Drummer’s handsome image flashes on the screen along with the number.
After my dad’s announcement, the newscasters interview a lawyer, who explains why there’s been no official arrest in Violet’s case. “It’s simple,” she explains. “There’s no body. No victim. No way to prove that a murder was committed.”
I turn down the television volume, clutch my head, and rock back and forth. Luke doesn’t fit into my theory at all. What am I not remembering about that night? Drummer admits he was there and that he hurt Violet bad enough to draw blood, and I know she ended up in my car. But maybe he didn’t kill her. Maybe Luke did. If he did, then how am I involved? I can’t explain any of this.
I call Luke’s landline, and his younger brother answers: “Hello?”
Their television mumbles in the background, and somewhere outside their trailer, a toddler screams and cries. “Hey, Aiden, is Luke home? It’s Hannah.”
“Hi, Hannah!” I let Aiden ride in the police cruiser with me during Gap Mountain’s Fourth of July parade this summer, and I’ve been his favorite person ever since. “Hold on. Luke, phone!”
Luke’s voice crackles in the background: “What the fuck, Aiden, don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
“But it’s Hannah.”
Luke exhales and then his angry voice is on the line: “Are you calling because you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Fuck me,” he whispers.
“Remember what, Luke? Why did you break into the attic? Did they arrest you?”
“Not yet. Look, I’m going to say this one time: when you remember what you saw, don’t fucking tell. You got that? Tell no one.”
“What did I see?” I’m so frustrated I want to scream.
“When you remember, you’ll understand.”
“Luke, please, I’m really confused. I might not ever get my memory back. Why won’t you tell me?”
Luke gets quiet and his entire tone shifts. “This line might be tapped.”
His words catch me off guard. “What do you mean, tapped?”
“I mean that the fucking FBI might have a warrant to listen to my calls. They’re building a case, Han. I gotta go. Don’t call me again. Like ever.” He slams down the landline.
Ever? I slide my phone into my pocket, my heart banging. God, was Luke there too, with Drummer? I imagine the boys confronting Violet, her stubbornness, and Luke’s temper. Holy crap! What did they do to her?
I phone Drummer but he’s still “at large” and the call goes straight to voicemail. Helicopters have been flying over the forest for two days, there’s an APB out for him, and the deputies are using dogs to sniff him out. It’s only a matter of time before he’s caught.
I stare at the TV, transfixed as news coverage shows detectives swarming Luke’s trailer and Drummer’s house earlier today, pulling out sealed bags of evidence. Drummer has no idea how lucky he is that I burned his clothes.
My dad stationed a deputy outside his home 24/7, in case Drummer tries to return. Reporters harass his family, and seven past girlfriends have come forward to speak to the press. While they admit that Drummer never hurt them physically, a picture emerges of a handsome, reckless teenager who used girls for sexual pleasure and then dumped them. I can’t exactly deny the accuracy of that.
The press, along with investigators, begins to scrutinize the Sandoval family, as if their wealth makes them somehow culpable in Violet’s disappearance. Her parents retreat into seclusion as images of their lavish lifestyle take a dark turn, veering from Violet’s girl-next-door activities, like riding horses, to pictures of her parents drinking cocktails in exotic locales, stepping in and out of limousines and private jets, and looking entitled, with their designer sunglasses and deep Caribbean tans, as they cavort across the globe sans Violet, leaving her in a dilapidated town with an eccentric grandmother and questionable local kids.
Lulu Sandoval doesn’t flinch from the press. She holds court on her front porch as reporters surround her, and she vehemently declares Violet’s special task force “an incompetent batch of idiots.”
I’m supposed to leave for college in less than two weeks, but it’s the last thing on my mind. All I want is to remember what happened that night.
The news cuts to other programs, and then there’s a knock at my door. I’m not dressed for company, wearing cutoff shorts, an oversized Gap Lake T-shirt, and no bra. Thinking it’s probably Mo, I throw open the door without looking out the side window first. Two clean-cut strangers stand on my porch, and even without an introduction, I know who they are.
They’re the special agents from the FBI.
32
August 15
Days Violet has been missing: 13
Time: 7:05 p.m.
“Hannah Warner, I’m Special Agent Hatch and this is Special Agent Patel,” says the taller of the two men. He holds out his badge. “May we ask you a few questions?”
I stare for a second as a thrill rolls through my body. Holy fuck, the FBI is at my house! “Come in,” I say, inviting them into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Hatch answers for both agents.
I catch myself smiling at them—stop smiling, Hannah. These are special agents, not Disney princesses. I sit at the table with them, my knees bouncing. I feel as if I’m in a movie.
Hatch glances at the sling on my arm and the cuts on my face. “A bear, huh?”
My hands flap up to touch my wounds. “Yeah, comes with living in the woods. They’re pests, like raccoons, just bigger.” My laugh is too high-pitched, and I cut it off with a cough.
A smile flickers across Hatch’s face as he opens his briefcase and withdraws a notebook and pen. The other agent produces a recorder. “Do you mind if we record this interview?” Hatch asks.
