A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “Thank you, Jason. I’m excited to work with you.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how true they are.

  A warm handshake seals the deal, and on my way out I stop by Maryann’s office.

  She’s on the phone but waves me in the door and wraps up her call. “How’d it go?”

  “Great. We’re off and running, in fact. I just wanted to stop by and thank you for the connection. Jason will be fun to collaborate with.”

  “He genuinely cares about his programs and the people they serve. You’ll find he’s built a lot of goodwill, but a nonprofit can never have enough of that.”

  “I understand completely. On another note, I just wanted to mention Genevieve and how awful it was the way the accident happened.”

  “Sobering. I drive that stretch of highway several times a month. I’ve definitely slowed down through there. And I have to say I do feel a little guilty about it.”

  “Oh, but you shouldn’t. Not your fault that truck pulled out in front of her or that she was going so fast.”

  “I know it’s not my fault. In fact, I just read that the autopsy report showed prescription painkillers, plus a blood alcohol level of point nine. Still, as far as I know she was coming to my party.”

  “Sounds like a series of poor decisions on Genevieve’s part.”

  I wish I could muster more sympathy. But really, she was as much to blame for the accident as the truck driver was. Not that she deserved to die.

  You understand the term “oxymoronic”?

  I think about that all the way home, at least until I turn into our neighborhood and come around the corner to find a fleet of fire trucks obstructing the access to my house. I pull up across the street, and when I open the door the first thing that hits me is the stench of smoke and wet, scorched earth. I can’t see what burned, but it must have been major.

  I hurry to cross the street, maneuver between vehicles, and find myself staring at the northern face of our house. The siding is scorched, ground to second-story eaves, and the land between our neighbors and us has been flame-cleared of pine needles and other vegetation, all the way to the woods behind, where several trees wear blackened bark. Small puffs of vapor lift like fog from the soaked dirt.

  Several men wearing yellow coats and helmets are winding hoses and assuring themselves that the fire is indeed out. One stands off to the right with our next-door neighbors, Steve and Bethany Littlefield. When he sees me, Steve waves me over.

  “This is Tara Lattimore,” he tells the man, who turns out to be the fire chief. “She and her husband own the house.”

  “What happened?” I ask, mystified.

  Chief Paulson shrugs. “Probably a careless match. We couldn’t find evidence of anything else. You were lucky your neighbors turned up when they did, or it might have been a whole lot worse.”

  “It was burning pretty good when we got here,” says Bethany. “Steve grabbed a garden hose and did his best to wet down what he could while I called 911. Fortunately the station isn’t too far away.”

  “I don’t understand. Everyone else is out of town, and there was nothing amiss when I left this morning.”

  “Looks like it started at the edge of the trees,” explains Chief Paulson. “It’s possible that whatever spark initiated the blaze smoldered in those needles for hours, maybe even longer. They were pretty thick. We always recommend home owners keep them cleared.”

  “I . . . I didn’t realize. . . . From now on we’ll do better.”

  Steve grins. “Not much left to do for a while, though you’ll want to have all that burned stuff raked up and removed, or we’ll both be choking on the stink.”

  It isn’t impossible that Steve or Bethany might be responsible, I suppose, but the thought that keeps running through my mind is Eli and Kayla and their lax smoking habits. They’ve been gone since yesterday, but according to the chief, that doesn’t necessarily deny culpability.

  “Yes, and I have someone in mind to do the raking, though he isn’t due home for a couple of days.” I take another look at the charred siding and notice one of the downstairs doors that were tested so rudely last night. “Hey. Wait.” I relate the details of the attempted break-in. “You don’t suppose the burglar could’ve done this, do you?”

  Chief Paulson shrugs. “It’s possible, though probably not purposely. There are better ways to break into houses than starting them on fire. You might just torch what you’re looking to steal, not to mention yourself. Besides, flames kind of defeat the stealth factor.”

  Excellent points.

