“He fell!” she cries out. Her cheeks are filthy with smoke and tears. “He hit his head, and I—I can’t find a pulse!”
Shock freezes the blood in my veins. Dean’s…dead? He’s flat on his back, mouth gaping open like a fish, his eyes rolled back. His chest isn’t rising and falling, and his lips have taken on a sick purple tint. I crouch to check his pulse for myself, but Colleen shrieks in pain and throws her arms around my legs.
“I need help,” she wails, gazing up at me in horror. “I think I broke my leg.”
The sound of something exploding ricochets off the walls upstairs and reverberates over the arched beams above our heads.
This ceiling might not hold.
Gaze shifting from Dean to Colleen, and to her belly, I make the choice, knowing it’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. I sling my arm around Colleen’s back and help her up the stairs, staggering, supporting her weight, praying the stairs hold long enough for us to escape. I’m not going to be able to carry her far. The flames are hellish in the kitchen. Wheezing and tightening the blanket around my mouth with one hand, I guide Colleen into the living room with the other. She grips my shoulder painfully tight and hobbles through the scorching heat.
Once we’ve burst out into the clean, sweet, fresh air, sirens wail in the distance. Ice-cold rain carried by wind gusts smack into my face and soothe the heat that’s burrowed into my skin. A safe distance away, the media van sits at the curb, and someone jumps from its sliding door, camera in hand. I hope they were already recording; I would hate to have done all that for nothing.
As I hear parts of the house splinter and collapse behind us, I realize we need to get far away, fast.
“Come on,” I say, holding most of Colleen’s weight. “We’re almost there.”
“Thank you…” She doubles over, coughing. “You saved me. You’re an angel.”
“Thanks.” If I wasn’t coughing myself, I would laugh. The sirens are closer now. “Real help is on the way.”
We reach the edge of the grove, and the acrid scent of mud stings my nose. As we collapse to the ground, soaked and stunned, I realize we’re on top of Joanna’s grave.
I wonder if any of us will ever be free from the series of lies and tragedies that led us here. As I watch Ravenwood burn with a blood-red glow, I think I know.
DETECTIVE SHAW
Sipping my coffee outside Colleen’s hospital room, I watch Michael scoot his chair closer to her bed and cling to her hand while she sleeps. I hate this place—Karen and I spent too much time here. The sterile aroma of bleach and latex gives me the creeps and dredges up my worst memories.
Michael was released this morning, all charges dropped, and we’ve spent the last day waiting for Colleen to recover enough to give us all the details about what happened.
“I’m surprised you haven’t rubbed my nose in it,” Patel says from beside me. He’s blowing on a cup of steaming cafeteria sludge. “I guess I’ll say it first: you were right, and I was wrong. Michael Harris was innocent.”
“We’re too old for told-you-so games, but…” I bury my smile in a drink. “Told you so.”
I check the time. A little after four in the afternoon. Colleen’s only woken up for a few brief moments, just long enough to smile each time she gets a look at Michael.
“He’s been asking what happened,” I say. “It’s time we tell him.”
Patel nods and rises. He tosses his coffee cup and strides into the room without an invite. “Knock, knock,” he says.
“Please don’t wake her.” Michael looks up, the purple smudges beneath his eyes indicating he hasn’t slept. “It’s good for the baby that she rests as much as possible.”