“Go ahead.” My eyes flick toward the cedar box on the fireplace mantel, which is visible from the kitchen table. Violet’s necklace is there, mixed with Matilda’s ashes. If the agents knew…I turn to Hatch. “Does my dad know you’re here?”
He folds his fingers together beneath his chin, making one closed fist. “Ms. Warner—”
“Hannah. You can call me Hannah.”
He nods and continues. “Hannah, we’re acting in conjunction with the Gap Mountain sheriff’s department in the search for your friend Violet. Your father and his deputies are personally familiar with everyone involved in her case, and this…subjectivity…can lead to false assumptions, case blindness, and mistakes.”
I breathe out. “Okay.”
“Your father has empowered us to question all potential suspects and witnesses who are personally known to him or his deputies.”
I’m not sure if Hatch has directly answered my question, but I nod because I want to hear more.
“May we begin?” Hatch asks.
“Sure.”
He clicks his pen and poises it over the paper. Agent Patel hits the Record button on the machine, and then Hatch’s dark eyes meet mine. “This is Special Agents Hatch and Patel speaking with Hannah Warner at her home.” He rattles off my address and the date and time.
Then he looks directly at me. “I want you to know you’re not under arrest or suspicion, Hannah, and you’re free to end this interview at any time. We have a few questions you might be able to help us with, but you don’t have to answer them. Do you understand?”
I start to fidget. As soon as someone says you’re not under arrest, you feel like you are. “I understand.”
“Are you willing to speak with us?”
“Yeah, okay.” I notice that Hatch has immaculate fingernails and cuticles. I glance at my own, see they’re chewed to shit, and hide them beneath my legs.
Hatch leans forward, his face shadowed by the dim light overhead. “We recently discovered a text sent by your friend Violet Sandova
l on August second, the night she vanished.”
Her pendant appears in my mind—V for vanished—and my knees instantly stop bouncing. My breath leaves my body in a small, unbidden gasp.
He continues. “The recipients of this text are Lucas O’Malley, Nathaniel Drummer, Maureen Russo, and yourself.”
“Oh?” I keep my voice steady, my face still. I cannot react to this any more than I already have. My brain whirs fiercely.
Hatch continues. “This is the text’s content. Would you read it out loud, please?”
He turns his pad of paper to me and points his pen at a sentence. I squint even though I can see it perfectly. “Sure, uh, it says: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything.”
“Is this your cellular phone number?” He pulls out a new sheet of paper, a report that includes five cellular phone numbers, and points at one that I recognize as mine.
Every muscle in my body tingles. I realize these men are hunting and they’re after me. “Yes,” I answer.
“Did you receive this text from Violet Sandoval on August second at approximately eight-twenty-five p.m.?”
My gaze slides toward the mantel where Violet’s necklace resides, and I willfully drag my eyes back to the kitchen. Calm down, Hannah. They know you received the text, but they can’t prove you read it.
My mind recalls what it can about that evening. I ran over my phone right after the text arrived, and later, my dad found my phone and threw it away. My cell is long gone, buried in a landfill somewhere, and phone companies don’t hold on to deleted texts very long anyway. These agents might be trying to trick me, so I answer the question as safely as possible. “No, I mean, I don’t remember. I dropped my phone and accidentally drove over it. I’m not sure if I got that text.”
Hatch sits back, studying me. Patel frowns and observes my face, my shoulders, and my posture.
I take a breath. They’re fishing, that’s all. By remaining silent, they’re trying to get me to talk, to reveal.
After a solid minute, Hatch breaks first. He writes a note and changes tack. “Do you know what information Violet was referring to in her text? Do you know what she planned to tell the police?”
“I don’t,” I say, adding a shrug. “And I’d hate to guess.”
Hatch’s eyebrows knit together. “She’s one of the monsters, correct? A group of friends known locally as Luke, Drummer, Mo, and yourself?”
“That’s right.” This agent has done his research.
“As best friends, did you five share secrets?”
My anger flares as I think about Violet and Drummer’s secret relationship. “Not really,” I answer.
Hatch looks surprised.
“Our group wasn’t big on secrets,” I explain.
“What do you mean by ‘wasn’t’?” he asks. “Has something changed?”
My voice warbles. “No—I mean, we know everything about each other.”
I’ve lost my footing, and Hatch senses it. “Violet’s text implies she had a secret, a big one, something that would interest the sheriff’s department.”
“Hmm,” I say thoughtfully.
“You’re her best friend, and you’re telling me you have no idea what that was?” His face is incredulous.
“One of her best friends,” I correct him.
He sits back and steeples his fingers. “Do you understand that we’re trying to find Violet, Hannah? Anything you tell us could lead to her safe return.”
Nice technique: make me think I’m helping while getting me to implicate my friends or myself. “I know; I’m trying to help,” I explain. “I just have no idea what she was talking about.”
Patel clears his throat and peers at me harder. My mouth has gone completely dry.
Hatch asks another question. “Do you believe Violet had information related to the Gap Fire?”
“The fire?” I sputter, feigning surprise. “No. I mean, nothing police don’t already know.”
