Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  Mo pulls up in her Corolla twenty minutes later with the music on and the air conditioner blasting. “Hop in, fool!”

  A grin spreads across my face at the sight of Mo wearing big sunglasses, chewing gum, and twirling her dark red hair around one finger, and I forget for one blissful second that it’s not a normal summer day.

  The drive to Gap Lake’s trailhead cools the mood as we retrace our fateful steps from the day we started the fire. Folks are gathered in the parking lot when we arrive—high school kids, parents, grandparents, and volunteers from the Find Violet organization that Lulu established. They’re wearing orange vests and drinking coffee as they wait to be sorted into groups.

  The volunteers peer at Mo and me, curious. Most of them know we’re Violet’s best friends—along with the boys, but the boys aren’t here. I feel their absence the way people feel their missing limbs.

  “I can’t believe we’re looking for a body,” Mo whispers as she pulls her hair into a bun. Her freckled skin has already turned pink in the heat. “Violet can’t be…dead.”

  “I know; this is so fucked up. But if Violet’s not dead, where is she?”

  “I can’t think about that, Han.”

  An official wearing a Find Violet T-shirt directs Mo and me to a folding table. It’s set up with sign-in sheets and water bottles with labels that display Violet’s senior photo. Mo and I write our names and record our driver’s license numbers. Writing hers in a large, loopy script, she asks, “Why do they want our IDs?”

  I answer in a whisper, “Sometimes a suspect will return to the scene of a crime. Detectives will check out everyone who volunteers today.”

  She blows back her long bangs. “Seriously? They’re going to check me out.”

  “Yep.”

  “How? Like, they’ll question me?”

  I finish writing down my ID number, and we move out of the way so others can do the same. “Probably not. They’ll compare us to their suspect’s profile and make a list of who they want to talk to first.” Angry voices, a hunched figure in the window, blood on white carpet, Drummer shouting, Take that back!—the memories flash through my mind, and the forest shrinks. “Don’t worry,” I add, “we don’t fit the profile.”

  Mo lifts an eyebrow. “Let me guess, white male, twenty-five to thirty years old, lives with his mother?”

  That draws a laugh. “Not quite.”

  “But close?”

  “Maybe. He’s male for sure.”

  Mo rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”

  Volunteers pass out orange vests, whistles, and plastic booties to cover our shoes so we don’t leave tread marks, and then a short man with a megaphone organizes us into teams of eight people. The lead person in each group holds a map with a color-coded grid.

  Our leader is Jeannie, the head server at the Wildflower Café. After introducing herself to our group, she holds up two spray bottles. “Bug spray? Sunscreen? Anyone?”

  A few people take her up on the offer and spray their exposed skin.

  It’s not until this moment that I realize I’m not dressed to find a body. I’m wearing cutoffs and a thin white tank top. The mosquitoes are going to suck me dry, and my new Vans are going to get trashed. I’m dressed for summer, not for crawling around in the woods, searching for one of my best friends with a bunch of overcaffeinated volunteers.

  Unlike me, Jeannie is dressed to find a body. She’s wearing hiking boots, a wide-brimmed shade hat, and a backpack, and she’s slathered in greasy sunscreen and bug spray. She takes quick charge of our directionless group. “Gather up,” she calls out.

  “It’s GI Jane,” Mo whispers, and a young man from the auto-parts store snickers.

  Seven of us merge around Jeannie as she shows us the map and points out our grid. “When we get there, we’ll spread out. Go slow, mark anything unusual—a shoe print, a candy wrapper, broken branches, and of course the obvious stuff like clothing or blood.” She hands out fluorescent orange tape to use for marking.

  Sweat dribbles down my forehead as I take the tape.

  Jeannie rattles her backpack. “I’ve got a first-aid kit and granola bars, so come see me if you need anything. Use these sticks to prod long grasses and thick brush, but be aware of rattlesnakes.” Jeannie grabs seven walking sticks leaning on the parking lot fencing behind her and hands them out one by one. My body is still sore from being tossed around by a bear, and I use my stick like a cane. I probably shouldn’t have come, but I can’t turn back now.

