Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  37

  August 21

  Days Violet has been missing: 19

  Time: 11:15 a.m.

  The next three days passed in tense misery as lawyers and prosecutors battled it out in conference and interrogation rooms over the arson charges. Mo was the first to crack, but the boys followed right after her. They each pled guilty to reckless arson, and their lawyers hashed out very different sentences with the judge.

  Mo received community service hours and probation because she came forward first. Drummer was sentenced to two years, and Luke will serve four, since he brought the pipe and matches. Both boys were remanded to Wasco State Prison, where Luke, who was prosecuted as an adult, will continue to receive medical care for his TBI. All three claimed financial hardship and received fines of ten thousand dollars apiece.

  The monsters stayed true to our pact, and none of them told on Violet or me.

  The district attorney ultimately decided not to prosecute Drummer or Luke for Violet’s murder. Without a body or any evidence that they removed her from the attic, a trial would be expensive and most likely unsuccessful. It should have been a happy moment for Drummer and Luke, but no one feels good about it, because Violet is still missing.

  The extra law enforcement personnel who came to help my father while he was searching for Violet vacated Gap Mountain, and the special task force was disbanded.

  * * *

  —

  Right now, I’m sitting in my family room, staring at Matilda’s ashes and the secret buried inside them. The Gap Fire nightmare is over, at least for me. And my father’s suspicions aside, I haven’t been formally charged or accused in Violet’s case either. I hear the old woman’s voice at Target: She’s safe now. No more pain. No more worries. I need to let Violet go.

  My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Mo: Meet for lunch?

  I let loose a heavy sigh. She keeps telling me we need to talk, but I’ve been avoiding it, because suddenly, I want to get away not only from Gap Mountain but from the friends I’ve known most of my life. Mo was right: things will never be the same.

  I text her back: Sure. When?

  Now? Wildflower Café?

  Before I head out to meet Mo, I open the cedar box on the mantel, unfurl the plastic bag full of Matilda’s ashes, root through them, and pull out the Tiffany necklace, shaking off the dust. It sparkles, so pretty in the sunlight, and feels harmless in my fingers, just an expensive piece of metal, not evidence of a crime or of a dead girl’s last moments. I clip it around my neck and peer at myself in the fireplace mirror.

  It looked so good on Violet, brilliant against her tan skin, swinging charmingly in her cleavage. It’s not quite as pretty on me.

  As I pose, remembering Violet, the door bangs open. “Want to have lunch?” It’s my dad.

  My breath hitches and I quickly flip the silver pendant around to hide the etched letter V. “Hi, Dad.” Sweat prickles my scalp. I can’t take the necklace off or hide it—he’s staring right at me.

  “What are you doing?”

  My heart hammers. “Nothing.”

  He crosses the room, his eyes searching my face. “You thinking about Matilda?”

  The cedar box is open on the mantel, the ashes revealed. “Uh, yeah, I’m kind of saying goodbye to her.”

  “I miss her too.” He hugs me tight, squeezing the necklace between us. I don’t dare breathe. “So, how about lunch?” he asks. Dad wants to spend all his free time with me before I leave for college.

  “Can we do dinner instead? Mo just invited me to lunch.”

  His muscles stiffen at the mention of Mo’s name, but then he sighs and releases me. “All right, dinner then.”

  He climbs the steep stairs to his bedroom as my breath rushes back into my body. I unclasp the necklace and let it slide between my fingers into the ashes. “Goodbye, Violet.”

  I shut the lid and glance at my reflection in the mirror, at the pink-tinged scars on my cheek, forehead, and arms. There’s a patch of hair missing from the center of my eyebrow, but Mo was right, makeup fixes it. My green eyes are clear, and I’m wearing mascara today. I got my hair cut into shorter layers, a sassier style that helps hide the scars and the small areas where my scalp was shaved. If I smile big enough, I have a dimple too. I look pretty. I look ready for the rest of my life.

