Chapter 2
Two
The world came back in pieces.
First, the smell. Antiseptic and bleach, that particular hospital sharpness that stripped everything down to white surfaces and efficient hands. Then, the sound. A steady electronic beep somewhere to her right, the whisper of air through vents, the distant murmur of voices beyond a closed door.
Then, the pain.
Lydia’s lungs felt like someone had taken steel wool to them, scraping away every soft surface until nothing remained but raw tissue.
Each breath was an act of will, a conscious decision to pull air into her chest despite the grinding ache that came with it.
Her ribs protested the expansion, tender and bruised.
Her throat was sandpaper-dry, her head pounding with a deep, nauseating throb that originated somewhere at the base of her skull and radiated outward in waves.
She tried to open her eyes, but even that small movement sent a spike of agony through her temples. White ceiling tiles swam into focus, fractured by the glare of bright lights. She blinked, tried to turn her head, and immediately regretted it. The room spun, her stomach lurching.
Where am I? What happened? My babies?—
The thought cut through the fog of pain like a knife. Her children. Eli. Rosie. Where were they? Were they?—
A soft weight shifted against her left side, and Lydia’s heart stuttered. She turned her head carefully, ignoring the nausea that came with the movement, and saw her.
Rosie.
Her baby girl was curled against her on the hospital bed, so small she barely made a dent in the mattress.
Her blonde curls were matted and dirty, smudged with soot.
The hospital gown they’d put her in was too big, the sleeves hanging off her shoulders, making her look even tinier than her six years.
But she was breathing. Lydia could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, could hear the soft whistle of air through her nose.
Alive. Rosie was alive.
Relief hit Lydia, stealing what little breath she had.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, hot and stinging, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing out loud.
She reached out with a trembling hand, her fingers finding Rosie’s curls, stroking them gently.
So soft. So precious. So impossibly, miraculously alive.
Thank you, she thought, though she wasn’t sure who she was thanking. God? The universe? Whoever pulled them from the flames? Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Movement in her peripheral vision made her turn her head, carefully, so carefully, to the right. Another hospital bed sat close to hers, close enough that she could have reached out and touched it if she’d tried. And there, sitting upright with his back against the pillows, was Eli.
Her brave, serious boy.
He was staring at the curtain that separated their area from the rest of the room, his brown eyes fixed on nothing, his expression blank in that way that made Lydia’s heart break.
She knew that look. Had seen it too many times over the past year, especially since they’d left Tom.
Ever since Eli had stopped being a child and started being the man of the house, the protector, the one who checked the locks at night and slept with a baseball bat under his bed.
He was nine years old, and he looked ancient.
“Eli,” Lydia whispered, her voice coming out as a rasp that barely qualified as sound. “Baby, come here.”
He turned to look at her, and the joy that flooded his face nearly undid her.
He scrambled off his bed, moving too fast, and she saw him wince.
Saw the way he favored his left side, the way his breathing hitched.
But he didn’t slow down. He climbed onto her bed on the other side from Rosie, pressing himself against her right side, and Lydia wrapped her arm around him even though the movement sent agony shooting through her ribs.
She didn’t care. Her children were here. They were breathing. They were alive.
“Mom,” Eli whispered, and his voice was small and heartbroken in a way that made her want to weep. “Mom, I thought … when you fell … I couldn’t wake you up and the smoke was so bad and?—”
“Shh,” Lydia murmured, pressing her lips to the top of his head. His hair smelled like smoke and hospital soap, and she could feel him shaking against her. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re all okay.”
It was a lie. They weren’t okay. Their new home was gone, she was sure.
She remembered the flames and the heat and the terrible certainty that they were going to die.
Her head felt like someone had cracked it open with a hammer.
Every breath hurt. And Eli was shaking like a leaf in a storm, his thin body wracked with tremors that had nothing to do with cold.
But they were alive. And right now, that had to be enough.
She held her children close, ignoring the pain, ignoring the nausea, ignoring everything except the weight of them against her and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
Rosie stirred, her small hand finding Lydia’s hospital gown and clutching it tight.
Eli pressed his face into her shoulder, and she felt the dampness of tears against her skin.
