Chapter 16
ELENA
Four days after T.J. and I are able to move back into our home, I wake to the sound of my phone vibrating in the early morning hours, just after five.
My pulse pounds instantly because no one calls that early with anything good. I snatch the phone off my nightstand and answer in a voice still thick from sleep. “Hello?”
“Elena.” It’s Buck, and his voice is low and controlled, fully awake. “I need you to stay calm.”
My body goes cold, and the blankets tangle at my waist as I quickly sit up. “What’s wrong?”
“There was a fire at the school overnight. The maintenance shed. No one’s hurt.”
That much is a relief, but it does little for my pounding heart.
“The fire didn’t extend to the main building, but the shed is a total loss. Fuel cans inside made it burn quick, before the crew could put it out.”
I’m already on my feet, heading for the closet.
“I’m at the scene now,” he says. “I wanted you to hear about it from me first. And Elena—” His tone lowers, and another wave of dread floods through me. “There’s something else.”
I’m flipping through my shirts, but I freeze, one hand with a death grip on my phone. “What?”
“There’s a message.”
“What kind of message?” My throat is so tight, it’s hard to get the words out.
“Spray paint on the school’s exterior wall beside the shed.”
I squeeze the phone tighter. “What does it say?”
He pauses, then tells me in a plain tone. “‘You can’t hide from the past.’”
It knocks the breath out of me. The words don’t exactly make sense, but a cold certainty moves through me anyway. This began in San Diego, but it didn’t stay there. “I’m not hiding from anything,” I tell Buck. “Nothing I know about anyway.”
I abandon my closet and go back into the bedroom to sit on the bed. “Buck—“
“I know.” His voice turns rougher. “I know.”
The house is quiet, and when a vent clicks in the hall, I flinch.
“Listen to me, Elena. You’re not alone in this.
I’ve already got more eyes on your house and the school.
Motion-activated lights, added cameras, Sentinel Security patrols overnight.
Weston and Calder will coordinate with me and the sheriff’s office this morning.
I need you to stay home until I come get you. ”
“I have to go in.”
“I know you do, but not yet.”
“Buck, I’m the principal.”
“There’s an active scene. Whoever did this just escalated, and you don’t need to walk into it blind.” His commanding voice softens just a little when he adds, “I want to make sure you’re safe.”
His words help calm the fear that’s clawing at the inside of my chest. “When?” I ask.
“I’ll be by as soon as I’m clear here. Should be an hour, maybe less. I’ll text you.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
His voice is softer still, almost intimate, when he says, “Check the doors if you need to. Stay inside. Call me if anything feels off before I get there.”
It’s almost like he knows exactly what I’ve been doing.
Ever since we’ve been back at our house, and even when we were at Mae’s, I’ve been checking the locks, front and back, then rechecking.
I can never quite remember the feel of the lock under my hand, or reassure myself that I saw the locks were engaged.
I’ve been listening for sounds that may or may not be there, and jolting awake over furnace and refrigerator noises.
I swallow back some of the fear. “Okay.”
“Elena.” Our connection is so clear it almost sounds like he’s in the room with me. I wish he were. “I’m coming. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
After we end the call, I get ready, using some of Calder’s grounding techniques while I shower and do my hair.
When I’m ready, I wake T.J., who somehow knows something’s wrong as soon as he clears the sleep from his eyes.
“There was an incident at the school,” I explain. “Fire Marshal Brennan is going to drive us in today.”
“Was it another fire?”
“It was. In a shed outside the main building. No one was hurt.”
He’s quiet for several long seconds before he asks, “Why is someone starting fires, Mom?”
“I don’t know, Bug.” T.J. usually doesn’t like me using his childhood nickname now that he’s older, but today, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“The firemen and the police department are all working together to figure it out,” I tell him.
I’m grateful when he doesn’t ask more questions, because I’m not sure what else I can say.
Around the time T.J.’s finishing breakfast, Buck texts to tell me he’s on his way, then he texts again right before he knocks on the door, so I’ll know it’s him.
When he comes in, his jaw is hard, his cheeks are ruddy, his eyes are tired, and he smells of smoke. His broad shoulders fill the door frame, and my body reacts to his presence with an immediate sense of relief before the rest of me catches up.
If T.J. thinks it’s strange that Buck’s driving us to school, he doesn’t say anything about it. He does, however, ask Buck a stream of questions about firefighting in general, especially about the capabilities of the engines.
At school, I escort T.J. to the library, where an aide is on duty to supervise the kids whose parents need to drop them off early.
“I’ll be back to see you before the bell,” I tell him.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be fine.” I worry he tells me that because he thinks it’s what I want to hear.
“Okay, then I’ll see you at lunch. Love you.” I give him a hug, careful to keep it normal and not squeeze him extra tightly like I want to.
Buck is waiting for me at the front entrance and leads me around the building to what used to be the maintenance shed.
As I try to ignore the distressing odor of wet ash and chemicals, a small part of my brain calculates the cost of what was likely lost in the fire.
Another part of my mind is picturing all the students that go to school here, from the youngest to the oldest, and I’m filled with anger that someone would bring this danger so close to them.
As we stand looking at the blackened ruin that has collapsed in on itself, Buck clamps a big hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He looks at me like we both know it’s a lie, but he doesn’t challenge it.
I’m even less okay when I look beyond the fire remains to the adjacent wall of the main building. Across the pale cinder block, the message Buck told me about is scrawled in black spray paint.
YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM THE PAST.
My knees threaten to buckle, but I stay upright.
For a long, horrible moment, my vision blurs as the school rises in my mind the way it’s supposed to be. The squeak of children’s shoes on the hallway floor, the slap of backpack straps against puffy coats, little voices bouncing off cinder block walls before the first bell.
Then, images of the children I’m charged with protecting layer over the threatening words. Second graders looking for worms after the snow melts. Fifth graders dragging their feet after recess. T.J. running ahead because he’s excited about something.
Whatever this is about, my students don’t deserve to be involved, and I need to protect them. I need to protect T.J.
Buck comes up behind me, but thankfully, he doesn’t touch me, because I think I’d break if he did.
“It’s no surprise, but the accelerant pattern matches,” he says after a moment. “Same family of solvents. Same application method.”
I stare at the wall until it blurs.
When students arrive here every morning, it’s my responsibility to keep them safe. Parents hand over their children, the most precious thing in their lives, and expect me to give them back intact.
When I wrap my arms around myself and step backward, Buck immediately steps in front of me, blocking the message from my view.
“I have a company coming to remove the paint,” he says.
The fact that he’s already thought of that, when I’m sure it’s not part of his job, nearly undoes me. “Thank you.”
His eyes search mine. “We’ll lock down campus access tighter for now. More cameras, more motion lighting. I’ll have Sentinel add midday drive-bys. I want one of us visible at pick-up and drop-off until we end this.”
One of us. The words hit me in a way he probably doesn’t intend. More personal, and also more dangerous.