by CJ Lyons
“I was only four. Loved to play at being my dad’s helper. Of course, I wasn’t much help, not really, but still it was nice when he let me hang with him.”
Max grunts with impatience. I ignore him, and continue to ease into things. “It wasn’t that cold, but there was some low-lying fog on the dunes. Other than that, the night was clear, the moon almost full.”
Ella’s head bobs, her expression absent as if she’s walking through the sand with me.
“The cottage was dark when we arrived. The lights were off. But there was a strange car outside. Pennsylvania plates. We rang the bell and knocked. Figured maybe the visitors had arrived early and gone for a walk on the beach.”
I stop there, despite the urge to plow on. I need to tread carefully. Silent tears slip down Rory’s face as she clutches Ella’s arm, but Ella’s expression is more frightening—she looks right through me as if I’m not even there, as if none of us are. A blank screen. What images does she see in my words? Does she glimpse the truth?
Am I doing more harm than good, forcing her to remember, to relive something she’d buried so deep?
“My dad opened the door and a blast of smoke and heat came out. The alarms hadn’t gone off—later, the forensics guys said someone had disabled them. My dad sent me to get help—there’s no cell service out there—while he ran inside to try to find anyone who may have gotten trapped.” My gut clenches just like it had that night when Dad vanished into the smoke. Except back then the smoke wasn’t the only scent choking me.
I take a breath and swear I taste blood, just like that night when cold, bloody copper filled the air, clinging to everything. It was days later before I stopped smelling death.
“Before I got very far, the whole house suddenly went up. I ran back to find my dad. I thought he was dead, that the fire had taken him.” My voice breaks but I’m not embarrassed, too caught up in the memories that have haunted me all my life. That fire could have killed my father—could have killed me.
“Finally, he came out coughing, clothing singed, dragging something—someone. But it was too late. We both barely made it away before the roof collapsed and flames shot up everywhere. He was having trouble breathing, so I ran to get help for real this time. The fastest way home was over the dunes and down the beach, but when I hit the sand I saw a girl. She was just a little kid, littler than me, alone in the water, the waves knocking her down. I remember feeling so grown up, like a superhero, racing to save her.”
“You found me.” Ella isn’t asking a question; I nod anyway.
“You were in the water. The surf kept pulling you under, but you kept swimming farther out. Until I caught up with you.”
“I was hiding. Not from you. From someone else.”
I frown. “Your father? Did he—” Despite my best efforts to remain neutral, my voice is choked with rage. “Did he try to hurt you like he did your mother?”
“Her father?” Rory is aghast. Ella says nothing, just stares, unblinking.
Max makes a noise deep in his chest and stands, blocking my view of the girls. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you? Dredging this all up. No one asked you to—”
“Stop it.” Ella isn’t shouting, yet her voice strikes like a hammer. “Stop it. Max, Alec had no idea I didn’t know about that night. What he and his father went through.”
She isn’t calling my version of events the truth. I can’t really blame her; it’s a lot to take in. Fifteen years of her life’s history erased and rewritten with a few words.
She stares at me—no, around me, as if searching for something that isn’t there. Finally she says, “But I know one thing. My father didn’t do that. He didn’t kill my mother or himself. My father is innocent.”
I avoid Max and walk over to where Ella sits. There’s no free chair near her so I crouch, getting down to her eye level just like I did when we were kids. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Back then, Nora never said a word. Not a word, not during the whole time she stayed with us—most of those eleven days were spent gripping my hand and hiding behind my legs—until the social worker and police finally found her grandmother and uncle and they’d come to take her home.
Then as my mom was bundling Nora into her new car seat and Dad was talking logistics with her new family, giving them his card, promising to follow up even though it wasn’t officially his investigation—only then did she fling her arms around my neck and press her lips next to my ears and whisper to me.
Two words. “Promise me.”
Promise her what, she never had a chance to tell me, because her grandmother hustled her away before she could say another word.
