8. Ella
8
ella
I’m standing in front of an altar. The priest smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile. I don’t know why I’m here.
I glance down, and my blood goes cold. Why am I in a wedding dress?
Smoke fills my nostrils. I turn around, and through the open doors of the church, I can see the shelter on fire across the street. Flames are licking out of the windows, and smoke is pouring from the roof. I scream, but no sound comes out. I try to run, but I can’t. I look down again. Ornate golden shackles now appear around my wrists and ankles, holding me in place. The more I struggle, the tighter they become.
I raise my gaze to the packed pews, begging for someone to help. On the left side, my family stares ahead, refusing to look at me. My father is angry; I can see the vein pulsing at his temple. My mother’s head hangs, as if in shame. She is wearing a black veil, more suited for a funeral than a wedding. Seated beside them, my brothers are dressed in black too—their expressions stoic, their jaws tight.
Tears stream down my cheeks. They refuse to acknowledge me. They will not help me.
I turn to the right. Ben is there, as are my coworkers from the shelter. Gina and Lucia are there too. Their eyes are on me, at once accusing and condemning. Why are they just sitting there when they should be rescuing the dogs?
The answer is clear. My father’s men surround them, the bulges under their jackets leaving no doubt that they’re armed.
The organ starts to play, the notes dark and ominous. The smoke wafting into the church from the fire is growing thicker, but I manage to see a shadowy figure exiting the shelter, walking toward the church with a cocky swagger.
I recognize him instantly. Giorgio.
I glance around desperately, relieved when I see Dom standing at the back of the church. He’ll help me! He’ll save the animals! But as I try to reach for him, he shakes his head and steps back, looking at me as if I were a complete stranger.
A chilling voice whispers in my ear, “Alessandra, did you really think you could escape?”
I wake suddenly, realizing it was all just a nightmare. I take a moment to breathe, waiting for the grip of fear to let go. My hand is shaking when I reach for my phone to check the time, but it’s not an Android that I grab. It’s a picture. A picture of me sitting outside the shelter the night of the fire. I look closer.
There’s something written on the image.
Nice try.
Terror pierced my heart, the sensation so real, so sharp that I snapped out of the dream within a dream. My eyes popped open as I gasped for air. I was in the small studio at the back of the shelter, my legs tangled in the blanket, my body shaking. I pinched myself to make sure, then took a series of deep, calming breaths until the terror began to drain away.
The room was dark, but my internal clock told me it was close to dawn. I exhaled, willing my heart rate to slow. I wasn’t getting back to sleep after that.
I took another cold shower, brushed my teeth, and secured my hair in a no-nonsense ponytail. The rote actions were the only way to lessen the lingering sense of foreboding. I wasn’t a stranger to nightmares. I’d been having them most of my life.
Once, when I had been very young, I’d told my grandmother about them. Instead of soothing my fears, she told me to pay attention. That dreams were never just dreams, but warnings and omens.
I’d never told her about my nightmares again.
Continuing my morning routine, I straightened my living space, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s. The small studio-like apartment was far enough away from the day-to-day operations that no one had a reason to come back here.
Once that was done, I moved to the main part of the building, where I made coffee and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge. Breakfast complete, I took my mug and proceeded to the next step of the normal morning routine—letting the dogs out. Some of them were already awake and alert, waiting for me with wagging tails and big doggy grins.
This was my favorite part of the day. Watching the sun come up, coffee in hand, surrounded by animals. Only when the first rays of dawn hit my face did I start to feel normal again.
Ben was always the first to arrive. He joined us outside with a mug of his own. He was still in his street clothes—jeans and a T-shirt—as opposed to the on-duty scrubs and lab coat he wore to treat patients and talk to pet owners.
“You’re in even earlier than usual,” I said. “What’s up?”