  “You’ve put my mind mostly at ease. By the way, Steve and Bethany, the cop said this guy has been marauding homes in the neighborhood. I recommend vigilance.”

  Bethany nods. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “He tries breaking into our house, he’s in for a nasty surprise.” Steve winks. “We both have concealed-carry permits.”

  Validation.

  “I suppose I should go call our insurance company.” I thank everyone again for the help.

  The Littlefields turn toward their driveway, and Steve calls over his shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything. We’re here through next week.”

  “I will. Appreciate it.”

  The first thing I do when I go inside is call Cavin, whose phone goes to voice mail. “Hi, honey. We had a little problem today. Okay, a fairly large problem. The good news is the house didn’t burn all the way down. The bad news is there’s extensive damage to the siding on the north side. I’ll call the insurance company and have them send an adjustor.”

  Next I call Eli, who does answer. “Hey, Mama. What’s up?”

  “Don’t call me Mama. Just thought you’d like to know about a fire here today.”

  “What? Is everything okay?”

  “Not exactly, but it could’ve been worse. Just FYI, when you get home you can rake up the burned pine needles.”

  “Why me?”

  I can picture his face, scarlet anger rising.

  “Guess you’ll have to be a little more careful with your incendiary devices.”

  “What are you talking about? I wasn’t even there when it started.”

  “Sometimes sparks smolder. You could have thrown a match or a marijuana butt down anytime.”

  “Marijuana butt? The least you could do is use the correct terminology. A roach doesn’t stay lit very long. Besides, I never toss them. Why waste perfectly good weed? And I don’t use matches.”

  I expected denial. What I did not expect were logical talking points. But now he asks something totally out of left field. “What if it was Dad?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he’s responsible for the fire?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Eli, he wasn’t even h—”

  “Yeah, well, neither was I.”

  I don’t want to argue. Eli and Kayla smoke outside. Cavin doesn’t smoke at all, and I’ve never witnessed him holding a match, only butane lighters to start the fireplace or barbecue. So how would carelessness even be possible . . . ? Wait.

  “You’re not suggesting arson, are you?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Why would your father want to burn down the house?”

  He pauses. “Insurance, maybe? Just a thought. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

  Eli, the inciter.

  It’s a very long day, the successful morning unfortunately eclipsed. The insurance adjustor will be here bright and early tomorrow, followed by the owner of a local siding company, who’ll give us an estimate. I also contact three yard services about removing the burned vegetation. All claim heavy workloads. One says maybe next week; the other two the week after.

  As a last resort, I scour work-wanted ads on Craigslist and find a guy who says he’s licensed and insured to do hauling and handyman work.

  “How much would it take for you to bring a couple of guys and get out here ASAP?” I don’t even ask for references. How complicated can raking
and bagging be?

  Handy Al bites. The cost is premium, but it will be worth it to alleviate the smoke smell permeating everything. He promises to get the job done tomorrow. I love how money talks. Wish more people were as eloquent.

  Cavin is matter-of-fact when he calls, late afternoon. After I recount the facts, he comments simply, “Well, at least no one was hurt, and like you said, it could’ve been worse. We should probably pick up a nice bottle of something for the Littlefields, don’t you think?”

  That’s it? I’d have thought he’d be more upset.

  “I do, and I will,” I agree. “But aren’t you curious about how the fire started?”

  “Sounds like some kid playing with matches.”

  I almost bring up Eli and Kayla, but then I remember the boy looking for his dog. He could have been the culprit, or any one of our neighbors who sometimes cut through the unfenced property.

  “Oh, I spoke with the insurance company. The adjustor will be out tomorrow, but there’s a decent chance they’ll only cover the side of the house that burned, including any structural damage. And the siding company says it will probably be impossible to match the old cedar siding with new, so we’ll want to consider replacing it all.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Depends on what we replace it with, but yes, it will be an investment, probably around thirty grand. We’ll know more once he gives us the estimate.”