Lord, how I wanted to keep her. Or go with her. Stay by her side, protect her. I’d blubbered, pretending it was just the wind blowing sand in my eyes. Stood out there staring at the dust trail kicked up by the car long after it had vanished. For months, I begged my parents to call Nora’s family, to let me talk with her. I needed to know she was okay, that the monster who killed her mother hadn’t scarred her as well. I needed her to be safe even as that night haunted me.
I’d wake two, sometimes three times a night with horrible dreams of her being burned alive—what if she’d been in the house, what if she hadn’t escaped? Then the nightmares would escalate and it would be Dad killed or him and Mom or all of us, the fire grown to a demon intent on destroying everything I cared about. A cloud of dread clung to me for months. I didn’t smile or laugh anymore; it was as if I was haunted, not by the dead but by a living girl.
And now, here she was. Alive and well. Until I blundered into her life and ruined everything. Stole her smile. Silenced her laughter.
I’ve become the boogeyman from my own nightmares. Haunting the girl I’d been so desperate to save.
Her eyes tug at mine, pleading, as desperate as that three-year-old begging me to make a promise I could never keep. “My dad was innocent, right?”
All I can do is close my eyes, shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
When I open my eyes, she’s gone. Not physically, but her entire body has pulled back into the chair as if trying to disappear into the fabric, her arms are wrapped tight around her chest, protecting her heart and other vital organs, and her glassy stare is fixed on the door behind me.
Slowly, feeling a lot older than I had only moments before, I stand. Is this how Dad feels when he has to deliver a death notification? So empty, so helpless?
“Wait. That can’t be all. Maybe someone else set the fire. Maybe the fire left evidence—I’ve heard of fingerprints being seared into objects, preserved.” Max seems oblivious to Ella’s pain, instead focusing on proving me wrong. “How could they be sure? I mean, after—” Finally, even his insensitivity finds its boundary as Rory shushs him with a glare.
“Nora’s—Ella’s—fingerprints and her parents’ were the only ones they found, besides my mom’s from when she cleaned. And before you ask, they found no fingerprints other than her father’s on the gun or the gas can. No footprints or tire tracks.” I sigh. “It was a thorough investigation, even if it did take a while to complete.”
“Then why are you here? What do you want from Ella?” Rory, getting to the heart of things. I’ve noticed that about her. She’s definitely keyed into what’s most important, at least when it comes to protecting her friends.
“I thought she knew, remembered. I was interested—” I stop. Too clinical. Yes, journalists are meant to be objective observers, but this isn’t only Ella’s life, it’s mine as well. How can I trust myself to get close to anyone, how can I ever trust anyone, if I can’t understand why people do things like what happened to Ella’s parents? The need to know the truth about that night has driven me all my life. Not just what was in the reports from the cops and the forensic scientists and the medical examiner. The real truth. What wasn’t in any report. The why.
“Don’t you see?” Max is facing me, hands balled into fists. “He wants to sell her story. Use it in this book his
professor is writing.”
“Yes, that’s part of it. But there’s more as well. I wanted, I needed—” I can’t look at Max, meet the challenge in his glare. Instead, I focus on Ella. “I know the facts. What’s more important to me is understanding why. I thought you might know—or want to know. Help me find the truth. About why your dad—”
Her eyes grow large, the pupils dilating with fear to the point where I see my face reflected in them. My features are warped, grotesque. I’ve become a monster.
“I can’t help you.” She shoves her chair back and gets to her feet, her body wavering until she draws in a breath and with it the strength to stand straight.
Before I can say anything to stop her, she turns and is gone. Rory chases after her. Max moves more slowly, backing away toward the door, his eyes fixed on me. As if I’m the threat. Then he disappears through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Leaving me alone. I slump into the chair near the computer. When I reach for the keyboard, blood from the crime scene photos on the screen stains my hands red.
The heat clanks on, filling the room with parched air that stinks vaguely of overcooked hot dogs. I shiver and long for home, for my beach, the crystal blue ocean that reflects the moods of the sky, my mom’s cooking and warm glances, my dad’s deep baritone that is always so certain about everything.
