This one was dated just months before her grandfather died. His words indicated that the truth continued to haunt him. How she wished he had shared those worries with his family. But even after all that time, he continued to be concerned for his granddaughters’ safety.
She sniffed again. Was the smell getting stronger? And why would anyone be burning off woods or yard clippings? Though it had stopped raining, the ground and woods were drenched.
She stood and headed out the bedroom door. The smell was stronger in the hallway. Her heart kicking up a beat, she rushed toward the living room, then jerked to a halt at the entrance. The entire living room and kitchen area were rapidly filling with smoke. The guesthouse was on fire?
Holding her breath to keep from inhaling, she ran to the front door. The house was small enough that she could be outside in seconds. She turned the doorknob and pulled. Nothing budged. There was only one lock on the door; it wasn’t locked, it was stuck. How?
She told herself not to panic; there were plenty of other ways out of the house. Savannah turned around. Just in the short amount of time she’d been tugging on the door, the smoke had gotten thicker. There was a back door but she’d have to run to the other end of the house, through several smoke-filled rooms, to get to it. Window. She would go out through a window.
In the distance, she heard her cellphone ring. She’d left it lying on the bed. Going back to get it was too dangerous. Her only recourse was to go through a window and then call for help from the main house.
The smoke was so thick, her vision was becoming useless. She dropped to her knees and crawled to the front window. Holding her shirtsleeve in front of her face, she used her fingers to feel around for the lock. Finally she found it and clicked it open, then pushed the window up. Only it wouldn’t move. This was ridiculous. She’d opened this window hundreds of times during the fall and spring. She shoved harder, barely comprehending that wood splintered, cutting the tips of her fingers. A fit of coughing seized her. The smoke was even thicker, obscuring everything. There was another window in the kitchen. She squeezed her stinging eyes tight, appreciating the tears that gave her some relief.
Wait. She could break the window. There was a lamp beside the sofa. She could use it to break the glass and then crawl out. The thought of shredding her legs on the glass was a lot less terrifying than dying of smoke inhalation or burning to death. Unable to see clearly, she stretched her arms out to feel. She knew every square inch of this house; why couldn’t she find the lamp? It should be right in front of her.
Time was running out. She’d have to go to the other window. She dropped to her knees again and scurried as fast as she could to the kitchen. When her head hit something solid—the kitchen table—she sobbed in relief. The window was on the other side of the table. Crawling carefully but quickly, she made her way around the table and then stood, arms out in front of her, feeling blindly. Yes, there it was. She felt around for the lock, unlatched it and pushed. Wouldn’t budge. Refusing to give up, Savannah turned around and grabbed a kitchen chair. With all of her might, she slammed it against the window. The reverberation rattled her entire body and the chair broke in her hand, but the window didn’t crack. Leaded, reinforced glass—a great energy saver but right now she’d give anything if the windows were made of the cheapest material. She could bang on it all day and end up with a bruised or broken hand but no broken glass.
Her heart pounded as fear and dread set in. Someone had set fire to the guesthouse and had blocked all exits. She could hear her breath rasping from her lungs. Dizziness hit her. She dropped to her knees before she fell. Panic tried to overwhelm good sense. She didn’t want to die like this. Not when she and Zach had just now found each other again. And her parents’ killer? Would he get away with another murder? No!
Savannah forced herself to think. There had to be another way.
The third floor—attic. Yes! Whether her muddled mind imagined the voice or a disembodied voice had