  * * *

  —

  “You’re brave to meet here,” I say to Mo as we choose a booth at the café. Everyone in Gap Mountain knows that Maureen Elizabeth Marie Russo is: one of the Gap Fire arsonists.

  Mo shrugs. “You know what, Han? I came clean and I’m serving my sentence. People will have to get used to me. And you know what else? It feels really fucking good.”

  “What does?”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Admitting what I did and paying for it. It’s freeing. I can hold my head up again, and besides, not everyone hates me. Some people understand. It’s not like we did it on purpose; we were just fucking around, being stupid. The church is holding a special service for Gap Mountain teenagers, and they asked me to speak. I’m going to share about the danger of bringing fire into the woods and the importance of telling the truth.” She cocks her head; her hazel eyes bore straight into mine.

  Thankfully, Omar arrives right then to take our order. He’s distant but polite. We order BLTs, fries, and chocolate shakes.

  I change the subject. “What about college?”

  She plays with her knife, spinning it in circles. “I’m conditionally admitted for next year, assuming I complete all my community service hours. I had to write one hell of an essay to convince the dean.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  She nods. “I equated my arson conviction to a plot point in Irving’s The World According to Garp.”

  I laugh out loud, drawing frowns from the other diners. “How in the world did you do that?”

  Mo flashes a grin that reminds me of happier days. “I theorized that I’ve been ‘predisastered,’ like Garp’s house in the book. Remember? He wants to buy a house, and then a plane hits it, so he figures it’s safe forever. I mean, what are the odds of another disaster, right? They’re astronomical.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “So I told them I’ve been predisastered, and they can count on me to never make an awful mistake like that fire again, and it worked.”

  “You’re clever, Mo.”

  Our food arrives and she dips a French fry into her ketchup. “I try.”

  We dig in and eat in companionable silence. I miss hanging out and having fun. It’s familiar and nice and gives me hope for my future in San Diego. I swallow and ask Mo what I want to know in a quiet voice: “How come you guys didn’t include me when you confessed about the fire?”

  She swallows, picks at her food. “That’s what I wanted to explain, because I figured you would wonder.” She glances up, her eyes a bit colder than I expected. “The truth is, we lied for Violet, not for you.”

  “Oh?” My cheeks start to burn.

  “Yeah. Our lawyers don’t know it, but we consulted privately. Everyone believes that you and Violet were riding horses together when it happened; you were her alibi. If we told the truth about you, it would implicate her.”

  I stare at my hands.

  Mo sniffles. “Violet’s dead, she has to be, and we want her to rest in peace. We won’t smear her name. It was Drummer’s idea, actually.”

  Tears roll down my cheeks and splat onto my fingers. My friends weren’t protecting me at all—just her, the girl who has everything (well, had everything). I push my plate away. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “Are you angry?” Mo asks.

  I glance up and she recoils at whatever she sees on my face. “No,” I say, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. “I’m grateful. I am.”

  “You should be.” Mo leans forward with
her butter knife clasped in her fist. She points it at me. “You’re as guilty as we are.” Her voice is tight and controlled. “If anything, you’re guiltier. You’re the one who grabbed Luke’s arm. He was stupid, yeah, but you were the reckless one.”

  The word hangs between us: reckless.

  “We saved your ass,” Mo adds.

  “No, you saved Violet’s ass.”

  She stands up, throws down ten bucks. “You’re fucking welcome.” And she stalks out of the café, to the shocked stares of the patrons.

  I wait until she’s long gone, and then I pay the rest of the bill and leave. I don’t need this drama. It’s over. I’m leaving and never coming back.

  In the morning, my dad drives me to Southern California. As Gap Mountain vanishes in the rearview mirror, I release a long, pent-up breath. Finally. It’s over.

  38

  August 30

  Days Violet has been missing: 28

  Time: 9:25 a.m.

