Trial by Fire

Copyright © 2016 Norah McClintock

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

McClintock, Norah, author
Trial by fire / Norah McClintock.
(Riley Donovan)

Issued also in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0936-9 (pbk.).—
ISBN
978-1-4598-0938-3 (pdf).—
ISBN
978-1-4598-0937-6
(epub)

I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads
PS
8575.
C
62
T
75 2016         j
C
813'.54         
C
2015-904528-2
C
2015-904529-0

First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number:
2015946343

Summary:
In this novel for teens, Riley gets a crash course in small-town prejudice
when an immigrant man is accused of a crime that Riley is sure he did not commit.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this
book on Forest Stewardship Council
^®
certified paper.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs
provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book
Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through
the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by
iStock.com

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com

Printed and bound in Canada.

19   18   17   16   •   4   3   2   1

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

ONE

“Riley!” Aunt Ginny thundered. “Didn’t I ask you to break down these boxes?”

I poked my head out the kitchen door and found Aunt Ginny in the middle of the veranda.
Except for a narrow pathway from the door to the steps, it was filled with empty
cardboard boxes and twists of newspaper that I had used to pack fragile items like
dishes. In my defense, when it came time to move, I was the one who’d done the packing—all
of it, including Aunt Ginny’s bedroom, which, by definition, included Aunt Ginny’s
most personal items. She was too busy finishing up the paperwork on her open cases
to
help me. Then, when we got here, I did most of the unpacking. I hadn’t got rid
of the boxes yet, but it was on my list.

“Take care of it before I get back from work, will you?” Aunt Ginny said before trotting
across the yard to her car. I surveyed the cardboard graveyard that was the back
porch. It had never bothered me. I had spent most of my life moving around, especially
when I was living with my dad’s dad, my grandpa Jimmy, we were often on the road
with his band. But then Jimmy died and I had to go to live with relatives I’d never
even met. My mom died when I was a baby. My dad? He turned into Albert Schweitzer,
and if you don’t know who that is, maybe this is a good time to look it up. Dad’s
a medical doctor with an international charity, and he spends almost all of his time
overseas, usually in places that are too dangerous for a kid. He spent a lot of time
in Darfur. Now he’s managed to get funding to set up a hospital in a remote area
of Liberia. He emails me when he can.

Going to live with Aunt Ginny (my mom’s sister) after Jimmy died was tough. But it
was made a little easier by getting to know Grandpa Dan, Ginny’s dad. The two of
them, plus my uncles Ben and Vince, were just starting to feel like a real family
to me when Aunt
Ginny got a job offer she felt she couldn’t refuse, even though it
meant another move for me, this time to a small town.

So now here we were, just the two of us, in a place where we knew no one and no one
knew us.

Look on the bright side, Riley, I told myself.
There’s always a bright side; it just
isn’t always what you expect.
That’s what Jimmy used to say. One of the things anyway.

And there
was
a bright side.

My new room.

So when Aunt Ginny left, even though I’d intended to do what she’d asked, I decided
the boxes could wait. Besides, the evening seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me.
There was plenty of time. I would break down the boxes and stack them neatly after
I took another look at my room.

I loved it. It was huge—three times larger than Aunt Ginny’s study in our old place,
where I’d slept on a pullout bed for more than a year. My new room contained a brand-new
actual double bed (with head-and footboards, a huge improvement over the creaky
old hide-a-bed in Aunt Ginny’s cramped second-bedroom-office) and offered a spectacular
view of
the rolling meadows and farmland surrounding the rambling Victorian farmhouse
Aunt Ginny had rented. It also had high ceilings and gleaming hardwood floors. I
was entranced by everything about it, except the color. The walls were a dull and
grimy shade of off-white, like cream left out so long that it had crusted over. I’d
cajoled Aunt Ginny into buying me some sunny-yellow paint. My plan was to start painting
tonight. Maybe even finish painting tonight. Aunt Ginny wouldn’t be back until morning.
And it was summer. There was no school to get up for. I could paint until dawn, if
I wanted to.

