Chapter Thirty-Nine Violet
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Violet
The world after the fire was sirens and smoke. Authority. Protocol. Chaos dressed in order.
I heard them before I saw them. Static from radios sounded with clipped commands, boots slammed against damp gravel. Then the lights came on, red and blue strobing through the haze, splashing frantic color across the skeletal scene.
It felt like the world itself was screaming.
The air was unbreathable. It was thick with scorched timber and something foul. Burned flesh. It clung to my skin, filled my mouth, and coated my tongue.
This was the price of ruin, I thought as I stared at hell itself.
I tried to swallow it down but choked. Coughing didn’t help.
Breathing didn’t, either. I stood behind the bumper of a cruiser, swaddled in a coarse wool blanket that did nothing to stop the shaking.
My wrists and ankles were wrapped in hasty strips of gauze, antiseptic still burning under the bandages.
And every time I blinked, I saw Marcus’s face. Then Grayson in my arms. Then the world falling apart around us, like it had always been destined to.
The barn collapsed in slow, terrible stages, flames roaring like a living thing as firefighters battled the blaze. The skeleton of the structure sagged and groaned, beams giving way with sharp hisses. The hiss of pressurized water couldn’t drown out the fire’s fury.
“Copy that,” one firefighter barked into his radio.
I stared. He was broad, his face smeared with soot, his voice cutting through the scene with grim authority. “We’re just managing the collapse now. Lot of bodies. No survivors.”
“Bodies?” Kaufmann asked. His voice was low, efficient, detached.
“Eighteen confirmed.” The firefighter didn’t look away from the wreckage. “We’ll get a final count once it cools enough to sift.”
Silence fell. It was brief, but spoke volumes.
“Jesus Christ,” Kaufmann muttered. “Eighteen dead . . . has to be a mass suicide. Especially with a cult this deep in it.”
I forced the words out, each one scraping my throat raw. Smoke clung to every syllable.
“They killed themselves,” I rasped. “They wanted to burn. They didn’t fight it.”
No one answered. The men glanced at me, then turned back to the barn, as if the horror deserved no comment. The wind shifted, carrying a fresh wave of smoke and the sharp snap of collapsing beams. EMTs jogged past, pushing a stretcher.
Only the edge was visible. A white sheet, draped clean and final.
Something inside me ruptured. My chest seized so hard I thought my ribs might crack from the pressure. The world tunneled until all I saw was that outline. It was too human to ignore.
A nearby cop muttered, not quietly enough. “Male victim pulled from the south entrance.”
The words sliced through me. Sound drained out. A high-pitched ringing took its place. My mouth opened, but nothing came. The sob never made it past my throat. My knees buckled, and I folded forward. The blanket slipped from my shoulders like deadweight.
Grayson was gone. I knew it, of course. I’d held his still body until the cops had pulled me away. The pain lodged inside me, sharp, brutal, and permanent.
“Ma’am.” A medic crouched in front of me, her gloved hand resting lightly on my arm. Her voice was firm, but soft and professional. “You need to come with us.”
“I’m fine,” I rasped. The same lie I’d given them when they first arrived. But my voice was raw, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. I stared at my palms. Still saw his blood. I still felt his weight in my arms.
I let the EMT guide me to the ambulance. Kaufmann approached, the fire’s glow slashing across his face in sharp, flickering stripes. His notepad was closed now, but his gaze had sharpened, focusing squarely on me.
“We’ll need a statement once you’re cleared, Ms. Santos. You’re the only one we pulled out who’s conscious.”
The only one. I swallowed, but the ash coated my throat so thickly it made me gag. I cleared it with a rough cough and nodded. “Yeah. Of course. Whatever you need . . . what about my friend? Harper. Did you find anything? Was she—” I hesitated. “Was she here?”
The question stalled him. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticcing beneath soot-streaked skin.
“The investigators leading the case are en route,” he said, voice level.
“They’ve briefed everyone on what they know.
Search teams are sweeping the woods and nearby properties, operating under the assumption she was with the group.
” His pause said everything before he finished.
“As of now, no additional survivors have been recovered.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. I hadn’t seen Harper here, but if the cult had taken her . . . God, if they had her, wouldn’t she have been here? My gaze drifted to the remains of the barn, a smoldering skeleton collapsing in on itself, and I forced myself not to cry.
His eyes flicked past me, already moving on. He gave the medic a sharp nod. “Get her transported.”