  As we hike up the familiar trail, I remember all the years we came before—Violet, Luke, Mo, Drummer, and me—with our parents when we were young and had to wear life vests, on our own in middle school when we snuck here without telling our families, and then as teenagers when we drove here with coolers full of beer.

  After Violet turned thirteen, she tried to swim all the way across the Gap without a life vest. Luke freaked out and insisted on following her in his inner tube. Good thing too, because she got tired halfway across and started to panic. He rescued her and they floated in the center of the lake, legs entwined, while the sun glittered on the water.

  The depth of the Gap fascinated Violet, especially after the Army Corps discovered that it was deeper than Lake Tahoe and our town made national headlines. Maybe it leads to another world, she speculated. Maybe the Gap is a mirror and copies of us live on the other side, leading opposite lives. In that world, you four visit me in Santa Barbara and I’m not the outsider.

  You’re not an outsider, Mo countered.

  Violet’s gaze shifted sadly back to the water.

  I didn’t get it then, but Violet was right. Gap Mountain might be a part of her, but she’s not a part of Gap Mountain. Her memory brings a smile, though, as I lift a heavy branch and glance under it. Leave it to Violet to imagine something exciting, perhaps wonderful, in that ancient watery pit.

  I, on the other hand, imagine freezing, killing darkness, a lair for leviathans and sea monsters. The truth is, while the surface of the Gap soothes me—its utter calm in the face of jutting tectonic plates and a warming earth—its floor terrifies me, because I know what hides there. It’s a graveyard for secrets and lost objects and skeletons. It’s where I tossed Mo’s phone. It’s where you put things you want to disappear.

  Could Drummer have dragged Violet here after their fight? Did I try to stop him? Are the fingernail marks on my arm hers or his? My head aches as I imagine Violet sinking down, down, into the murk, her body coming gently to a halt in the dark silt, her eyes open, staring up toward the surface, realizing too late that the other world she imagined is not an alternate reality but death.

  Mo touches my arm. “Hannah? Are you okay?”

  We’ve reached the lake and I stare at it, frozen.

  “Hannah?” She shakes me gently. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I don’t feel good,” I admit to her.

  “Let’s go back.”

  I shake my head. “We’re here. We have to help.”

  Jeannie notices I’m not moving and frowns. I force a smile, take my stick, and spread out as the others have, nodding to her that I’m okay. My arm is bandaged and in a sling, and the wounds on my cheek and forehead are covered in gauze. I doubt I inspire confidence, but when Jeannie sees me searching, she returns to what she was doing.

  Mo and I are about ten feet apart, poking gently at shrubs. “Violet wouldn’t come here on her own,” Mo whispers across the distance. Since the fire, none of us have wanted to return to Gap Lake.

  We glance past the “beach” to the burned area in the woods where we started the fire. The area of origin is no longer staked off or guarded. The arson investigators got everything they needed: photographs of the area, shoe impressions (if there were any), the singed beer bottle, the matchbook, and Luke’s pipe. We’re still waiting for fingerprint and saliva reports on the damaged pip
e. While my mind has shifted to Violet, I can’t forget that the fire investigation isn’t over.

  Mo pauses to redo her bun and wipe her forehead. “They should bring in search dogs.”

  At the mention of dogs, I think of Matilda. My bloodhound had a fabulous nose. If she were alive, I would have brought her to help find Violet. “I bet my dad will call them in from Kern County, if he hasn’t already.” The idea of dogs sniffing the woods for Violet’s body makes me quiver.

  Our time slot is two hours, and after an hour and a half, I’m exhausted, dizzy, and dry-mouthed. I pause to drink water, but really, it’s just an excuse to rest.

  Mo tromps over to me. “Let’s call it a day.”

  “No, I can finish.”

  “But you shouldn’t. GI Jane is busy, see, so let’s go.” Jeannie is on all fours, tugging at something. Her skin is red in spite of the sunscreen, and the back of her shirt is wet with sweat, as all of ours are.

