Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  33

  August 16

  Days Violet has been missing: 14

  Time: 8:00 p.m.

  The content of Violet’s last text is released to the media in the morning. Reporters quickly identify the four recipients, and since Mo, Luke, and Drummer are also suspects in the Gap Fire, the media draws the same conclusion as the FBI did: that we’re involved in a cover-up. Even though I haven’t officially been named as a suspect, a compelling motive is established: four desperate and dangerous teenagers murdered their best friend to shut her up.

  Gap Mountain residents line up to be interviewed, and our nickname, the monsters, takes hold in the public’s imagination. Outrageous headlines follow:

  MISSING GIRL MURDERED BY “MONSTERS”

  SANDOVAL HEIRESS ROBBED AND RAPED BY ARSONISTS

  MISSING GAP MOUNTAIN GIRL THREATENED TO SPILL ALL

  TEEN “MONSTERS” SLAY RICH FRIEND TO EVADE ARSON CHARGES

  The only problem: there’s no body. Divers have searched Gap Lake and found nothing, and the lake is too deep to drag.

  Photos of us appear in the news—me, wrapped in bandages like a mummy; Mo, looking frail and frightened; Drummer, flashing his pretty smile that now appears malevolent; and Luke, a bruised, hollow-eyed seventeen-year-old with a shaved head, a serious face, and dark, empty eyes. We look desperate and mean and capable of murder.

  Drummer’s now been missing for three days. I text him nonstop: Don’t hide. Turn yourself in. Let me help you. He doesn’t respond. He probably destroyed his phone.

  Mo calls and starts talking before I can say a word: “The FBI just left my house.”

  “Hello to you too.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she rants. “My parents are going crazy. My lawyer’s bills are skyrocketing. Reporters are eating takeout on my sidewalk. Fuck.”

  “I’m sorry.” My house is at the end of a mile-long gravel driveway in the woods. I’m not sure if this is why reporters are staying away, or if it’s because my dad’s the sheriff, because of aggressive wild bears, or because I’m the only monster (besides Violet) who hasn’t been implicated in the Gap Fire.

  I hear Mo shut her bedroom door. “The agents asked me what Violet was going to tell the police.”

  “Yeah, they asked me too.” I lie on my sofa, surrounded by bags of chips and empty soda cans. My diet has gone to shit since all this started. On the mantel above the fireplace, the cedar box of ashes seems to throb at me, as if Violet is inside the box listening to us.

  “Shit,” I cry, flailing upright. “Hold on, Mo.” Violet can’t hear me, but that doesn’t mean no one is listening! I quickly text Mo on her prepaid phone: Don’t say another word. FBI might be listening.

  Mo: WTF is that legal

  Me: with a court order, yeah, and you’re a suspect. Come over.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Mo’s Corolla pulls into my driveway. I meet her outside. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  She steps out of her car and follows me onto a trail that leads into the woods. It’s several degrees cooler here. The stout evergreens stand like ancient chess pieces, frozen in place, stuck in eternal checkmate as we wander between them. “Did you tell the agents anything?”

  She frowns. “No, but I’m not sure our silence is doing us any good anymore. Things are fucked up.”

  “They’d be worse if the police knew the truth.”

  “I guess. I can’t believe they haven’t found Drummer yet. Do you think he’s okay?”

  “Drummer has nine lives, I swear. They’ll find him or he’ll come out soon. How long do you think he’ll last without hair gel and a toothbrush?”

  Mo laughs softly.

  “When do you start school?” I ask, steering the subject away from Drummer.

  “You didn’t hear?” Mo pauses near a copse of fir trees and rubs her arms. “I officially dropped my classes for the semester. I can’t concentrate, the commute would kill me, and every day I have less money for college.” Her voice is throaty and raw.

  “God, Mo…” She lost her home and now this. I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought very little about college myself. I should be purchasing school supplies, not evading wiretaps.

  Mo sighs. “It sucks, but I’m okay. I’m alive, right?”

  “Yeah.” I shiver. Has this become our new qualifier for a good day: the ability to breathe?

  Mo lowers her voice. “Do you think Violet is really dead, Han? Could he—do you think Drummer killed her?”

