Chapter 21
Rachel
Morning light filters through my bedroom window, but I’ve been awake for hours.
Derek’s voice keeps echoing in my head. How long before Tommy realizes his mother’s a failure?
I throw off the covers and head downstairs. Jake’s already gone for an early meeting at the research facility. Tommy’s still asleep, which gives me maybe thirty minutes of quiet before the chaos starts.
I need to do something productive. Something that proves I’m not falling apart.
Soup. I’ll make soup for Dorothy.
She called yesterday afternoon, saying she’d been feeling under the weather. Nothing serious, just a cold keeping her home from her usual activities. But she’s alone in that apartment, and everyone deserves homemade soup when they’re sick.
I pull out vegetables and start chopping. Carrots, celery, onions. Simple chicken soup, the kind my mom used to make when Jake and I were kids.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie.
Hey, can we talk about Tommy’s pickup today? My mom saw the video from the library, and she’s asking questions.
My stomach coils.
What kind of questions?
Just if everything’s okay, if you need help, she’s worried.
Translation: She’s worried about letting her daughter babysit a kid whose mother keeps ending up at fires.
Tell her we’re fine. But if she’s uncomfortable with you watching Tommy, I understand.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
She’s not uncomfortable exactly. Just concerned. You know how moms are.
I do know. Moms protect their kids. And right now, I look like someone who attracts danger.
No problem. I’ll figure something out.
I focus on finishing the soup, chopping carrots into precise rounds, and adding them to the pot. The celery comes next, then the potatoes I've already peeled and cubed. I watch the vegetables soften in the simmering broth, stirring occasionally to keep anything from sticking to the bottom.
The kitchen fills with the warm, comforting smell of homemade soup—the kind that makes a house feel like a home. I add seasoning, taste it, and adjust the salt. When it's finally done, I ladle it carefully into a container that seals properly, making sure not to spill any.
By the time I'm wiping down the counter and putting the pot in the sink to soak, Tommy's awake and demanding pancakes.
“We don’t have time for pancakes. You’ve got school in forty minutes.”
“But I’m hungry!”
“Then eat cereal like a normal human.” I pour him a bowl. “And get dressed. Real clothes, not pajamas.”
He grumbles but obeys, disappearing upstairs with his cereal bowl.
I’m cleaning the kitchen when my phone rings, and an unknown number flashes on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Morgan? This is Patricia Westbrook. We met briefly at Morgan’s Home Goods during your interview.”
Patricia was the older woman with opinions about single mothers and stable family structures.
“I remember. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling from the Millbrook Community Center. We’re looking for volunteers for our after-school program, and your application came across my desk.”
I don’t remember applying to volunteer anywhere, but I’ve sent out so many applications in the past two weeks that it’s possible I forgot.
“I appreciate you calling, but—”
“I wanted to let you know we’ve decided to go in a different direction. We need volunteers who can commit long-term, and given your recent… circumstances… we felt it wouldn’t be the right fit.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What circumstances?”
“The fires, dear. Two in two weeks. People are concerned about safety, you understand. We can’t have someone around children who seems to attract that kind of trouble.”
“I don’t attract trouble. I was a victim at both—”
“I’m sure that’s true. But perception matters, especially when children are involved.” Her voice drips false sympathy. “I’m sure you understand. Best of luck with your situation.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stand in my kitchen, holding the phone, trying to breathe through the anger building in my chest.
Attract trouble. Like I’m cursed. Like I’m doing this on purpose.
“Mama?” Tommy appears in the doorway, fully dressed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, baby.” I force a smile. “Let’s get you to school.”
Millbrook Elementary’s drop-off line is worse than usual.
Two mothers I vaguely recognize from school events whisper to each other as they stare at my car. When I make eye contact, they don’t even pretend they weren’t talking about me.
I’m pulling out of the parking lot when someone taps on my passenger window.
Emma from the café. I roll down the window.
“Hey, Rachel. How are you holding up?”
“I’ve had better weeks.” I try to smile. “You?”
“Same. Still job hunting. Still broke.” She leans against the car. “Listen, I just wanted to say… ignore the gossip. People are idiots. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Thanks, Emma.”