I thought that by chasing my night terrors, by finding the answers, I could finally exorcise my demons.
Now I’m wondering why I ever left home for this cold, barren city.
I reach for my phone, trying to remember Dad’s work schedule. Mom would offer comfort and solace. As appealing as that sounds, it isn’t what I need, not after bringing such pain to Nora. To Ella. More than pain, fear.
“Dad? I think I really screwed up. Bad.”
CHAPTER 18
Ella
For the second time in as many days, a guy is driving me home in my own car. Unlike Alec, Max didn’t ask; he simply slid my keys from my hand as soon as I took them from my pocket. Rory’s behind us in her Bug. Somehow everything feels worse without her chatter providing background noise, her words painting a kaleidoscope of neon cheer, distracting me from grim, gray reality.
I sit in the passenger seat, knees up to my chest, and despite wearing my warmest clothes, I’m shivering. For me, the Subaru is filled with a damp, impenetrable fog, and the noise of the heater becomes the roar of the ocean. My layers of clothing drag on me as if they’re soaked through; I can almost smell the salt water that drenches them.
Good thing Max is driving, because as we come to a halt I can’t even see we’re at my house, the fog surrounding me is so thick.
“We’re here.” He waits for me to do something. “Sure you don’t want us to come in? Maybe we could help—”
I shake my head and press my weight against the door release. It pops open and the fog swirls out and I can see again. “No. Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
At least I think that’s what I say as I tumble free of the car. He climbs out as well, walks around to my side and hands me back my keys. Rory’s waiting at the curb, beaming encouragement despite the brown waves of concern emanating from her false smile. Leave it to Rory to turn worry into chocolate. The thought gives me the energy to wave back as she and Max drive off.
I eye the house suspiciously, but nothing has changed since I left this morning. Somehow this surprises me. How can my entire world have collapsed without anything else changing?
I glance up and down the block at the houses of families I’ve known since I was a little girl. What are their cheerful façades hiding? As my eyes seek out their secrets, I imagine couples betrayed by the ones they love, lost fortunes, terminal illnesses . . . a host of devastation silenced by an outward appearance of normalcy.
Before I make it to my front door, Darrin’s Lexus purrs into the drive, parking behind Joe’s rusted-out Tacoma. We have a separate garage out back, a building at the far end of the driveway that runs past the side of the house, but it’s been my studio for so long that everyone, even Darrin, parks outside. Darrin eases out, his car door closing with a gentle whisper instead of the solid bang my Impreza makes.
“Hey there,” he says in greeting. “Glad I caught you.”
“Are you heading back to the city?” I ask. Darrin never stays here more than a night or two even though he has an apartment downtown. The original Cleary and Sons was in Cambria City, but over the years Darrin has expanded the business far beyond our tiny, landlocked rustbelt town. He spends most of his time, when he’s not traveling, meeting with clients in either the Philly or Manhattan outposts.
I’ve never been to any of our other offices or Darrin’s other homes. I imagine him in a penthouse, its windows filled with a vista of neon lights, entertaining Victoria Secret models or the like. After my parents’ deaths, he’s grown Cleary and Sons into an international, highly regarded boutique agency. It will be my inheritance, he always says. Something my father would be proud of. Darrin was my father’s best friend. He must have known, seen . . . something. Why didn’t he get Dad help? Warn my mom? Before it was too late.
“Yes, I’m heading out soon, but I wanted to speak with you first.” He leans against his car without worrying about any dirt smudging his Burberry overcoat—no dirt would dare to attach itself to Darrin or his Lexus.
“Your gram told me you were hesitant about the trip to Paris.” He chooses his words carefully. That’s the kind of man he is: careful, thoughtful, always with a plan. “I know you’re worried about the money, but now that you’re eighteen, the trust your parents set up for your education is open to you. Plus, you won’t be going alone. I’ve arranged to meet with clients the first few weeks you’re there, so I can help you get settled. And Joe will watch over Helen while you’re gone.”