Time stopped meaning anything. Lydia floated in a haze of pain and relief and bone-deep exhaustion, her children warm against her, the beeping of the monitor a steady metronome in the background.
She tried to remember what had happened, tried to piece together the fragments of memory into something coherent, but all she found was chaos.
She remembered going to bed. The house had been quiet, the children asleep in their rooms. She’d done her usual checks.
Doors locked, windows secured, curtains drawn.
Tom couldn’t have followed them here. She’d been so careful not to tell anyone where they were going when she had been informed of the inheritance.
There was no way he could have found them.
But something had woken her.
A sound. Deep and rumbling, like thunder but wrong somehow. A trumpet? Not natural. She’d sat up in bed, heart already racing, every instinct screaming danger. And then she’d smelled it. Smoke, acrid and chemical, burning her nose.
She’d run to the children’s rooms. Found them coughing, disoriented, the hallway already filling with smoke. Grabbed them both, tried to get them to the stairs, but the smoke was so thick she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had seized, her eyes streaming. And then?—
And then what?
The memory fractured there, splintering into disconnected images that didn’t make sense. Flames crawling up the walls like living things. Heat so intense she’d felt her skin blistering. The terrible certainty that they weren’t going to make it out.
And something else. Something she couldn’t quite grasp, like trying to hold water in her hands.
A face in the flames.
Or had she imagined it? Her head injury could be playing tricks on her, filling in gaps with impossibilities.
But she could have sworn, just for a moment, when everything went black, she’d seen a light in the fire.
Not the children. Not herself. Someone else.
Something else. Or was it a dream from when she’d passed out?
The hallucination of a mind starved for air?
A shape in the smoke, moving with purpose. Eyes that caught the light like mirrors.
And that sound. That strange sound that had woken her in the first place.
Lydia shivered, and Eli tightened his grip on her hospital gown. “Mom? You okay?”
“Yes, baby,” she whispered, even though it was another lie. “Just tired.”
She wanted to ask him what he remembered. Wanted to know if he’d heard that sound, seen that face. But the words stuck in her throat, weighted down by fear. What if he had seen something? What if it wasn’t her concussion creating phantoms? What if?—
The door opened with a soft click, and Lydia’s entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked, her breath catching, her heart slamming against her ribs. Tom. It was Tom. He’d found them. He’d burned down the house and now he was here to finish what he’d started.
But it wasn’t Tom.
Two sheriff’s deputies stood at the foot of her bed, their hats in their hands, their faces carefully neutral in that way law enforcement had perfected.
One was older, maybe fifty, with silver hair and weathered skin.
The other was younger, early thirties, with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he noticed her panic.
“Ms. Harper,” the older deputy said, his voice low and gentle. “I’m Deputy Evans, and this is Deputy Morris. We’re sorry to disturb you, but we need to ask you a few questions about tonight.”
Lydia’s mind raced. She couldn’t remember. Everything was too foggy, too fragmented.
“My children,” she managed, her voice cracking. “Are they okay … physically?”
“They’re fine,” Deputy Morris said quickly, and the assurance in his voice sounded genuine. “Both stable. The doctors say they’re breathing well, no permanent damage from the smoke. You got them out just in time.”
Lydia’s eyes burned with fresh tears. She hadn’t gotten them out. She’d failed. She’d fallen, and someone else, some stranger, had saved them. But she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t admit her failure out loud.
“Can you tell us what you remember about the fire?” Deputy Evans asked, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “Anything at all might help us figure out what happened.”
What happened. As if it were an accident. As if it weren’t Tom, finally catching up to her, punishing her for leaving.
But she couldn’t say that either. Not without proof. Not without opening a door she’d spent a year trying to keep locked.
“I—” Lydia’s throat closed. She swallowed hard, tasting ash. “I don’t remember much. Something woke me up. A sound.”
“What kind of sound?” Deputy Morris had his own notebook out now, pen poised.
Lydia hesitated. How could she describe it? How could she explain it without sounding insane?
“Like … thunder,” she said finally. “But not. Deeper. More … I don’t know. Maybe a trumpet.”