from a decorative stand and swings it against the edges of the pane, clearing away jagged chunks of glass. I grab another umbrella to help, and look down at the ground. My heart plummets. “It’s too far.”
“We’ll make a rope,” Uncle Archer says, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch. I rip gauzy curtains from the window and turn to see what else might be in the room. There’s a roaring sound at the door, and I watch in horror as flames zip up the crown molding that surrounds it, then spread to the nearest bookcase. At first its’s just a small orange line running along the top shelf, and then the books catch fire.
The couch nearest the broken window is old-fashioned and heavy. Uncle Archer ties an end of the blanket to one of the couch’s legs in a tight double knot and the other end to the curtain I’m holding. It feels weightless in my hands. “Will this work?” I gulp. He knots the ends firmly, tests the hold, and doubles the knot. “Is it strong enough?” I ask.
Uncle Archer looks around the room. The bookcase is consumed in fire, the ceiling above it also alight. The smoke is gray and black now, stealing breath from our lungs even with fresh air streaming in through the window. Flames lick an area rug and spread across its surface. “It’ll have to do,” he says, tossing the loose end of the knotted material out the window. “You first, Aubrey. Keep your body relaxed and try to land on your feet.”
There’s no time to argue. I grab hold of the blanket beneath its knot near the couch and haul myself over the edge of the window. Shards of glass slice my arms and my wrists, spattering the pale-green blanket with blood. I lower myself as fast as I can. Before I know it I’ve run out of blanket, then curtain, and I haven’t gone far at all. I don’t know how close I am to the ground, but it doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere to go but down.
I let go of the curtain and I fall.
I slam into the ground feetfirst, my knees giving way as I tumble hard on my side. Everything hurts, but nothing so badly that I can’t roll over and look at the house. The ground floor is fully alight. Smoke is pouring out the window I just came from. The curtain hangs loose, the bottom about six feet from the ground. There’s no sign of my uncle or Theresa.
I cup my hands around my mouth and scream, “Uncle Archer! Come out!” Fighting back rising panic, I try to stand. Pain shoots up my right leg, forcing me back to my knees. “It’s okay, it’s not far. Hurry!”
The window stays empty. My lungs hurt, making it hard to yell. But I keep at it, calling my uncle’s name over and over and over until my throat is raw.
And then, thank God, he appears. Theresa is slung over his shoulder, making his crawl out the window agonizingly slow. She’s either unconscious or refusing to help, and as I watch him struggle through the billowing clouds of smoke, a furious thought sears my brain.
Drop her. Just drop her.
He doesn’t. He inches down the makeshift rope until what’s left of the window glows orange and the rope goes slack. They fall, and I hear a sound like the terrified scream of a dying animal. It takes a few seconds to realize it was me.
“Uncle Archer!” I crawl toward the motionless lump of limbs and clothing that landed a few feet away. Theresa’s face is turned toward me, her eyes empty and staring. I let out another involuntary animal sound, and scramble past her until I reach my uncle’s arm. “Please,” I whisper, tugging at his wrist to turn it palm up. “Please.”
When I feel a pulse beat faintly against my thumb, I start crying for the first time all day.
Catmint House burned to the ground that day.
Theresa’s sister, whose real name is Paula Donahue, had soaked it with gasoline before striking a match and taking off. Police have spent all week combing Gull Cove Island and staking out local airports, but there’s no sign of her. I’m convinced she made it out of the country on a fake passport and is living off money that she and Theresa stole from Mildred and stashed away offshore. It’s infuriating. At least Donald Camden, who didn’t have the benefit of