Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  My manager at the Reel Deal has given me time off to heal, but aside from home, there’s really nowhere to go. Mo tells me reporters are staked out in front of the Sandoval home and the sheriff’s office, and they are often seen buying takeout meals from the Wildflower Café, just waiting for news.

  Reporters describe Violet as single, but I know that she is not single.

  I text Drummer’s prepaid phone, hoping for a response: Does anyone know that you and Violet were dating?

  Gray dots appear, meaning he read the text, but he doesn’t answer; he calls instead. “Why are you asking me this? Did something happen?”

  “No.”

  Drummer exhales. “Is your dad there? Is he listening to us?”

  “Of course not! I’m trying to help you. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  His voice breaks. “Because my girlfriend’s missing, because I’m fucking scared.” He hiccups and I imagine he’s as fragile as an egg right now. “I loved her, Hannah.”

  My spine tightens. “Loved?”

  “No, I mean, love, I love her. Fuck.” He sucks for air. “I would never hurt her, not on purpose, you have to believe me.”

  “I do, I believe you.” But my mind trips over his qualification—I would never hurt her, not on purpose.

  He goes quiet.

  “Drummer?”

  His voice rattles like he’s chewing gravel. “I don’t know, Han, nothing has gone right since the fire, you know, nothing except falling for Violet. I’ve been so spun on her, I wasn’t really paying attention to anything else. I’m so totally fucked….”

  “Why, Drummer? What are you not telling me?”

  He spins the conversation. “Was Violet seeing another guy?”

  “Not that I know of. Do you think she was?”

  “No, hell no, but if she wasn’t, that sample”—his voice creaks on the word—“it might be mine.”

  I’ve been pacing and now I fall onto my couch. “Are you talking about the semen?”

  “God, don’t say it like that,” he mutters. “Violet and I, we did it in her attic that night. I might have, you know, left something behind.”

  “I thought you had a fight?”

  “Yeah, we did. Sex and a fight.” He laughs weakly.

  I rub my forehead; the headache of the last few days returns with a roar. “I thought you used condoms.”

  “I do, but uh…she went on the pill. Shit, you don’t want to hear about this.”

  “I’ve had sex,” I blurt out.

  He inhales deeply. “When? With who?”

  There’s no going back now, so I bluster on: “With the guy who drove me to Bishop the day of the fire.”

  “Like, on the way to the hotel?” he asks, confused.

  “Don’t be an idiot. We went on a date two weeks ago. Remember the night at the bowling alley, when I was dressed up?”

  “Yeah.” He groans. “So you slept with him on the first date?”

  “Fuck you.” I melt into tears. “It was special.” It was not special, not at all, and I cry harder.

  He swallows several times, as if something is stuck in his throat. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised you didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Violet.”

  There’s a long pause. “You’re right. We shouldn’t keep secrets.”

  It’s too fucking late for that, I think.

  Drummer switches the conversation back to himself. “If the lab matches that sample to me…”

  “Hey, relax,” I say. “You don’t have DNA on file. They can’t randomly match a semen sample to you. You have to either be in the database or be a suspect with a cheek swab. You’re safe, Drummer. Except…”

  His breath catches and I imagine him blinking furiously. “Except what?”

  I close my eyes, chase my memories, but they scamper away like rabbits. There’s a new one, a quick flash of Drummer yanking on Violet’s arm. There’s also the blood on the carpet and the person in the window, but the images are like mirages that vanish when I get too close. “Except you should tell my dad you and V were together. If he finds out on his own, it won’t look good.”

  “No, Han, no way.”

  “It will explain the…sample you left behind,” I add. I imagine he and Violet having sex in the attic—our attic, the place we all hang out. I see them cuddling and kissing and…and it’s like being walloped with an oar. Suddenly the floor rolls beneath me and blood whooshes between my ears. “Why won’t you tell him?” I whisper.

  Drummer is dead silent for a full minute. Then he hangs up on me.

  26

  August 10

  Days Violet has been missing: 8

  Time: 2:20 p.m.

  I shove the prepaid phone under my mattress and pace my bedroom floor. How can Drummer be so thoughtless? He left his DNA at a crime scene and believes he can ignore it, just as he ignored his pregnant girlfriend two years ago, just as he ignored his cancer-ridden dog until it was too late, and just as he ignored Violet’s threats. Now I have to clean up his mess, good old Hannah Banana.

  He said he’s at work; good. I swallow a painkiller, reach for my Jeep keys, and then remember that the bear mauled it. I blow out a breath and grab the keys to my dad’s pickup instead. His vehicle is better, actually—less flashy—for what I’m about to do.

  When I arrive in Drummer’s neighborhood, I park in the shade of an old sycamore on a street behind his house. I cut through the woods, approach his side window, and slide the single-pane glass open. Glancing around, I don’t see anyone watching. Most folks are at work or hiding from the blistering sunshine in their homes at this time of day, which is good for me.