  Turns out, I hate dorm life. I haven’t made a single real friend. My floor is loud, and kids party until 3:00 a.m. most nights. I can’t study, can’t think, and no one here gets me. When I’m in a mood, no one understands how to tease me out of it—they don’t even realize it’s a mood! They know me as the tall, quiet girl who leaves any room as soon as it gets crowded. They leave me alone, but I want to make friends, I do.

  I miss the monsters.

  Right now, my roommate is down the hall, throwing up in the bathroom, still sick from last night. If it were Mo or Violet, I’d be with her, rubbing her back. We used to share our miseries. Obviously, that changed when some of us went to prison and I went to college. What did I expect? I’m free. I just never imagined I’d be free all by myself.

  I’m studying a textbook on socioeconomic factors as they relate to crime when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I’ll talk to anyone who isn’t my roommate. “Hello?”

  “You have a collect call from Nathaniel Drummer, an inmate at Wasco State Prison. Will you accept the charges?”

  The room shrinks and my chest tightens. I’m not sure what she means by “collect call,” but I don’t care—it’s Drummer. “Yes, I’ll accept!” We haven’t spoken since his arson sentencing, though I’ve written plenty of letters, begging him to call me.

  The call is put through, and the connection is quiet except for Drummer’s breathing. When he speaks, his voice warbles. “Hey, Hannah.”

  “Hi! How are you?” I cringe. What a stupid question.

  “Not good,” he answers. His playfulness is gone. His voice is deep and rumbling. “I miss her, Hannah.”

  I pull a breath. God, did he call to tell me that? “I miss her too.”

  Another long silence. Then, “The food here sucks.”

  I laugh, feeling awkward, and try to relate. “Here too! And my room is tiiiny. I might as well be in prison—I mean, except for the parties and the homework.”

  Drummer sucks in a breath. “Not the same, Han, not at all.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  I hear him fidget. “It’s—I wanted to tell you something about Violet.”

  I close my eyes and he goes on. “She was a good person, Han. She wanted everyone, you and the monsters and her grandma, to know we were dating, to come clean about it. She hated secrets.”

  Sure she did, I think.

  Drummer cries quietly on the other end of the line. “I refused because I thought you’d be really pissed, and I left mad. Now I’ve lost you both.”

  His words shatter me. “You haven’t lost me, Drummer.”

  His tears turn to bitter laughter, and then his voice sharpens. “Hannah, my girlfriend is dead because of what we did.”

  My stomach clenches as my breath leaves my body. “I—don’t say that.”

  “I just—I don’t know where she is, or if I accidentally killed her. I don’t know if someone covered it up for me.” His tone is raw, accusatory. “And I’m not sure I want to know.”

  I’m breathless; I can’t speak.

  He’s silent a full minute. Then he releases a long, heavy sigh. “I called to tell you we’re done, Hannah. I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, but we’re not good together. I have a counselor and he’s helping me set boundaries and believe in myself. Our friendship is over.”

  “Drummer—”

  “Hannah, it’s best for both of us. Okay?”

  I dissolve into a fit of coughing and crying. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  A long pause and then Drummer says, “I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s all my fault, Han.”

  My stomach drops. “What is?”

  “You and me—us. I liked having a smart, pretty girl like you on the hook. I never wanted to lose that, but when I get out of here, I want a real relationship. I don’t want to use girls anymore or run when things get hard. I’ve gotta take care of myself.”

  I swallow my tears. It feels good to hear him admit he understands how we were—together but not together. It makes me feel less crazy. Our relationship was real, just real bad.

  He clears his throat. “Take care of yourself too, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “It’s not all bad here,” he says. “Luke and I are talking again, and we joined the inmate firefighting squad. We’ll be putting out wildfires, Han. Fitting, yeah?”

  I hear pride in his voice and let out my breath. The boys’ futures aren’t destroyed; they’re just not what any of us imagined. “That’s great, Drummer.”