“Right,” says Hatch, consulting his notes. “You and Violet were horseback riding in the forest when you saw the smoke, but you didn’t see how it started. Correct?”
This is what I told my dad, so I nod. “That’s right.”
“Is it possible Violet saw who started the wildfire on July seventh?”
My answer is immediate: “No.” He watches me and I force myself to take steady breaths. Whoever made up the English language did us all a favor when they created the word no. It’s simple, direct, and hard to fuck up. It’s perfect for lying.
Hatch clears his throat. “Yes, you stated that in your recorded interview, but Violet disappeared the evening before she was to give her official statement. Do you find the timing of that odd? Or the fact that she texted her friends and said: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything? What do you make of that, Hannah? Does it sound to you like she had information that some people might want to keep quiet?” He’s barraged me with questions, and his eyes bore straight through mine as he waits patiently for a response.
My dad’s old clock ticks on the kitchen wall like a heartbeat. I pull my hands out from beneath my legs and fold them. Okay, any reasonable person would admit that the timing of Violet’s disappearance combined with her text is suspicious. “Yeah, I guess you could look at it as odd, but I don’t remember seeing the text, so this is the first I’m hearing about it.” Cold sweat rolls from my armpits in slow rivulets. I feel it and smell it.
Hatch glances at his paper. “Violet’s grandmother reported her missing four hours after Violet sent the text. Three of the message’s recipients are suspects in the Gap Fire arson case, and two of them are suspects in Violet’s disappearance. Do you believe this is a strange coincidence?” He inclines his head.
“Yes,” I rasp.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Hannah. To me, it sounds suspicious.”
I don’t respond and he doesn’t wait, just plows ahead. “Would it be reasonable to conclude that everyone who received the text is involved in Violet’s disappearance, including you?”
He’s backed me into a corner, and even though I saw it coming, I squirm. “I mean, yeah, you could draw that conclusion, but it wouldn’t be true.” I shut my mouth. The less I say from this moment on, the better.
Hatch consults his pad of paper. “Your friend Maureen Russo is the only text recipient who has an alibi during the hours when Violet went missing.”
I lean back, waiting for a question.
Hatch and Patel share a look. “Hannah, where were you on the evening of August second between eight-twenty-five p.m. and twelve-oh-one a.m., when your father found you hiding in the bear-proof trash can?”
I didn’t expect the tables to turn on me this quickly. “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Hatch releases his fingers and glances at his notes. “We don’t know either, Hannah.” He smiles a boyish grin that is incongruous with his hawkish features. “You’re a difficult woman to track. Your car’s been towed to a scrapyard, your phone thrown away, and CCTV footage has not turned up a sighting of your vehicle on any of the main roads in Gap Mountain, and yet you must have gone somewhere that evening if you drove over your phone.”
I blink rapidly. “Is that a question?”
He grunts softly and Patel leans forward. They want to eat me alive, I fucking know it, but they’re treading softly. My gut churns and my legs twitch. I pull on a lock of my hair. “I thought you said I’m not a suspect.”
Hatch smiles again. “We’re trying to rule you out, Hannah.”
I smile back. Sure, you fucking are. As the sheriff’s daughter, I know the game they’re playing.
The special agents watch me another minute, and my knees start bouncing again. They’re frustrated, which is good, but they’re also very, very warm. I decide to offer an alternative theory. “Maybe Violet killed herself.”
Both men lean forward, their eyes intense. Hatch searches my face. “You believe Violet is dead?”
“Oh, I—I don’t know.” Shit, what have I done? Why did I open my big mouth!
Patel jumps in. “We haven’t said anything about the victim being dead.”
“You just called her a victim.”
Hatch tosses Patel an annoyed glance. “Why do you believe Violet might have killed herself, Hannah? Was she upset about something?”
I rub my face, feeling defeated and tired. I can’t tell them why Violet was upset—that she couldn’t live with her guilt. I can’t tell them that she fought with Drummer. “I don’t know why I said that,” I admit to the agents. “It just—it had to be suicide or an accident.”
“You seem quite certain Violet is dead,” Patel says.
“What? No. I mean, she could be, but I don’t know. I believe she’s alive.” I’m tripping over my tongue, sounding as guilty as hell. These agents are putting words in my mouth!
Hatch closes his notebook. “We operate on evidence, Hannah, not belief.”
Blood glides to my cheeks. I know that.
“This concludes our interview,” Hatch says, leaning back. “Thank you for your time, Hannah. Please call us if you remember anything helpful.” He emphasizes the word helpful and then hands me his card. “Good night.”
“Good night.” I stuff the card into my back pocket, close the door, and inhale a deep breath. I feel dizzy and frightened, and I don’t think I did well. I glance at Matilda’s ashes, which are hiding the “victim’s” necklace. The FBI agents were sitting yards away from some pretty crucial evidence and never knew it. The thrill returns, tingling my stomach.
I know I should have told them about the necklace—for Violet’s sake—but I can’t, not until I talk to Drummer, not until I understand how it got into my car.
Lies Like Wildfire Page 21