I pried the lid off one of the paint cans, dipped in a brush and applied a thick
streak of yellow. It looked glorious, like the sun at noon, like daffodils, like
summer. It didn’t take long for me to forget about the boxes, and begin to transform
my poor Cinderella walls into the fair maiden who steals the prince’s heart. I didn’t
stop until I had finished one whole wall, and I paused then only because I was dripping
with sweat despite the gentle breeze that I felt whenever I stepped in front of my
open window. I was thirsty too. I went downstairs to get a drink.

I stood at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window while I ran the water until it
got cold. There was an eerie brightness in the sky over Mr. Goran’s place next door.
I filled my glass and took it out onto the back porch to see what was going on.

Flames were shooting up into the sky over Mr. Goran’s property. It looked like his
barn was on fire.

I raced back into the kitchen, grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. I reported what
I had seen and gave the address and location as calmly as I could. “On Route 30,
west of Moorebridge.”

I slammed down the phone and raced outside again. Of all the places for a fire to
break out, why did it have to be Mr. Goran’s farm?

Mr. Goran! Was he home? Was he awake? Did he even know his barn was on fire? Was
he out there now, trying to battle the blaze? Or was he frozen to the spot, flooded
with memories and nightmares, unable to move?

I ran across the lawn, scrambled over the fence and raced toward the blaze, yelling
Mr. Goran’s name the whole way.

Lights were on in his house, but if he heard me shouting, he didn’t answer. When
I hammered on his front door, it swung open. I called him again.

No answer.

If the door was unlocked, that had to mean Mr. Goran was somewhere on the property.
He had to be at the barn. I ran back to the barnyard and ground to a halt when I
heard the scream. It was coming from the barn. I heard something else too. Banging.

“Mr. Goran?” I shouted. “Mr. Goran, where are you?”

“Help! Help me!”

The voice was coming from inside the barn. I raced to the door and tried to pull
it open, but the latch handle had been heated to scorching by the fire. I yelped
and yanked my hand back. It had been burned. I wound the bottom of my T-shirt around
my other hand and tried again. The latch wouldn’t give. It was stuck.

“Help!” Mr. Goran’s voice was high and panicky.

I looked around wildly and saw a pitchfork leaning against the side of a shed. I
could use it to pry the door open.

Whenever I think about what happened next, I see it as if I’m watching myself in
a movie. I hear screams.
I’m halfway across the yard, focused on the barn and the
flames and what I am about to do. I’m praying that I’ll be able to do it because
I know I’m Mr. Goran’s only hope of escape. I run toward the barn. Then there is
a deafening sound—an explosion—and pieces of wood and scraps of other things (I don’t
even know what they are) fly past me. Then something wallops me, and I am blown backward
off my feet. It’s a weird sensation. I see the barn getting farther from me instead
of closer. When I land, the air is knocked out of me, and everything goes black.

I have no idea how long it is before I open my eyes. When I do, everything is blurry,
but even so, I realize I am no longer alone. The yard is filled with people. One
of them leans over me.

“Are you hurt?”

I try hard to focus. Why is this person shouting at me? And why does it sound like
his voice is coming from the end of a long tunnel?

“Mr. Goran,” I manage to say.

“I’m a firefighter. What’s your name?”

“Did you get Mr. Goran out?”

“Mr. Goran? The owner?”

“Did he get out of the barn?”

Then someone else shouts. “There’s someone in there!” At least, I think that’s what
he says. The voice sounds like it’s coming from the next county. Everything gets
blurrier and then fades to black again.

The next thing I know, someone is poking at me. I hear voices. Someone lifts me.
I have a sensation of speed. Then nothing. Then bright lights and someone talking
loudly, asking my name. More blurriness. More double vision. More blackness.

Then Aunt Ginny. And a massive headache.

“…concussion.” That was the first word I heard when I woke up again. It didn’t come
from Aunt Ginny. It was spoken by a man, probably the doctor in the white coat I
saw when I opened my eyes. He was talking to Aunt Ginny against the backdrop of a
sunny window. I had slept the night away.

“We’d like to keep her here today,” the doctor said. “When she goes home, she’ll
need to be monitored for a few days, just to make sure.”

Just to make sure of what?

Aunt Ginny nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”