  “Not on purpose,” I whisper.

  Mo dissolves into silent tears and leans against me. I’m sad too, but I’m also scared. Sometimes I see Violet’s body when I close my eyes—her bloodless skin, her empty eyes, her stiff fingers curled like claws—but then my mind zips away from that image and won’t show me the rest. If I witnessed her murder, accidental or not, I can’t let Drummer or Luke know I suspect them, and I can’t tell my dad either, not without revealing the truth about the wildfire. I need to figure this out on my own. When you finally remember what you saw, don’t fucking tell, Luke warned. God, I could be next.

  In the distance, my horses whinny for dinner. “Let’s head back, Mo. I need to feed the horses.”

  We say good night in the driveway, and Mo drives home. I trot to the barn, automatically holding the door open for Matilda, but of course she doesn’t come, and fresh grief floods my heart. I let the barn door bang shut and plod toward the feed room.

  Sunny nickers, tossing his head, and Stella pins her ears. Pistol trots from his pen into his stall and kicks the wall with his back leg. “Dinner is coming,” I grumble.

  I’m low on hay and make a mental note to buy more as I push the wheelbarrow toward the stalls. The horses watch me intently, growing more excited the closer I get. Sunny spins in circles.

  Feeding them is over quickly, and my horses are happy, munching on hay, unaware of the greater world around them. They have no idea who the president is, or that a virus can shut down the world, or that Violet is missing, and I love them for it.

  A shadow shifts behind me, and I flinch. A filthy hand covers my mouth. A man’s voice whispers in my ear: “Don’t scream.”

  34

  August 16

  Days Violet is missing: 14

  Time: 9:15 p.m.

  The hand over my mouth is hot and dry and covers half my face. I try to bite my attacker, and then the hand is gone. I spin around and come eye to eye with Drummer. “The hell, Drummer!”

  “Sorry,” he rasps.

  I bend in half as if I’ve just run a marathon. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Tears drip from his eyes, which are so dilated they look black. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

  I grab him and hug him, and he leans heavily on me. “Where have you been?” He’s wearing the same clothing I saw him in three days ago. He reeks of old sweat, and his hair is matted with grease and dirt. Dried blood stains his shirt from Luke’s punches. Branches have left welts on his arms.

  “I’ve been hiding in the woods and empty hunting lodges,” he answers. “I can’t go to jail, Han.” His normally half-lidded eyes are round and desperate.

  I smooth his hair, and my hand comes away oily. “I know and you won’t.”

  He collapses on a wooden bench in the barn aisle. “We—” He covers his face, and his body starts shaking as words spill from his mouth. “It was an accident. Violet wasn’t thinking straight, she was going to tell on us, send all of us to prison, and then we fought about you—about telling you we were dating.”

  I blink at him, shocked.

  “I—I grabbed her wrists and she fought me. Look.” He points at scratches on his arms that aren’t completely healed, and I realize not all of them are from branches. Some are half-moon indents, like mine but deeper. I cross my arms to hide my still-healing scratches and stifle
the ugly tremor that rolls through me.

  He clutches his stomach, sinks to the barn floor. “She’ll have my skin under her nails and bruises where I grabbed her. She thought I sprained or broke her wrist, and the worst part”—he heaves a breath—“I…she hit her head pretty bad. It split open; it was bleeding. She didn’t look good, Han.”

  I sink down next to him. “Why did you leave her?”

  “Yeah, that looks bad, doesn’t it?” He wipes his eyes and nose with his dirty T-shirt. “If I’d known I’d never see her again…” He leans into me, wetting my arms with his tears.

  I stroke his back. “Did you take her cash? Was Luke there?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t take the money, and I don’t know about Luke, but Han?”

  “Yeah?”

  Fresh tears leak from his eyes. “Where were you?”

  I inhale sharply.

  “Did you hide her for me?” He grabs my body and holds me tight. “You must have. No one else would help me, but you”—he strokes my hair—“you love me.”

  My head spins and I recoil, sick to my stomach. “I told you, I don’t remember.”