  “Fine, let’s go.” Mo and I swing around and start walking back. Neither of us believe Violet is here, not our Violet. Our Violet is at a four-star hotel, soaking in bath bombs, oblivious to the scare she’s caused. At any moment, she’ll plug in her phone, read that she’s been reported missing, and send a group text: can’t a girl get some me time without you all alerting the national guard?

  We will laugh and then harass her about “that time she went missing” for the rest of her life.

  The sharp blow of a whistle pierces my thoughts, the shrill notes skipping across the lake. Birds flap out of the trees in a whir of wingbeats. “Holy hell, what’s that?” Mo covers her ears.

  We turn to see Jeannie blowing on her whistle as if she’s Kate Winslet from that Titanic movie.

  The volunteers abandon their grids and come running. Ice creeps up my spine. We were told to blow the whistle only if we find evidence or encounter a bear. Jeannie rises to her feet on the steep shore of the Gap with a triumphant expression pasted on her face. There’s no bear in sight.

  We crowd in as close as we can but instinctively leave a semicircle of open space around her. “What did you find?” the lead organizer asks.

  Jeannie points at the ground. “A scarf, a woman’s scarf!” She’s marked the area with fluorescent orange tape.

  My eyes drop to the silk fabric that is half covered by a bush, and I instantly recognize the trendy pattern. It’s a Louis Vuitton, and the first time I saw Violet wrap it around her head, I told her she looked like a pirate. Later, I searched for the scarf online and saw that it retails for about six hundred dollars.

  No teen in Gap Mountain wears scarves like that except for Violet Sandoval, and everybody knows it. Besides that, the scarf is listed in the description of what she was last seen wearing: white camisole, tweed miniskirt, Gucci combat boots, Tiffany pendant necklace engraved with the letter V, and a gauzy Louis Vuitton scarf. There’s a dark red stain on the silk fabric that could be blood, and a hush falls over us. Mo covers her mouth.

  “That’s hers,” I say, and every single pair of eyes turns to me. “That’s Violet’s scarf.” And then my stomach lurches and I vomit, splattering bile into the weeds.

  29

  August 13

  Days Violet has been missing: 11

  Time: 12:45 p.m.

  Detectives immediately sent the stained Louis Vuitton scarf to the Department of Justice crime lab at Fresno State. My father’s task force would neither confirm nor deny that it belongs to Violet.

  Media attention exploded all over again. Because of the bloody scarf, Violet was presumed dead—drowned or dumped in the lake—and voyeuristic tourists descended on Gap Mountain. We’re the proud home of the state’s deepest lake, the starting point of the devastating Gap Fire, and now the dumping ground for a missing teenage heiress.

  Cadaver dogs arrived last night, just in case Violet is not in the lake, and the area has been taped off and closed to the public. There are no more volunteer search parties.

  A roving reporter snapped a photo of Gap Lake at sunset, and the pretty picture, ominous in this context, went viral. Newscasters display it along with Violet’s senior picture every time they talk about her case. I hate the reporter’s photo, which depicts blood-red sunlight striping the center of the lake, but I can’t stop staring at it. Is Violet in that deep, deep pool?

  Yesterday, I met with the psychologist in Bishop. We didn’t get far on our first visit. We “built trust” and “got to know each other,” all the bullshit that precedes getting actual help. She said she’s going to use hypnosis, and that makes me nervous. What if I blurt out something incriminating, like I think Drummer killed Violet? I want to know what happened, but I don’t want her to know. Our sessions might be confidential, but I’m not sure they’ll stay that way if I reveal information about a murder.

  While I was in Bishop, I thought about Justin. He texted me last night to ask how I’m feeling. When I told him I’m healing, he said, good. That’s it. There was no pressure. He didn’t ask for a date. He’s still circling.

  * * *

  —

  Now, as Gap Mountain holds its breath for news about Violet, I text the monsters: let’s go to the bridge.

  Each monster pings back, and we agree to meet at 2:30 p.m.

  I text my dad: heading to the bridge to meet my friends

  Which friends? Dad requires me to check in, now that there might be a killer or a kidnapper loose in the mountains.

