“Your brother.”
Last night’s fire, the arrest of a school teacher, Ethan getting out of prison… All of those possibilities had run through my mind, but not Finch. “Finch? What about him?” If she wanted information about Finch, why not go to Finch?
“Right.” She looked away for a second. “I meant Ethan.”
A pregnant pause stretched between us. “Ethan is not my brother.” I shifted from one foot to the other, my eyes glued to hers. “I have nothing to say about him.”
“So you don’t care that they’re speculating he might be starting fires again now that he’s out?”
“Who is they?” I asked. “I haven’t heard anyone say that.” The accusation didn’t surprise me; I had known it was only a matter of time. And news crews from across the region had already begun flocking to Paynes Creek to report on the schoolteacher incident. The media just loves a salacious teacher-student story. Now they would be on hand to report on something almost as sexy: a murder-suicide topped with arson. And they’d all be looking for fresh angles—like connecting this morning’s crime to Ethan’s recent release. Even if they had to manufacture that connection.
Marla smiled. It was creepy how she tried to come across as a friend in order to get information. “Sources who shall remain nameless for now.”
“You have nothing.” I turned and started away from her.
“I talked to Ethan,” she said quickly. “He’s claiming you knew he didn’t start the fire that killed your parents. And he says he has proof.”
That made me pause. But I knew better than to engage with a bloodsucking sensationalist, so I kept walking.
Four
My Airstream was perched on land that Finch and I—and technically Ethan—had inherited from my mom and stepfather. Finch wanted nothing to do with the land, and Ethan had been sent to prison, so it had effectively been left to me. I decided that if I was going to have to relive the memories of what happened to me every day of my life, I might as well do it on beautiful, coveted farmland in a familiar town. And as I didn’t require much space—or the money to rebuild the house—the Airstream became my home. Mine and Gus’s.
I had gutted and remodeled the inside of the trailer, reconstructing it for efficiency and comfort. If I ever decided I’d had enough of Paynes Creek, I could hitch my home to the back of my SUV and be in another town in less than a day. But I liked this farm in the middle of Kentucky’s thoroughbred horse country. It was where I had grown up. And though I had bad memories here—worse memories than most people accumulated in a lifetime—I had good ones, too. This was where my mother gave Finch and me the best years of our lives, before our father died of cancer when I was ten. I liked to think that the spirits of both my parents were still on this farm, protecting me.
Of course, I knew that was stupid. My father’s spirit certainly never protected me from what happened after Ethan and his father moved in.
As I walked into my trailer and threw my keys on the kitchen counter, I looked out the window toward the woods. A walking path led through the trees to the creek that marked the boundary between my property and the neighboring farm, which was recently purchased by a Paynes Creek prodigal son—former FBI Special Agent Cooper Adams. The gossip hens hadn’t let up about that one; reportedly he’d left the FBI after a case went “terribly wrong.” No one had any real details, but that didn’t stop them from talking about it.
I felt sorry for the man. He was one of the successful few who’d made it out of Paynes Creek to do good in the world… and now he was not only back, but the subject of gossip. I felt strongly that a man had the right to keep his story to himself for however long he needed.
But I did wonder about one thing: I wondered if Cooper and Luke knew each other.
Luke. I sighed, and not in a good way. It sure hadn’t taken long for him to start asking questions about Ethan. Did the FBI really believe Ethan had earned his freedom from incarceration only to start setting fires again?
Gus staggered in from the bedroom. When I wasn’t here, she always seemed to find her way into my bed.
“Hey, girl!” I scratched behind her ears. She leaned into the touch, then headed for the door. “You want to go out?” I pushed open the door and let her out. I loved that she preferred to use the bathroom outside the trailer, even though she had a litter box tucked inside a cabinet with a small pet door.
Following Gus outside and to the back of the trailer, I stared at the foundation where my childhood home had once stood. I could still see the out-of-control flames and smell the billowing smoke from that night. I could still hear what I thought were my mom’s and Eli’s screams just as I arrived—even though I was later told that there was no way I heard their screams because they were killed prior to the fire being set. My hand went instinctively to my throat and neck where flames had scarred my skin; I could still feel the heat as I ran in, screaming, in an attempt to save my mother. I couldn’t forget a single aspect of that night, even after all these years—and seeing Bella this morning had only heightened my anguish.
Gus completed her business, ran past me toward the fire pit, and began to sniff around the logs. Sometimes she acted more like a dog than a cat.
A shiver moved down my spine as I remembered the figure standing there this morning. That was different—bolder.
Gus batted at something in the grass.
“You find something, girl?”
I searched the area she was sniffing. “There’s nothing th—” But then I saw it. Beside one of the logs was a matchbook. I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. The Spotted Cat, it read. The Spotted Cat was a music club in Lexington that featured local bands and musicians. The name and idea behind the club came from a hot jazz spot in New Orleans. I remembered reading about how it was opened by a New Orleans native who’d relocated to Lexington, though I was pretty sure it had changed ownership recently.
Gus lost interest and took off toward the Airstream. I followed her in and poured myself a stiff glass of bourbon over ice. Then I went to my closet and pulled an oversized photo box from a hidden compartment beneath the floor of the closet. I put it on my bed, set the lid to one side, and, with my bourbon in one hand, began pulling things out.
On top were a few childhood pictures of me and Finch, given to me by Aunt Leah. Beneath that was some journals I kept at the suggestion of a therapist I’d begun seeing while I was in high school. And underneath those were the crime scene photos from the night my childhood ended.
I shouldn’t even have these. I came across them at Uncle Henry’s house one day while I was home from college, and I stole them. I told myself he probably shouldn’t have kept a copy either, even though he was the fire chief and had more official right to them than I did.
Crime scene photos always told a story. They told the truth of what happened, even when the victims were no longer around to reveal the details.
I took a sip of bourbon, relishing the rich warmth of the liquor. Then I spread the photos in a grid so that I could take them in. Why I felt the need to do this, I wasn’t sure. I had committed every photo to memory twelve years ago, and I’d studied them again recently when I learned Ethan had a good chance of being released on appeal. But what I hadn’t done either of those times was figure out the story hidden in the pictures. I knew it was a sad story—that much was for certain. Heart-wrenching. But parts of the story were missing. And those missing elements weren’t inside my memories.