  “We can take out a small home-improvement loan to cover it.”

  I could just withdraw it from an investment account and save the interest, but it could be wiser to go for the loan. “Let me talk to my accountant to see if that makes more sense than paying cash. It might, depending on how the IRS decides to look at it.”

  “I don’t have that much in savings right now.”

  “I do, and more, with the Russian Hill house closing soon.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s yours.”

  “Yes, but this house is ours.” It is, since he signed a quitclaim deed that made it community property.

  “I know, but I want you to be certain of your investments. And me.”

  I want to be certain of him, too. In fact, I’ve devoted much energy into trust building, something that does not come naturally to me. But there are things that make me wary.

  Eli’s suggestion surfaces again, and I fall into that disquieting place he so easily steers me toward. It’s maddening. Ever since I met the kid, he’s scattered seeds of doubt about his father’s motives for marrying me. Not only am I not a fool but I’m hyperaware of ulterior intentions. When I can’t quite detect them, it riles the crazy place inside me.

  Cavin loves his house.

  He’d never try to burn it down.

  Our finances are solid.

  If something major had happened and he needed cash, he’d come to me.

  Would he?

  Something else is bothering me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. After I sign off with Cavin, I pour a deep glass of wine and take it out to the hot tub. Grateful for the chance to wind down, I do my best to ignore the cloying smoke scent and close my eyes. And as my muscles slowly start to unknot, it comes to me.

  If Cavin had started the fire, he would have done so with the knowledge that I was probably inside the house.

  If it was all about the insurance, was it home owner’s?

  Or life?

  twenty-nine

  T URNS OUT BUYING A gun in Nevada, at least Northern Nevada, is pretty damn easy. Walk into the store, decide which one you want. Pay for a background check, which doesn’t take very long, and if you pass it, walk out armed.

  I drove straight to Reno after the siding guy left. I dressed to impress his male sensibilities, hoping to muster a little sympathy. Pretty sure the tactic didn’t work. But when I walked into the gun store in a formfitting V-necked dress, the manager eyed me suspiciously. “What can I do for you? You’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “Me? No. Why?”

  Darrin looked like an aging hippie, with scraggly gray hair hanging below his shoulders. He shrugged. “There was a double homicide just a few blocks from here yesterday. Everyone’s wanting an interview.”

  “Nope. Not me. I’m just someone in the market for a protection piece.”

  Knowing a sale was likely imminent, Darrin lightened up and walked me through every step. “You’re lucky you’re buying up here. There’s a three-day wait in Clark County. Probably worried ’bout all them damn illegals.” Then he went on and on about “goddamn libtards” and how he’d love to exercise his Second Amendment rights against “turban-knobbed terrorists.”

  I might’ve left except he did know his firearms, explaining the pros and cons of each handgun he showed me. He offered so much information I lost track of some and would have been completely confused except he let me try out a couple of rentals to help decide which model best suited my needs.

  After I confessed to being a handgun novice, Darrin accompanied me to the big warehouse that doubled as an indoor range. He spent several minutes familiarizing me with the parts of the gun, how to load it and chamber a bullet. Then he demonstrated a proper grip and the main types of stances before putting a pistol in my hand.

  At the end of an hour, I’d experimented with three guns and two ways to stand, and found my comfort zone. I’m still not confident I could shoot a moving target, but I can reliably hit the inner circles on a paper one.

  I chose a Glock 19, fourth generation, as my personal-protection piece and returned to the range to practice for another hour. I left the store with the gun, a holster, ammunition, and a cleaning kit, plus instructions on how to properly clean, store, and strap it on. There was a fair amount of innuendo attached to the “strap on” reference, not to mention Darrin’s insistence that I “keep ’er lubed up,” so when he mentioned he teaches concealed-carry-permit and personal-protection classes, I only pretended interest. If I decide I want more training, I’ll find another instructor.