  He pulls back and his eyes search mine. “I can’t go to prison, okay?” He flops against me, crying harder.

  “Okay,” I tell him, but what am I agreeing to? My gut twists and screams, This is wrong! “You can’t hide forever, Drummer.”

  He nods. “I know. I wanted these scratches to heal before the police saw them, but I’m so fucking hungry, Han, and it gets cold in the woods at night.”

  I read the misery in his face and can’t help the tiny smile that curves my lips. If Drummer is anything, he’s predictable. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat. My dad’s not home.” I take his hand and lead him into my house. He’s weak and feels as light as a child’s balloon as I tug him along.

  Inside, he collapses onto a chair and rests his head on the kitchen table. I heat a plate of venison, mashed potatoes, and a can of corn. My dad stocks Gatorade in the fridge, so I hand him one of those too. Drummer drinks the entire bottle in one gulp, and I hand him another. Then he digs into the venison.

  “Don’t eat too fast,” I warn him.

  “I don’t care if I get sick,” he says.

  When he’s done, I suggest he take a shower, and he lets me lead him to the bathroom. I disappear to fetch a clean towel, and when I return, Drummer has stripped off his shirt, pants, and underwear. He hears my footsteps and turns slightly. I halt and stare, my eyes traveling across yards of tight tan skin to the dark blond hair and pale flesh between his legs.

  He lets me look, and I feel his gaze linger hotly on my face. Then he takes the towel and covers himself. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” I about-face and exit the room. My cheeks burn and my heart thumps. He does this on purpose! He gives me his affection, his trust, his beauty, his mistakes—everything except his love. He teases me and I follow him like a dog. It’s sick. I’m sick.

  I fall onto my bed and chew my nails, listening to the shower. Drummer gets off on fucking with me, and as my anger grows hotter, I grab my phone and pull up Justin’s account. He has a new post—a picture of him riding a horse, a powerfully built pinto. Drummer’s not the only hot guy in the world.

  I scroll through my old messages and read the last one I received from Justin a few days ago: Are you all right? I still want to make things up to you

  With a glare at the closed bathroom door, I decide to answer him. Maybe Justin and I could have a real thing. I text him: I feel better. Are you free this weekend? I miss you

  As before, he’s quick to answer: yeah, I’d love that. I miss you too

  Justin is older but nice enough, I guess. ttyl

  As soon as I slide my phone back into my jeans pocket, I feel confused and a little regretful. Am I ready for hearts and kisses with Justin? Then I remember that I lied to him about my age. Shit. I need to remedy that right away.

  btw, have to tell you something. I’m eighteen. I didn’t lie about SDSU, I am going, but I’m a freshman, not a junior. Sorry

  A long pause and then his response: 18 is okay

  My face flushes and it strikes me again that I don’t know his age. How old are you?

  26

  Every hair on my neck stands up. I knew he was midtwenties, but now that he’s confirmed it, none of this feels right.

  Drummer pops out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. I quickly hide the phone under my leg. “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  His expression hardens. “Did you just text your dad?”

  “No.”

  He launches at me and grabs for the phone. “Hannah?”

  “I didn’t.”

  We wrestle over the phone, and his towel slips off. Drummer pins me. His damp bare skin covers mine; his clean scent fills my lungs. I freeze and my breathing ratchets higher.

  He pries the phone out of my fingers and unlocks it because, of course, he knows my password. Do I know his? No.

  He reads the texts and slowly lifts his weight off me. His sharp blue eyes meet mine. “Who the fuck is Justin?”

  I close my lips.

  He scrolls and reads. “Is this the guy you slept with?” Drummer takes my silence as affirmation and huffs. “Eighteen is okay, what the fuck does that mean? This guy’s a creep, Han.”

  I notice I’m trembling. “No, he’s nice.”

  Drummer snarls, his face scrunched tight. “Oh, I bet he was nice.”

  “Give it to me.” I reach for the phone.

  “Wait,” he says. He pulls the towel over his waist and snaps a photo of himself, wet and steaming from the shower. He texts the picture to Justin and writes: i’m Hannahs boyfriend. stay the fuck away from her asshole. And hits Send.