  I crawl into his bedroom and inhale the scent of his cheap body wash as tingles rush through me. How does he affect me like this when he’s not even here? I glance longingly at his unmade bed, at the indent of his body in the mattress. It’s his childhood bed, and I remember Drummer when he was small—towheaded with big teeth. We played every single day in the summertime, but it wasn’t always fun. He threw the football too hard, he slaughtered me at video games, and if he couldn’t find me right away when we played hide-and-seek, he gave up and went home, leaving me waiting and alone.

  But one day when we were twelve, he didn’t want to play games anymore; he wanted to “hang out.” He threw his arm around me and invited me to watch a movie. His voice was deeper, and I thought maybe he was sick, but he didn’t look sick. He looked thicker and darker and taller and cuter. He smelled good. We watched a movie in the dark, and he touched me all over. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Afterward, he whispered in my ear, “Don’t tell anyone we did that.”

  I agreed because it was our special secret. But it never happened again, and we never talked about it. It was as if it had never happened at all.

  My heart swells, painful and throbbing. I’m still twelve, still waiting to watch a movie in the dark, still wanting Drummer’s full attention on me.

  God, Hannah, you’re here for a reason, and it’s not to reminisce.

  I force myself to get moving. He says he didn’t hurt Violet, not on purpose, but what does that mean? I think it means he did hurt her. God, I thought their relationship would end in disaster, but I never imagined this. Violet shouldn’t have threatened him. Monsters don’t rat on monsters, monsters don’t date monsters—we made these pacts to keep us together, and now we’re falling apart.

  After sliding open his closet door, I squat and sift through his crap—hunting boots, dirty laundry, old homework assignments, gum wrappers, bullet shells, fishing gear—not sure what I’m looking for. When my fingers touch one of his concert T-shirts, my stomach lurches. There’s dark blood splattered on the hem.

  A vision slams me from the night Violet went missing: Drummer g
rabbing her arm in the attic and yelling, Take that back! He’s wearing this shirt, and I’m watching them through a keyhole in the attic door. Dizziness overwhelms my equilibrium, and I crumple over. Oh god, I was definitely there, but I was hiding. I’m a witness!

  I close my eyes, visualize the attic, and try to follow the voices, the argument, the attack. Images rise—Violet’s tears, Drummer’s clenched teeth, and the dull smack of flesh—but the pictures in my head expand and pop like balloons. Did Drummer see me? I don’t think so. I clutch the T-shirt and smell Violet’s perfume. “Drummer, what did you do?”

  Right then, the front door of his house creaks open and footsteps click-clack across the tile floor. Someone plunks grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. His mom or dad is home!

  I finish my quick and silent search of his room. The rest of the outfit Drummer wore that night is fresh in my memory, and in seconds I’ve retrieved his black Levi’s, his old-school checkered Vans, and the bloody concert T-shirt.

  I check the surrounding clothing for droplets of blood or long dark hairs. I rifle through his pockets and drawers for Violet’s missing cash and scan all his scraps of paper, looking for any written record of his plans that night. I’ve learned a fair amount from living with my father, and Drummer ought to be grateful. I bag up the “evidence” in an old shopping bag and return everything else to the way it was.

  I step onto his desk chair, crawl out his open window, and race to my dad’s F250. Turning the engine over, I cringe at the dull roar and then pull away from the curb, my hands shaking. The bag of clothes sits on the seat beside me, pulsing in the afternoon light like Pandora’s box. That bloody outfit holds secrets. It knows what happened to Violet and—maybe—so do I.

  Tomorrow I’m calling the psychologist. I can’t help Violet or protect Drummer until I know exactly what happened. As I roll out of his neighborhood, one thought ticks louder than all the others: burn the fucking clothes.

  27

  August 10

  Days Violet has been missing: 8

  Time: 3:45 p.m.

  Mo texts me just as I turn onto Pine Street in downtown Gap Mountain: can you come over?

  I glance at the bag of Drummer’s clothes and tuck it beneath the seat. Sure. On my way.

  Her father answers the door when I arrive at their single-story rental. “Hi, Hannah. She’s in her room,” he says, returning to the kitchen. The low voices of Mo’s mother and brother reach me through the clattering of pots and the sizzle of meat cooking as I pass the kitchen. They look like Old Navy mannequins in their brand-new outfits, another reminder that they lost everything they own in the wildfire.

  I pad down the hallway. “Mo?” I call outside her closed door.

  “Come in.” She lounges on her bed, phone in hand, also wearing a fresh ensemble—pink sweats, a tank top, white Jordans, and a black scrunchie around her wrist. Her face is freshly washed and free of makeup, and she’s chewing on a Red Vine. When I was in the hospital, my dad told me she quit her job at the general store.

  Everyone in Gap Mountain knows that my dad arrested her for lying to police about where she was when the wildfire started, and customers have been rude. I sit beside her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her fingers swipe her phone screen as she shakes her head. “I got my court date, and it lands right in the middle of classes during first semester. I don’t know how this is going to work.” She blinks back tears. “College was supposed to be fun.”

  I climb farther onto her bed and lie beside her. “I’m sorry, Mo.”

