After Her (35 page)

Breathless, I stop, inches away from the wrought iron gate fringing the estate. I don’t expect the silence. It burns in my ears. It’s too silent, too serene like the calm before a storm. I glance once more at the gate, urging myself to heed Amelia’s advice, but something about this is a little too easy. Vivian going down
without
a fight?
Doesn’t make sense. Surely, she couldn’t have actually—

Orange engulfs the manor. I swear it’s a trick of the light or my morbid imagination getting the best of me. I move closer, across the lawn, using my hand as a visor to deflect the sunlight from my eyes. A stench hits the air. Reeks of…gasoline.

“Oh god.”

The manor is on fire.

37

I rush across the lawn, flailing my arms as if it’ll help.

Upon reaching the bottom step of the manor porch, fire gushes through the windows, shattering the glass outward. I drop and cover my head with my arms.

“Amelia!” I call out, banging on the door. Eventually, it cracks open, but the knob is hot to the touch. With my hand over my mouth, I rush without thinking into the house, holding my breath to keep the smoke at bay. I turn and everywhere fire frames me, eating through the walls, chewing the floorboards. A massive something caves from the ceiling, bringing it down in front of me. I roll backward on my feet, toward the only unclaimed wall in the living room.

“Amelia?” I call again, hoping for answer. No one responds. Not Amelia and certainly not any one of the several other servants that work here. Despite the heat pushing against and the stench of heady ember in my throat, I forge forward. Up the stairs that crumble as I climb them then down the second floor hall.

To my left, I spot the first body, a charred bundle of melting human. No face remains. In the next room, the bodies of three others lay haphazardly on the floor. Also charred, blackened by the flames that took them.

I turn away, tears stinging in my eyes and smoke in my throat. Four casualties in less than five minutes of being here. Things can’t be good for Amelia.

A wall collapses to my right. I leap over the debris that blocks my path. Smoke congests my lungs, filling them to capacity like two overflowing glasses. The heat has taken me, making me woozy, disorientated.
I have to save someone from this mess. This can’t have all been for nothing…

“Amelia? God, please answer me! Anyone?” I call through cupped hands.

The third floor stairway has so far survived the flame, but I imagine I have very little time to navigate myself upward before the fire takes it. Dazed, I lugging myself up these stairs, gripping the bannisters to steady my tilting body. Twice, I stumble over a step and drop to my knees for a second, wheezing. Up ahead of me, I notice a shadow, a face, but my vision doubles. I'm not sure what I see anymore.

“Cassandra?” calls the voice. “Cassandra! Get up and move!”

I recognize it. “Amelia?”

“Come on!” she insists while pulling at my arms to prop me up. Somehow, she hoists me to my feet and helps me toward a room. We settle in this quiet space. Amelia fiddles with my leg. After a minute, I glance down and notice the deep blackened wound in my calf. I’ve been scalded and didn’t notice.

“You’re losing blood,” Amelia says. She presses the back her hand to my forehead. “You’re feverish too. We have to get you out of this fire. Why did you come back when I explicitly told you not to? Dammit, don’t you ever take any warning seriously?”

“What’s happened?” I wheeze.

“No time to explain.” After tying off my wound with a scarf, she helps me back to my feet, my arm around her shoulder as she assists me in walking.

“This way! There’s a fire escape outside the third guest room,” she says while pulling me toward the door. Once back into the hall, a wave of ferocious heat pounds at us, scorching the skin right from my face. I can’t even see through all the orange fog. It’s too much.

Amelia tries, but with me in tow, I'm extra deadweight that she doesn’t need. I expect her to abandon me.
It’s my own damn fault for rushing into a burning house thinking I can play hero.
Instead, she pushes through, pulling me against the flame. Toward the second floor, the supporting beam of the hallway ceiling plops in front of us, forcing us apart.

Amelia tumbles and fall unconscious on the other side of the room. I'm flung backwards as if an imaginary hand grips my shoulders and yanks me to the floor. On my bad leg, I'm useless walking, so I crawl.