  “Drummer!” I protest, but I start to laugh.

  He puts up a finger and we wait. The gray dots show Justin reading the text, but he doesn’t respond. “See, he’s a creep. You’ll never hear from him again.” He tosses me my phone.

  I wipe my eyes dry. “But he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.”

  Drummer sets his hands on his hips, in mothering mode now. “Do you want to keep seeing this guy, Hannah?”

  I shrug one shoulder.

  “Then I did you a favor.” He relaxes and settles close to me on my bed, his thigh warm against mine. I lean against his bare chest and breathe in his scent. Another boy might kiss me right now, but Drummer won’t. Maybe being best friends is better than being a girlfriend. Maybe this is enough.

  “Can I sleep in your bed with you?” he asks, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows he’s in serious trouble.

  “Sure,” I say, my voice husky. “But my dad will be home in about an hour.”

  Drummer nods. “It’s fine, I’m done hiding. I just want to sleep for a while, with you. Lie down with me.”

  I hand him a pair of baggy sweats, which fit him since we’re the same height, and my heart flutters as we slide beneath the covers together. “Roll over,” he says.

  I do as he asks, and he presses his body against mine. “You’re so warm. I love you, Hannah Banana.” He hugs me tight and falls asleep in seconds.

  I realize he’s saying goodbye, and my throat closes, my eyes burn with tears. I clasp his arms tighter around me, wishing this moment could last forever. If it were possible for Drummer and me to go to jail together, I might confess what I know, tell my dad everything! Drummer and I could be roommates, locked together in a cage. He wouldn’t be able to leave, to get away from me. We could share a cot.

  But it’s not possible. He would live in a cellblock full of men—no pretty girls for miles. No Violet. At least I’d always know where he was. I smooth the sun-glossed hair on his arms. “I love you more,” I whisper.

  At ten-thirty my fa
ther enters the house. “Hannah!” he cries.

  I slide out of bed and rush down to the family room. Dad’s face is an angry shade of red, and he’s holding a pair of dirty Vans. “Are these Drummer’s?”

  My mouth falls open. Shit, Drummer must have slid them off in the kitchen when he ate the venison. Dad reads my expression and stiffens. “Where is he, Hannah?”

  The jig is up. There’s no hiding Drummer now, so I point upstairs to my bedroom.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Not on purpose, I think. “Dad, Drummer wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  He pulls out his service revolver and stalks up the stairs. I follow and watch my father wake Drummer up and haul him away. And here we are again, my dad arresting someone I love—it’s like a horrible experience repeated on a loop. Suddenly, I can’t wait to move out of this house.

  35

  August 18

  Days Violet has been missing: 16

  Time: 9:30 a.m.

  Drummer’s arrest hits the news media machine like an explosion. His handsome senior photo contrasts dramatically with his bruised and battered mug shot, and his story feeds the media storm building in our town. The headlines are once again inflammatory:

  SUSPECT ARRESTED IN MISSING HEIRESS CASE

  AFTER THREE-DAY MANHUNT, GAP MOUNTAIN SUSPECT APPREHENDED

  TEEN ARSONIST & SUSPECTED RAPIST ARRESTED

  GAP MOUNTAIN “MONSTER” CAPTURED

  His DNA is collected and analyzed, and he’s matched to the semen sample. To prove motive, forensic experts dig into his phone’s GPS tracking, and it confirms he was at the point of origin when the Gap Fire started.

  Meanwhile, the saliva taken from the pot pipe matches Luke’s DNA, and a search of his house reveals a hidden bundle of hundred-dollar bills and his prepaid phone. Detectives send the money to the lab for fingerprint testing, but everyone believes it’s Violet’s. Drummer’s prepaid phone has also been seized.

  The world is certain now that at least two of the monsters attacked Violet so she wouldn’t tell on them. It doesn’t help that Drummer failed to delete a few damning texts to Violet on the prepaid phone, and these are released to the press: i wish luke had never brought that damn pipe to the Gap. that fire fucked up my whole summer with you. And: I’m scared V. I don’t want to go to jail. And the worst one, sent to Violet on the night she disappeared: do not talk to the police! i’m coming over.