“No.”
My mother reached for me.
“Mara.”
“No.” I backed away from the table. “No, that’s not possible. Caleb would have told me.”
Officer Hale lowered his voice.
“He tried.”
“When?”
Hale looked at Vivian.
Vivian closed her eyes.
Richard said sharply, “Enough.”
The fire marshal reached into his folder and removed several printed pages.
“These are copies of messages Caleb sent to his mother over the years.”
He slid the papers across the table.
My hands shook as I picked them up.
The first message was dated six years earlier.
Mom, I saw the girl from the fire today. She goes to Cedar High. She’s alive. Why did you tell me not to talk about her?
Vivian’s reply was short.
Because trauma confuses memories. Leave that family alone.
Another.
I remember Dad’s car in the alley. I remember the gas can.
No response.
Another, three years later.
She has scars because I didn’t get there fast enough.
Vivian wrote back:
You were nine. This is not your burden. Do not destroy this family over a childhood nightmare.
Then another from Caleb, sent two months before prom.
I found the old news articles. Turner Development bought three houses on that block after the fires. You said Dad was at a meeting that night. He wasn’t. I remember his shoes melting near the back door.