I crawl toward Amelia, ignoring the debris that collapsed on top of her. As I attempt to drag her from beneath, I realize my strength and know it’s no match for the weight of a twenty plus pound piece of wood. So I don’t move.

I remain beside Amelia, clutching her hand and realizing our fate. I can’t walk and she’s unconscious. We’re screwed either way. Pretty soon, I can’t lift my head. I open my eyes to Amelia’s face and something in me
wants
to move. I push up with my arms, forcing my limp body to move. Someone clasps hold of my arms, yanking me backwards.

My head bobs forward. I lift it to see who’s pulling me. Some man in yellow. A fireman, I suspect. When I realize they aren’t trying to Amelia, I yank away and fall forward on my hands and knees.

“No,” I say. “You can’t leave without her. She’s still alive.
Please!
”

He ignores my struggle and flings me over his shoulder, forcibly removing from the inferno.

“We have to go back in there,” I say. “There are other survivors.”

No one heeds my pleas. I'm carried to the ambulance and dropped onto a gurney. Some EMT shines a light into each of my eyes, checking for dilation. Another begins connecting me to machines and IV bags.

My focus sets on the Lynch manor—a once beautiful house now in flames.
How the hell did this happen?
Had Vivian flipped out for and threw a stray match? Has she really jeopardized the lives of ten other people to prove a point to me?
Oh god!
Is this my fault? If I had just obeyed Karen’s orders and not confronted Vivian, would any of this be happening?

“You’re going to be okay now,” says an EMT with a large mole above her top lip. “You’re safe now.”

I shake my head. “No. I'm not.”

“It’s okay dear,” she assures me again. “You escaped before smoke inhalation could set in and got a couple of minor burns. Other than that, you’ll be a little winded for a few hours, but you’ll be fine.”

“Do you know the others inside?” the nurse asks.

“Do I know the others inside?” I repeat while gazing at the hungry flame as it travels to the roof of the house. “I knew
of
them,” I say.

“What were you doing in there?” she asks.

Vivian’s face plays through my thoughts. Poor Amelia—the sacrificial lamb who risked too much to ensure my safety.
Why?
Why had she gone to such great lengths to save me? Twice, she’d risked her life.

“What about the others?” I ask. “There were at least ten other people in the house. I tried to save them. All I saw were bodies. Are they okay? Who do I have to ask to get some answers?”

“Just lie down, dear. You’re in good hands now.” She nudges me atop the gurney while injecting something into the IV bag connected to my arm. A second EMT begins to stich my leg wound. She proceeds to rub a wet cold towel across my forehead.

I don’t fight her orders, but I do keep my eyes open far enough to see out through the cracked ambulance doors to see outside. The body bags stack up.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
I count them all in my head.

* * *

When I wake in the hospital, the first thing I want is water. A glass of it sits atop my bedside table. As I reach over to grab it, another hand grabs it first. I glance up into Adrian’s face. From what I can tell, he’d been sitting in a foldout chair in the corner of the room, watching me.

“I knew you’d be thirsty,” he remarks while watching me guzzle mouthfuls of the stuff. “Sorry it’s so warm. The damn nurse insisted that the hospital cafeteria was out of ice. Can you seriously believe that?”

After a swallow, my throat is looser, still a little sore, but not as tight as before. Adrian settles back into his chair.

“Ugh, what day is it?” I ask with a gentle rub of my throbbing left temple.

“Thursday.”

“And how long have I been asleep?”

“Two weeks,” he replies.

I lurch forward. It’s a kneejerk reaction.

“Two
weeks
? That sounds like a coma, not a nap.”

He nods. “It
was
a coma, Cassandra. You went into shock. Almost died.”

I peek at my leg beneath the bed sheets. The wound is stitched and bandaged. My head pounds and my body feels like something hard and deadly attempted to crush it. Then I remember.

“Where’s Amelia?” I ask abruptly.

Adrian’s eyes downturn, momentarily distressed.

“She’s dead,” he says.

“And Vivian?”

“She didn’t make it either.”