  She hands me a piece of licorice. “I might have to withdraw anyway.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “My college fund is going to my lawyer, and I’m not even sure he’s worth it.” She slides her scrunchie from wrist to wrist. “Luke’s lawyer, the Pit Bull, is way more passionate. She calls him every day, works overtime, and fights hard for him, and he doesn’t have to pay her a dime. Mine files a lot of paperwork, directs our calls to his paralegal, and charges four hundred dollars an hour.”

  “He’s probably very smart,” I assure her.

  She lifts one shoulder. “The lawyer Lulu recommended costs nine hundred dollars an hour.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re better.”

  “I think it does,” Mo argues. “How is this justice?”

  Guilt rears inside me. “I’m sorry.”

  She lifts her hand. “Don’t be. My lawyer doesn’t believe I’ll serve any time, because I have a clean record, good grades, and great character witnesses. Besides, my charges aren’t as serious as Luke’s. It’s college I’m worried about. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for tuition and housing and books.”

  “You can work your way through, or apply for loans.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. At least I’m not going to prison. The prosecutor is pressuring Luke hard. If he doesn’t confess with all the details, they’ll pursue the malicious arson charges and ask for a nine-year sentence, plus a twenty-million-dollar fine. Can you fucking believe it?”

  Shit, I had no idea. “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know. If he confesses, they’ll lower the charges and the sentence, but from what I hear, he’s going to plead not guilty and take his chances. He says he believes in the Pit Bull.”

  I laugh. “Sounds like she believes in him too.”

  “Yeah. No one’s ever fought for him before.” Mo blinks and two perfect tears skid down her cheeks. “Luke brought the pipe and the matches, but he doesn’t deserve nine years in prison.”

  “I know,” I say, but I doubt the families of the dead would agree.

  “Did you see the national paper this morning?”

  I shake my head. “Another article about Violet?”

  “Nope, it’s about Luke and me.” Mo riffles through the newspapers stacked at the end of her bed and hands me today’s. The headline says SUSPECTED GAP MOUNTAIN ARSONISTS OUT ON BAIL.

  “I can’t believe they’re calling you arsonists!” I cry. “The media has already convicted you.”

  “Yep.”

  I scan the article, which paints Luke as an angry seventeen-year-old from a bad home (okay, that’s true) and Mo as a promising teen who made a terrible mistake (also true). Before we started the wildfire and ruined summer, Luke talked about taking an EMT course and applying at the fire department (irony of ironies!), and Mo’s family had enough money saved for her to become a nurse without taking out student loans. I’m suddenly overcome by gratitude that my friends are taking the hit for what we did.

  Mo and I hang out until her dad calls us for dinner and invites me to stay.

  “Thank you,” I say past the hard lump in my throat. My dad arrested their daughter and they’re feeding me. God.

  After dinner, we sit around the table and speculate about Violet. “There’s nothing worse than a mother losing her child,” says Mo’s mom. “Nothing in the world.”

  Without thinking, I add, “Except maybe a child losing her mother.”

  Everyone at the table sucks in their breath, including Mo’s older brother, and my face grows hot. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “No, honey, I’m sorry!” Mo’s mom jumps up and hugs me tight, and her warmth envelops me.

  Are all mothers this squishy and loving, I wonder? Luke’s mom isn’t. And mine didn’t take care of me. But if I couldn’t have a mother like Mo’s, I’m good with not having one at all. I bet Luke would agree with me on that.

  When I get home, it’s dark and my dad’s not there. I grab the bag full of “evidence” I collected from Drummer’s and decide to add the clothing I wore that night to the pile. If I was a witness, I don’t want to end up a suspect too.

  After retrieving the clothes from my room, I pad outside and toss both our outfits into a metal feeding trough, douse them in lighter fluid, and
set them on fire.

  28

  August 11

  Days Violet has been missing: 9

  Time: 10:20 a.m.

  The next day, I wake up feeling restless, pad into the kitchen, and brew a cup of coffee in our new Keurig. After the caffeine hits my system, I call the psychologist, and she schedules an appointment for me tomorrow. She says that since my memory loss was brought on by acute trauma, she believes we should “act fast.”

  After that, I clean the horse stalls and dump the ashes from the clothing fire into the trash. I’ve called Drummer three times since searching his room last night, but he hasn’t answered. Idiot. I still can’t believe he was going to leave that bloody shirt in the back of his closet for the special agents to find.

  My dad claims that the FBI agents are assisting his department, but really, they’re running the show. I haven’t seen the agents yet, but I heard they drive a black SUV and wear suits, just like on TV. A thrill runs through me at the thought, and I wonder if I could work for the FBI instead of becoming a peace officer like my dad. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about policing the community where I live and arresting my friends, or my neighbors, or my future kids’ friends.

  But first things first: I need to figure out what happened to Violet. I text Mo: feeling good today. let’s join one of those search parties.

  Mo: You sure you’re up to it?

  Me: I’m fine. Will you drive?

  She agrees so I text my dad and he sends me information about a search party meeting at the Gap Lake trailhead at 11:00 a.m.

  My stomach lurches at the mention of the lake. If Violet’s body is in the Gap, she’ll never be found. The huge fish at the bottom will chew off her flesh. The cold water will keep her body from rising. Time will grind her bones to sand.