He dropped into a crouch to better greet some of our smaller residents. They said animals were good judges of characters, and I believed that to be true. Ben was a good guy. An image of Oreo cuddling contentedly against Dom’s chest popped into my head, followed immediately by one of him cradling Daisy and getting her to safety.
“Have you seen the local news this morning?” Ben asked casually. Too casually.
“No,” I answered honestly. I preferred to start the day on a good note. News and social media tended to have the opposite effect. “But something tells me you have. Not good?”
“It’s not bad,” he said, picking his words carefully. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
With an exhale and a sense of trepidation, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and checked my feed. Ben remained quiet as I scrolled, my brows furrowing deeper with every thumb swipe. Inside, I cringed at the moniker they’d laid on me.
“Angel of the Animals?” I said, finally looking up.
“See? Not bad.”
But it was bad. Any attention pointed my way was bad. Of course, he didn’t know that, not for sure. He was intelligent enough to suspect I had skeletons in my closet.
I continued to screen flip, scanning images of the shelter, the firemen, the smoke. I was in a few, but none were clear or close enough to identify me.
When I looked up, he was eyeing me with sympathy.
“I know you’re not crazy about being in the spotlight, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t good exposure for the shelter.”
I was shaking my head before he even finished speaking. I understood what he was saying, and part of me wanted to do whatever was best for the animals, but my aversion went beyond being a social introvert. “It is good for the shelter, but keep the focus on the animals, not on me.”
He nodded, as if that was what he’d expected me to say, but there was no hiding the shadow of disappointment that ghosted over his features. “It’s probably best if you stay in your office today then. I wouldn’t be surprised if more people show up, wanting to talk to you.”
I didn’t have a problem with staying in my office. That was where I spent most of the day during standard business hours unless needed elsewhere. Early mornings and nights were different. I roamed freely because no one else was here.
“Okay.”
We stood in silence for a few minutes before he said quietly, “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
I appreciated the sentiment—I really did. Ben was the closest thing to a friend I had in Cecilton, which was exactly why I wasn’t about to put him or anyone else in danger. The less he knew about me, the safer he was.
“Thanks, Ben.”
When it became clear that I wasn’t going to say anything more, he sighed. “All right, Ella. Ready to get to it?”
“Ready.”
I helped with the feeding and cleaning until the others started showing up around seven, then retreated to the safety and peace of the back office. That was where I remained, blissfully unaware of anything going on up front, until my stomach started growling.
I got up, stretched, and made my way to the break room, slowing when I heard high-pitched, excited voices carrying out into the hallway.
“Did you hear that the firefighters are coming in to volunteer?”
I paused to listen.
“No! Do tell.”
“I heard Doris talking to Noah about it. I don’t know much, only that they offered to help fix the place up, do minor repairs, stuff like that.”
“Mmm … hot, sweaty firemen with tools. Be still my heart.”
I chuckled silently at that. It was a nice visual.
“I know, right? I think there might be some overtime in my future.”
“We’re getting a lot of attention since the fire. Have you seen the latest?”
“Oh, you mean about the Angel ?” A derisive snort followed the inquiry.
“She did save the animals.”
“Please. She opened the door. It’s not like flames were licking around the cages or anything.”
Most of the people I worked with were nice. Carrie, not so much. She was what my cousin Pia would have referred to as a see you next Tuesday kinda girl. I avoided her whenever possible. Who needed people like that in their life?
Having no desire to insert myself into that conversation, I turned and went back the way I had come, then slipped out the side entrance. Looked like I was grabbing lunch from the convenience store today.
It felt good to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. The sun was shining, the air was warm and only mildly humid, and the trees and flowers were in the full bloom of summer.
Despite the gorgeous weather, last night’s nightmare continued to linger in the back of my mind. I didn’t think it had been an omen, as my grandmother had told me all those years ago. More likely, my subconscious had been giving me a timely reminder-slash-warning that my actions had consequences, and like a pebble tossed in a pond, it affected more than just me.