More like Helen will watch over Joe, I suspect. But an imaginary future trip to Paris is the least of my concerns while I—we—need to face the truth of the past. Of my past.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, my voice sounding like one of Helen’s documentary narrations, formal and distant. “I need to ask you about something.” I open the front door. “All of you.”
He gives me that “oh really?” raised eyebrow that he usually reserves for Joe, but follows me inside. Joe and Helen are in the kitchen heating up leftovers. “Ella,” Helen says. “You’re just in time for lunch.”
“We need to talk.” I know I’m sounding melodramatic, but I don’t know any other way to approach this. I’m not even mad that they’ve lied to me for most of my life—deep down I know they only did it out of love, wanting to protect me. But now that I know the truth, I can’t let the lies continue.
I take a seat in the living room, waiting for them to come in and sit down as well. Joe and Helen sit on the couch opposite me, Darrin remains standing behind them. They’re all staring at me, confusion and concern spiraling from their auras.
“I know the truth. About my parents. About how they really died.” I close my eyes with relief as the words spill away from my lips, dripping crimson anxiety. When I open them again I see fear leaching into their auras—even Darrin’s has turned from steadfast indigo to a bruised purple-black.
“How?” Helen asks, barely able to get the single syllable out.
“It was that boy, wasn’t it?” Joe bounces from the couch; agitated air molecules spark and flare in their rush to get out of his way. “I knew he was trouble.”
“Alec didn’t mean any harm. Just like I know you all didn’t. You were trying to protect me from the truth. I get that. I really do. But now I know, and . . .”
“Oh, honey.” Gram Helen is at my side before I can find the strength to go on. Because I have no idea how this changes us, changes everything. I just know that it will. That today will mark an “after” we can never go back from. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? What can we do to help?”
“What did that boy tell you?” This from Darrin, his voice calmer than calm.
“He s
aid . . .” I falter. “He said my father shot my mother, then started the fire and killed himself. He said I was there when it happened, even if I can’t remember anything. But he didn’t say—I need to know—why? Why would my dad do that to me? To Mom? Why?”
I’m sobbing now, and even I can barely understand my words. Somehow, the rest of them know what I’m saying. And what to do about it. Gram Helen has her arms wrapped snug around me, a warm blanket of comfort despite the rotten egg despair swirling around her. Joe rushes into the hug, almost barreling us both over. Even Darrin comes around from behind the couch and hovers in the background.
“We don’t know, baby,” Helen croons. “We don’t know why. No one does.”
All my memories, my happy family, filled with hopes and dreams and wishes . . . were they all lies? Had my father ever loved us, ever loved me? I can’t even bring myself to think such traitorous questions, much less ask them out loud.
“We were only trying to protect you,” Joe says, worry and fear bleeding through his voice. “Will you forgive us?”
I can’t trust my voice so I simply nod and let them hold me tight. Slowly, their auras quiet and my own softens, although it is still mourning black, a shroud that clings to me. But they hold on. Protecting me, supporting me. And I never want them to let go.
CHAPTER 19
Ella
I have so many questions—yet I don’t ask any of them. Not only because I’m terrified of the answers. I’m more afraid of the pain I’ve already caused, upsetting Joe and Helen and even Darrin. It’s frightening to feel our little family rocked this way. I’m usually the one who keeps things calm, but this time I can’t help. Except by waiting until they’re ready to talk.
Which, actually, is kinda okay. It gives me time to process—something I do best with pad and pencil or paintbrush. So while they eat lunch—I have absolutely no appetite—I escape to my room and change into my painting clothes: baggy denim overalls with tons of pockets for brushes and pencils and charcoals, and a paint-stained sweatshirt. Rory says just about every piece of clothing I own should be considered painting clothes since they’re all stained with paint—except my swimsuits—and she’s pretty close to being right. But these are my comfort clothes, and sliding into them feels like I’m putting on magical armor.