  As I walked away, he asked sincerely, “Are you afraid of something in particular?”

  Particular. That was the most syllables attached to one word I heard him utter all afternoon. I tossed a single syllable back over my shoulder. “Bears.”

  “Hey!” he yelled across the store. “That ain’t gonna stop no bear.”

  I know, Darrin.

  Now that I’m home, I have to decide where to stash the Glock. I don’t feel the need to carry it with me, strapped on or otherwise, to the grocery store or doctor appointments, or to tour wineries and farms. I don’t want it to distress Cavin, and I don’t want to worry about it in relationship to Eli. Still, it has to be readily available should I require it.

  Dilemma.

  I wander from room to room, considering. I think about hiding the gun in my underwear drawer but ultimately decide against it. Pretty sure Cavin doesn’t root around in there, but I can’t be certain about Eli.

  Bedroom closet shelf?

  Too obvious.

  Under my side of the bed?

  Might tempt the housekeeper, who we just hired recently, so I’m unfamiliar with her moral sense.

  What would be good is one of those fake books, with a hollow space between the covers. I had one in San Francisco, and hopefully it will arrive with Cavin. If not, I can always order another one. Yes, I like that concept. Meanwhile, I decide to store it in my old handbag, hanging in the closet by the front door. The coat closet is only used for winter wear, which gives me plenty of time to move the Glock.

  First, I take it out on the deck and clean it over a trash bag, as suggested by a guy at the range who took it upon himself to initiate a conversation with me. His motivation, I’m sure, wasn’t purely firearm-related. Nevertheless, he was a font of information, and I’m happy to use some of it now. Once I’ve removed the firing debris, all the dirty paper towels, swabs, and rags are neatly disposed of by turning the plastic bag inside out, locking it within. Then I lube ’er up, holster the gun without strapping it on, and tuck it
away in the prescribed location.

  As I work, I watch Handy Al and his guys finish the yard cleanup. It was a huge job, and I’m surprised they’re almost done, although they did arrive at seven a.m. I was still in my short pajamas, which covered enough to allow me to direct the trio, none of whom tried very hard not to stare at the braless assets beneath my tank top. No problem. Turnabout’s fair play, and the three, who obviously labor for their wages, are built. I allow myself a pleasant glimpse of eye candy.

  Once the gun detail is accomplished, I do my time on the stationary bike, not that I really feel like it. But it’s vital to both my physical and mental fitness. When I finish the hour and shower off the sweat I earned, it’s dinnertime. Considering I skipped lunch, I’m damn sure going to enjoy it. I’m on my way to the kitchen when the doorbell rings. A peek through the viewfinder tells me it’s Deputy Cross.

  “Evening. Just stopped by to let you know we picked up the guy who we believe is responsible for the burglaries in the area. I don’t think you’ll have any more problems, at least not with him. Since we’ll compare his prints with the ones I got here, we shouldn’t have to bother your family for theirs after all.”

  “What great news! Oh, I did take your advice.”

  “Advice?”

  “Yes. I bought a protection piece and spent quite a bit of time today learning to use it.”

  “That was fast, but good for you. What did you decide on?”

  “A Glock 19, Gen4.”

  “Excellent choice. I hope you never have to use it, but better safe than sorry.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly. Thanks again, for everything.”

  He ambles off, his bulk no less formidable in the failing light than it was in the middle of the night. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of that man. If it came down to pursuit, I doubt he could run very fast, but if he managed to catch you, he could do some major damage.

  Feeling just a bit smug about how much I managed to accomplish today, I reward myself with a nice New York strip and Caesar salad, light on the dressing. Tonight, I shun the TV and take my dinner out onto the deck to enjoy the quiet summer evening, the last I’ll have to myself for a while. I like the solitude, really. Before I met Cavin, I’d grown used to living alone, and while I prefer being partnered, I never before had to deal with the added baggage of children. Sometimes my new home feels terribly crowded.