The convenience store wasn’t crowded. I placed my order and paid, and I was on my way back to the shelter in under ten minutes.
I’d only just set my hoagie, chips, and drink on my desk when Ben poked his head in.
“Hey, Ella. Got a few minutes?”
I regarded my lunch with longing. “Sure. What’s up?”
“The fire chief is here. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Outwardly, I remained cool and collected. Inwardly, my stomach clenched into a knot and made me glad I hadn’t started eating yet. Why would the fire chief want to talk to me? I’d already told them everything I knew. Unless he’d found something suspicious …
Aloud, I said, “Of course.”
I moved my lunch to the side as Ben brought in the investigator. “Ella, this is Fire Chief Cerasino.”
Cerasino. I wondered briefly if he was any relation to Dom, Lucia, and Gina, but the answer was right there in his classic Roman features. The guy was around my father’s age, with sharp, assessing eyes.
“Chief,” I said in greeting.
“Miss Ferris.”
It took him about two seconds to scan my office. It wasn’t much to look at. Cream walls. Worn carpet. A scarred old desk the size of a Buick. Two large gray filing cabinets. A buffet-size folding table along one wall that held a printer, a few reams of paper, and assorted office supplies in their boxes. The only new item was my chair—a surprisingly comfortable, cheap ergonomic model—purchased from a nearby discount store when its predecessor had given up the ghost.
“How can I help?” I prompted.
“I know you’re busy, so I’ll get right to it. Our investigation revealed some anomalies.”
“What kind of anomalies?” Ben asked.
“There were several distinct burn patterns, suggesting multiple ignition points, inconsistent with a typical single short-circuit failure.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “We also found residue around the breaker box that isn’t typical of a standard electrical malfunction.”
Multiple ignition points . The phrase conjured a memory of my brother Enrico speaking with Reno—one of my father’s enforcers—at some family event or another. Reno’s specialty was arson.
“Listen, kid, setting a fire isn’t like striking a single match and calling it a day,” Reno said with obvious pride. “You gotta spread it around, see? One ignition point might fizzle out, but multiple points? That’s like setting off a series of fireworks. Each burst throws off the next. And placement is important. They gotta go off where they’re not gonna be noticed right away. By the time someone realizes what’s going on, it’s too late. And that, kid, is the beauty of it.”
A chill went down my spine.
Ben frowned. “So, what are you saying? The fire wasn’t an accident?”
Chief Cerasino didn’t answer. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, the kind with a small pen attached, and flipped through the pages before looking back at me. “You went down to flip the breaker, correct?” At my nod, he said, “Did you notice anything unusual? Any indication that someone might have interfered with the panel?”
I forced myself to focus, mentally retracing my steps that night, then shook my head. “I don’t think so. Everything happened so fast. I do remember thinking that it didn’t look as if anyone had been down there in ages. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs.”
He scribbled in his notebook. “Who has access to the old wing?”
“Everyone,” Ben answered. “We don’t keep it locked. But I can’t imagine why anyone would do something like this on purpose.”
I could , I thought miserably. Insurance fraud. Vengeance. Concealment of another crime, like burglary or murder. Extortion.
But Ben had grown up in a much different environment than I had. In his world—in Cecilton—this kind of thing didn’t happen.
Or at least, it hadn’t.
“Neither can I,” Chief Cerasino admitted, “but we need to be thorough. The most obvious answer is usually the right one, and in this case, there’s not enough evidence to point to anything other than faulty old wiring.”
I felt a surge of relief, even though the chief’s conclusion was not absolute. Lack of evidence wasn’t the same as innocence.
The chief put his notebook away. “I think we have everything we need. You can go ahead and give the electrician the green light to move ahead with repairs.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Just doing my job.”
Instead of leaving, Chief Cerasino remained where he was. His expression suggested he had something more on his mind.
“Is there anything else?” I prompted.
He regarded me for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that’s all. You have a good day now, Miss Ferris.”