I shake my head.

“I can’t have been the only one who got out. Adrian, tell me I'm not.”

He shrugs, unsure of how else to respond to me.

“I don’t know how, but yes, it looks like you are.”

I hang my head, staring listlessly at the bedspread. Adrian grips my shoulder. I jerk away, repulsed by the mere concept of touch.

“How the hell did this happen?” I mutter. “How did the fire start? I don’t understand.”

He shakes his head. “They’re still investigating. Police confirm it was arson. Someone purposely did this.”

“Who?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, his forehead a deep ripple of scrunched skin.

“They suspect Amelia. Or Vivian. Or one of the other servants who may have become ‘disgruntled.’”

“No offense,” I say. “But you and Vivian seem to attract disgruntled people.”

He chuckles at the irony of it all, but that humor fades just as quickly as the smile on his face.

“Ten people,” he says. “All ten of the house employees perished in that house. If I had been home…If I’d kept a better eye on Vivian, none of this would have happened.”

“Adrian,” I say and without thinking, I grasp his hand. His usual twitching tic stops the moment his hand is in mine. I catch myself not pulling away. “I can’t believe I'm saying this, but none of this is your fault.”

“Vivian was my responsibility. I was supposed to keep her from hurting anyone else.”

“Anyone
else
?” I say. “Who else did she hurt?”

He doesn’t respond. He stands stagnant at my bedside with a distant look of sudden disdain. I release his hand and he steps back to rub his face with both palms. As his hands drop to his sides, I notice teary eyes and realize he’s crying.

“Adrian, what are you—”

“I can’t,” he says. “I know it’s wrong, but dammit, some part of me is actually happy that she’s dead.”

“What?”

“God forgive me,” he mutters before leaving the room. I remain in bed, listening to the sound of silence.

* * *

The hospital releases me after weeks of speculation, interrogations and finally a full investigation of the story I end up telling a million times to every cop in the city. Afterwards,

I'm exhausted from the suspicions, trashed by the media on the local news until I finally decide to take my mother’s initial advice. First flight in the morning, I'm heading back to Montana.

I stand in my apartment sliding tape atop newly packed boxes. Everything I own stuffed away in ten boxes. I’m leaving the furniture behind, saving it for the new tenants. Why dust off old memories from a sofa full of them?

As I saunter outside, carrying the first load of boxes to my car, I notice something that I know wasn’t there a minute before—an odd presence that feels more like a looming shadow.

I glance around the parking lot and spot the lens of a camera protruding out the window of a parked, black Buick sitting on the opposite end of the lot.

Him
, again. The photographer I thought I’d never see again after the “Vivian saga.” After all of this, he’s still around?

“What the hell?” I say upon locking eyes with the man sitting inside the Buick.

“Hey!” I call. “Who are you?” I drop the box and rush toward the Buick, waving my arms at him. In my haste, I stumble twice, nearly toppling to the ground, trying to close the space between us. The moment I’m halfway to his car, he cranks the engine. I stand firm in his path, refusing to move.

“Go ahead,” I say. “You might as well run me over because I'm not moving until you tell me who you are!”

Bathe in glow of his headlights I remain in front the car, approaching it with caution, daring him to hit me. Inches away, I plant my hands atop the car hood, glaring at him through the windshield. The engine revs again, momentarily shaking me from my stance of bravado.

Something in his eyes calms. I don’t know what changes. Perhaps he grows a conscience now that he’s forced to look me in the eye. When I least expect it, the engine silences. I step backward, bracing for conflict as he exits the Buick and rounds the side to meet me in front. 

At first glance, there’s nothing visibly concerning about him. Young, mid-20’s, dark hair and eyes. Wearing a collared shirt, khakis and a denim blazer, he doesn’t resemble the peeping-tom perv I’ve imagined in my head. He’s average. Normal, almost.

“You’re really asking to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” he says.

I stare for a moment, dazed by the nonchalance of his demeanor.

“What did you say?”

He shrugs, emitting an exasperated sigh while tinkering with his camera.