  Drummer, Mo, and Luke, I text back. Who else, I wonder? Since the fire, I don’t hang out with anyone else.

  The monsters and I arrive at the same time, and we skid down the steep path to the shore. Kids from town sprawl in groups up and down the beach on each side of the river. Music and laughter and the hiss of beer cans opening fill the air.

  We grab an empty spot near the water. It’s rocky and too shady but private. The other teens watch us, and a few girls smile at Drummer, but they stay away. Luke and Mo are arson suspects, I look like Frankenstein, and we’re the missing girl’s best friends. Only Omar from the Wildflower Café acknowledges us with a wave. I spot Amanda from work, wearing the tiniest bikini I’ve ever seen, but she avoids my gaze.

  Luke pulls off his T-shirt and glares at the other kids. “Fuck these assholes,” he growls. A sudden image of Luke and me hunting for crawdads when we were kids fills my mind. We used to hang out here all the time, laughing, playing, climbing trees, and swimming. So much has changed, I think.

  “They’re just curious,” Mo says. She passes out sandwiches that we stare at half-heartedly. Drummer refreshes his phone screen every few seconds and reads comments and news to us about Violet via the hashtag #FindViolet.

  “Anything new?” I ask. We haven’t spoken since he hung up on me.

  “Nothing new,” he says without looking up.

  Luke paces the water’s edge, his expression somber, his eyes stony. He skips a smooth rock across the river. “At least no one’s talking about the fucking fire.”

  Mo snorts.

  Drummer lifts his eyes from his screen. “Why can’t anyone find Violet?” he asks.

  I cock my head, studying him. Drummer’s a terrible actor, which means he really doesn’t know where she is, but how can that be? Whose blood was on his clothes, if not Violet’s? But if Drummer didn’t hurt her and take her somewhere, then who did?

  Mo tries to lighten the mood. “Remember the time Violet took the poodles to the movies and told the manager they were comfort dogs?”

  “Don’t do that,” Drummer snaps. “No memories of Violet. She’s missing, not gone.”

  Mo bursts into tears, and we all stare at Drummer wordlessly.

  He swipes his phone over and over, refreshing the feed that relays news faster than the television. “This—this isn’t real.” He crumples and drops his head into his hands. Luke stalks helplessly, and Mo and I watch the boys,
unsure what to do.

  By some unspoken connection, the four of us come back together, drawn like magnets, and sit with our heads touching. We used to create truth circles like this when we were kids. We held hands, touched heads, and closed our eyes. Whatever we said or confessed or admitted had to be true, and no one was allowed to react. This is how we first learned that Luke’s mom uses drugs.

  Slowly, our hands link together. Mo speaks first: “I’ve been thinking a lot about what Hannah said. The timing of Violet’s disappearance is suspicious. It makes us all suspects.”

  We collectively flinch but no one lashes out, no one turns away. We were once joined by our love; now we’re joined by our secrets, and we have to face them.

  “But we all love Violet,” Mo continues. “So it had to be strangers or stalkers or robbers, right?”

  “Robbers?” Drummer snorts. “Some cash was stolen, yeah, but they left behind all the valuable shit.”

  “They stole Violet!” Mo cries.

  He sucks in his breath, and the circle tightens.

  “Was anyone stalking her?” Luke asks me. “Any weirdos following her accounts?”

  I shrug. “No, they’re all private. Her parents drilled that into her skull since she was a kid.”

  “They must want more money,” Mo says. “They took her for ransom.”

  “But no one has asked for money,” Luke counters. He clears his throat. “How about you, Hannah? Get your memory back yet?”

  “No.” Something about his tone is unfriendly.

  Luke nods, as if he’s gotten the answer he wanted. “It’s kind of convenient you can’t remember.” His dark eyes meet mine.

  I don’t speak because I remember some things, some very bad things.

  “Stop it,” Mo snaps. “If we’re going to hash this out, we all need to be honest. It’s time to fess up, Drummer. You and Violet are dating, aren’t you?”

  Tension whips through the circle, and Drummer pulls back, breaking it. He glares at me, and I shake my head, because I never told Mo about his confession. She and I only speculated together.