The medic guided me to my feet, her grip firm against the trembling weight of my body.
I moved on instinct, legs carrying me forward while my mind stayed fixed on the barn.
Firefighters worked in rhythmic lines, sweeping arcs of water over the blaze.
When the flames finally died, they began pulling charred remnants from the wreckage.
My stomach twisted. Bile scorched the back of my throat.
“This way, miss.”
The ambulance doors stood open, white light spilling across the gravel like a spotlight.
I climbed in. The air inside was colder, clinical, reeking of antiseptic and something too clean to be comforting.
She helped me onto the gurney, clipped a monitor to my finger, and pressed an oxygen mask over my face.
“Breathe,” she said gently. “Slow and steady. You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word meant nothing. Not anymore.
As the doors shut with a dull finality, I caught one last glimpse of the barn through the rear window, now a skeletal shadow swallowed by smoke.
It was over.
So why did I still feel like I was trapped in the middle of it?
The ride to the hospital stretched endlessly and vanished in an instant. Time folded in on itself.
After the fire, the sterile white of the ER felt offensive. Too bright. Too clean. Too real. They wheeled me through swinging doors into a blur of overlapping voices and beeping machines. Another monitor was clipped to my chest. Someone muttered about vitals. Their words barely registered.
It was just more noise bouncing off the walls of my skull.
The blanket I’d been wrapped in was replaced with a fresh one. It was warmer, softer, but I still couldn’t stop shaking.
Detective Kaufmann stood at the foot of my bed, notepad in hand, the hem of his shirt faintly stained, the scent of smoke clinging to him. His expression was unreadable, pinned somewhere between sympathy and detachment.
Detective Lawson stood on his other side, and together they made a wall I couldn’t get through.
“Ms. Santos,” Kaufmann said, voice even but not without edge. “We need your statement while it’s still fresh.”
I stared at him hollow eyed, then nodded. “Everyone’s dead.”
His pen paused midair. I didn’t phrase it like a question, but he answered regardless. “Yes, ma’am. All bodies recovered from the barn were dead. Did you witness this directly?”
“I killed him.” My throat burned around the confession. “Marcus. I killed him.”
He didn’t flinch. No pity, no judgment. Just that blank, investigative calm. “And the others?”
I shook my head, chest tightening. “They didn’t fight it. They lit the barn with candles and just . . . stood there. They wanted to burn.” The silence tore everything open. It was too loud, too sharp.
“And the man who got you out? Grayson Iverson,” he said, lifting his gaze. It was direct. Searching. “You were seen with him outside the barn.”
The breath caught in my throat, my vision blurring instantly. I didn’t want to say it. Saying it made it real. “Marcus stabbed him . . . before we got out.”
The detective didn’t answer. He just wrote something down, then closed the notebook. “We’ll obviously need more information down the road, but I know your medical assessment is more important right now.”
Two more police officers entered, and I dragged in a shaking breath, forcing the words out before I lost them, before I was left alone once more. “What about my friend Harper?” I asked one of the newer officers who’d just entered. “They keep telling me they know nothing. Do you?”
His expression remained stoic. “Search is ongoing. No sign of her yet, and no new information. I’m sorry.”
His words hollowed me further.
The officers and detectives left, and a woman in a white lab coat appeared then, soft voiced, a badge clipped to her pocket that read Victim Services. She exchanged a few words with the police officers, and then it was just her and me. She pulled a chair beside my bed and smiled softly.
“I’m Tina Schrader. I’m here to explain what happens next.”
I stayed silent and let her speak.
“We’ll get you in touch with a trauma counselor as soon as you’re discharged. We have crisis therapists available tonight if you want to talk. You’ll also have a liaison officer, someone to answer questions as the investigation goes on. You’re not alone in this.”
I stared at her, trying to let the words in. They were laced with kindness, had structure, but all I could think of was Grayson in my arms. All I smelled was Marcus’s blood coating the air after I killed him.
I was alone.
“I don’t need therapy,” I whispered, my voice breaking, the lie coming easily.
Her expression softened further. “What you’ve been through . . . no one should carry that weight alone.”
Her words fell into me like stones sinking in water. I nodded, because I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
Machines hummed softly beside me. Nurses moved in and out, and for the first time since the fire, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave.
When I was finally alone, I curled beneath the hospital blanket and tried to imagine what starting over would even look like with so much blood on my hands.