“I mean it. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just unlucky.” She straightens up. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re handling everything really well. Better than I would.”
It’s such a small kindness, but it nearly breaks me.
“That means a lot. Really.”
“Hang in there. And if you need anything—coffee, venting, someone to yell at the universe with—call me.”
She walks away before I can thank her properly.
At least one person in this town doesn’t think I’m cursed.
***
Dorothy’s house is on the east side of town, near the park. A small bungalow that she’s owned since her early thirties.
I knock on her door, soup container in hand.
“Just a minute!” Her voice sounds stuffed up.
She opens the door wearing a purple cardigan and slippers, looking exactly like someone fighting a cold.
“Rachel! Oh, you didn’t have to—” She spots the soup. “Is that homemade?”
“Chicken soup. Mom’s recipe.” I hand it over. “Figured you could use some comfort food.”
“You’re an angel.” She steps back. “Come in, come in. I just made tea.”
Her apartment features a floral couch, lace doilies, and framed photos covering every surface. It smells like lavender and old books.
“Sit, please.” Dorothy sets the soup in her tiny kitchen. “I’ve been going crazy cooped up in here. You’re my first visitor all week.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better today. Still congested, but the fever broke.” She pours tea into delicate china cups and hands me a cup. “How’s Tommy? How is he handling everything? The fires must be frightening for a five-year-old.”
“He’s resilient. Bounces back faster than I do.” I take a sip of tea. “He thinks firefighters are superheroes now. Wants to be one when he grows up.”
“Better than wanting to be a YouTuber, I suppose.” She settles into her armchair. “And how are you? Really?”
“Surviving. Barely.” I set my cup down. “Derek showed up at the house yesterday unannounced. Started making threats about the custody hearing.”
Dorothy’s expression hardens. “That man. I wish I could give him a piece of my mind.”
“You and everyone else.” I lean back against the couch. “But he’s right about some things. I am unemployed. I am living with Jake. I was at two fires. On paper, my life looks like a disaster.”
“On paper, my life looks like I’m one step from a nursing home. But I’m not dead yet.” She picks up her tea. “You’re a good mother, Rachel. Anyone with eyes can see that. Tommy’s happy, healthy, and loved. That’s what matters.”
“I hope the judge thinks so.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Dorothy sighs.
“Ryan stopped by this last night. Asked to borrow money again.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I did. I always do.” She looks at her hands. “He said he needed it for rent, but I know where it’s really going. Gambling. Always gambling.”
“Have you thought about cutting him off? Tough love?”
“Every day. But he is my grandson. My only family left.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I did my best, but maybe my best wasn’t good enough.”
“You can’t blame yourself for his choices.”
“I know. But it’s hard not to.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue. “He’s been so angry lately. So volatile. I mentioned maybe he should talk to someone and get help for the gambling. He got upset. Said I was calling him crazy.”
“When was this?”
“Last week. Right before the library fire.” She shakes her head. “I’m sure it’s not connected. Just a stressful time for him. He’s behind on bills, and his landlord’s threatening to evict him. He’s drowning, and I don’t know how to help him.”
“Sometimes people have to save themselves.”
“I know. Doesn’t make it easier to watch.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Jake.
Heading home early. Need anything?
I’m at Dorothy’s. Be home soon.
“I should probably go.” I stand up. “Let you rest.”
“Thank you for the soup. And the company.” Dorothy walks me to the door. “You’re a good girl, Rachel. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”
“I’ll try.”
I’m reaching for the doorknob when I smell it.
Smoke.
Faint but unmistakable. That same acrid smell from the café. From the library.
“Dorothy, do you smell that?”
She sniffs. “Smell what?”
“Smoke.”
Then the fire alarm screams to life.
Dorothy’s eyes go wide. “Oh God.”
I yank open her door. Smoke is pouring up the stairwell, thick and dark.
“We need to leave. Now.”
“My medication—”
“No time. We go now.”
I grab her arm and pull her toward her bedroom, but smoke is already filling the hallway, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
And all I can think is not again.