  “Have fun studying,” he says, and we both laugh. “Goodbye, Hannah.”

  “Goodbye.” After I hang up, I flop onto my bed and sob.

  39

  September 14

  Days Violet has been missing: 43

  Time: 2:30 p.m.

  It happens in my Introduction to Criminal Law class. The two FBI agents who interviewed me in Gap Mountain stride through the lecture hall door just as class begins. They’re tidy and well groomed, wearing suits, and my heart dips into my stomach.

  The professor halts midsentence. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  The lead agent approaches. “I’m Special Agent Hatch with the FBI.” He shows his badge.

  I grip the sides of my desk with one thought pounding in my head: it’s not over.

  Our professor offers a half smile and glances at her students, looking bemused.

  Snickers roll through the lecture hall. It’s a criminal law class, so this feels like a joke. The students settle, waiting to see what happens next. I don’t believe a single one of them would be surprised if the agents produced a wireless speaker and started stripping.

  Hatch lowers his voice and whispers to the professor. Her face changes, growing serious. She checks her class list and nods. “Yes, she’s my student.”

  My chest squeezes. The room blurs. Briefly, I wonder how fast I can run.

  Hatch gazes across the hall. We’re spaced far apart, and his eyes bounce from student to student until they land on me. “Hannah Louise Warner, come forward, please.”

  Quiet laughter erupts and students peer at one another, leaning forward and whispering as they search for Hannah Louise Warner.

  My eyes dart to the exits, and the special agents notice this and begin to move. My entire body is clenched tight; my feet are rooted to the floor. Hatch marches toward me, his gun briefly visible inside his jacket, and the students catch on that this is not a prank. Their smiles change to frowns. Those closest to me move away. Static fills the air as kids realize this might get ugly.

  I’m poised to bolt but force myself to face what’s coming as Hatch makes his way through the rows and Special Agent Patel stands beside the main exit. Students ease away from their desks and line the walls.

  “Remain calm,” Hatch warns as several students rush out of the hall. He finds his way to me
. “Hello, Ms. Warner.”

  My eyes swallow him—his suit, his power, his surety.

  “We need to speak to you.” He’s neither rude nor polite.

  “Why?” I croak, my throat tight. “Am I under arrest?”

  He releases a sigh that says, You want to do this right here? “You are not, but I have a search warrant that requires you to come with me now.” He shows me his papers.

  “Oh,” I say breathlessly. The warrant gives him the right to search my dorm room, my belongings, my phone, and to collect my DNA and fingerprints. “What’s this about?”

  He lifts one thick eyebrow. “This is about the alleged murder of Violet Sandoval. We have some questions for you, Ms. Warner.”

  His warrant trembles in my hands.

  “We’ll walk you to our vehicle now. If you resist or struggle, I will handcuff you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” My heart kicks, and my blood speeds through my veins.

  Hatch and Patel lead me out of class, to the shocked stares of my classmates. As soon as I’m out the door, their energy erupts behind me in excited exclamations. The professor tries to calm them down. Someone says, “I think I’ve heard of Violet Sandoval. Isn’t she that missing heiress?” Then utter silence. I imagine fingers tapping on phones and laptops, searching. In a minute, they’ll know.

  The agents’ unmarked car is parked in a tow-away zone in front of the Sciences complex. They usher me to it and help me inside.

  They drive me to a field office, where my fingerprints are taken, my DNA is collected, and my phone is confiscated. Next, they lead me to a chilly interrogation room that holds a desk, several chairs, a box of tissues, and a pitcher of water. There’s a two-way mirror on the wall behind me. “Wait here,” says Hatch. He and Patel move to leave.

  I reach for Hatch’s arm and stop just short of touching him. “I don’t know anything. I have amnesia.”

  I don’t begrudge him his smirk. “If you truly have amnesia, Ms. Warner, you’re in for quite a shock.” He shuts the door behind him.