, maybe I’m in danger too.

  25

  August 10

  Days Violet has been missing: 8

  Time: 1:45 p.m.

  Each day that passes without finding Violet feels surreal. We expect her to turn up at any moment. I’m prepared to feel relieved and then throttle her for worrying us, but with each day it becomes more difficult to imagine a plausible explanation for her absence. I rest and take my pain meds every four hours. Matilda’s death and Violet’s disappearance have ripped me to shreds.

  Violet’s parents, who’ve been in touch from their private yachting trip from San Francisco to Australia, finally arrive in Gap Mountain, to the flash of many cameras. They stay with Lulu Sandoval at the house and make very public pleas for the safe return of their daughter.

  I call Drummer and Luke repeatedly on the prepaid phones, but neither will answer. One of us is missing, and no one wants to talk. It’s like everyone is hiding out, or hiding something. I’m scared for the monsters.

  When I sleep, I have nightmares about a bear popping my head like a balloon. I see red blood dripping onto white carpet. The half-moon outside my window becomes Violet’s fingernail, digging into my skin (burrowing into my skin). I want to know if I was in the attic. I want to know who the angry voices belong to. Did I hear Drummer and Violet arguing? Was Luke there? Semen and missing cash is upsetting information to absorb.

  Oddly enough, life contin
ues. My dad helps me care for the horses each day, talks to the doctors, and handles correspondence with San Diego State about my paltry financial aid award. The fire investigation stalls while Luke’s lawyer dukes it out with the district attorney over my dad’s using the Chevy’s GPS data as evidence in Luke’s arson case.

  Meanwhile, Violet’s case ramps up. Hundreds of leads have been called in about her, sending officers on wild goose chases across California and around the country.

  A witness reports seeing two strange men at a gas station just outside town the day Violet disappeared. They drove a dusty blue van, and after filling their tank, they filled two extra gas cans. An APB is out on the make and model of the van. Grainy images of the men, printed from the station’s CCTV, circulate in the news.

  There still has been no demand for ransom money.

  When the skeleton of a woman is found three miles from Gap Mountain, the reporters swarm, but when the county coroner states that the body belongs to a woman in her fifties or sixties, the fevered mood quickly cools. My father believes it’s the remains of a demented resident who wandered from her home five years ago. The body’s DNA is sent to a crime lab for positive identification, but there is no possibility that it’s Violet.

  It frightens me that my town is so eager to accept a body in place of my friend. People would say: Her suffering is over. She was so bright, so beautiful. It’s a shame. It would be sad, a tragedy, but Violet would be accounted for. I guess being dead is better than being nowhere.

  My dad comes home only to shave, sleep a few hours, and go back to work. It seems like he’s busier now than when he was dealing with the wildfire. Everything I learn about Violet’s case, I learn on television. The nation is eagerly anticipating the CODIS results on the semen sample and the ALPS report on fingerprints lifted in the attic, because this evidence might produce the case’s first viable suspect or suspects. As of now, there are none.