Chapter 11
eleven
“Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.” - Seneca
Clouds rolled overhead, thick and restless, but they offered no mercy from the heat.
The only reprieve was the brusque wind that slapped at Jocelyn’s linen pants—the new ones she’d bought from her sister’s shop.
She felt oddly self-conscious in them, as though the fabric itself might betray her, whispering where she’d gotten them, feeding small-town mouths with new fodder.
She half-expected whispers to grow teeth, to attach meaning to a simple purchase, to paint intentions she never had.
She tried to push the thoughts away as she walked from the coffee shop toward the fire station.
The woman who ran Southern Comfort had remembered her from when Cole brought her, even remembered her order.
She’d been warm in a way that left Jocelyn momentarily light.
That buoyancy held until she reached the fire station’s front door, where the old dread came back and pooled in her stomach, a heaviness that pressed cold and uneasy.
Amber sat at the front desk again, and she smiled at the sight of Jocelyn, though her glance skittered nervously toward Chief Ward’s closed office door. His voice was audible, low and curt, though Jocelyn couldn’t make out the words. The tension was plain enough, though.
“Hi, Jocelyn.” Amber looked toward the door again. “The chief is on the phone, so he might be a little bit.”
“That’s alright. I can wait.” Jocelyn took one of the lobby chairs, folding herself neatly into it.
Fifteen minutes later, with Ward still shut away, she pulled out her laptop and buried herself in work for her Asheville client. The familiar rhythm of design notes kept her hands steady, if not her mind.
“I’m sorry,” Amber said a while later, her tone a bit exasperated. “It was a call from his lawyer, so he wasn’t prepared for that.”
Jocelyn gave her a polite smile. “It’s no problem at all.”
It was another twenty minutes before Ward finally emerged, his face flushed. He caught sight of her sitting there, and a brief flash of anger burned in his eyes before he blinked and looked down at his watch, swearing under his breath.
“Jocelyn, I’m so sorry. Lost track of time.”
“I don’t mind.” She tucked her laptop away, though anticipation rose sharp in her chest, like a match catching flame.
“I don’t have as much time to offer you,” he said, motioning her into his office.
Her face pinched despite the smile she tried to hold in place. “Whatever you can offer me would be incredibly helpful.”
Ward busied himself straightening papers on his desk, releasing a long breath as if her presence itself wore on him. “Even if we had more time, I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of the information you’d asked for.”
Her heart sank. “Nothing?”
He sat. She didn’t.
“The report says more or less what we already talked about. The candle by the curtain in the master was the origin. Your mama was in that room, but she made no attempt to put it out.”
“Where?” Jocelyn’s voice came sharper than intended.
He blinked, unsettled. “Beg pardon?”
“Where was she found?”
A pause stretched, heavy with calculation. “On the floor.”
“The floor,” she repeated flatly. “Where on the floor? Near the window? The door?”
Ward’s lips went flat and pale. “Between her bed and dresser.”
The words sliced at her. For years, she’d pictured her mother asleep, swallowed in smoke and flame before she ever stirred. But between the bed and the dresser… That meant she had to have woken up, moved, tried to get out—tried and failed. And failed in a place farthest from escape.
“Can I see the report?” Jocelyn asked.
His hesitation was a physical presence. “It’s public. You can request a copy through the usual legal channels.”
Her brows drew together. She had requested it. The copy she’d received held none of this detail. So either he had access to a different version… or there were things he knew that weren’t in the report.
She hated the thought, but suspicion rooted itself anyway.
Ward sighed. “I only suggest it because I’m not legally allowed to release it to you. It has to be through the legal route. For record integrity.”
“I see,” she said flatly.
He checked his watch, already rising. “I’m out of time today. If there’s another day you’d like to come by, you can check with Amber about my schedule.”
He shepherded her out despite her lack of response, and she gripped the strap of her bag tighter to keep the frustration in check. Without much more than a nod at Amber, he marched out the front door.
Amber stared after him, frowning, before she turned to Jocelyn. “I’m sorry about that. He, uh, is going through some stuff right now.”
Jocelyn tilted her head. “Trouble at home.” She let it fall as a statement, not a question.
Amber’s sharp look confirmed it. “Yes.”
The glimmer of success warmed her, inspiring her to press further. “The chief said I could ask you to make me a copy of the report from the fire.”
Amber stiffened, uncertain. She looked to his office as if he were still there. “I suppose so. I’ll have to see if I can find it.”
She disappeared into the file room while Jocelyn’s nerves crawled across her skin. Amber’s uncertainty tainted her confidence. But minutes later, Amber returned with a stack of papers.
“There’s a lot here to scan individually,” she said. “Why don’t I take care of that, and you can come on by a little later? That way I can take care of some of my other duties, too. There’s a lot on the docket today.”
Frustration threatened to unravel her politeness, but Jocelyn wrestled it back. Better this than refusal.
“Thank you,” she said, quiet but sincere.
“You’re welcome, Honey. You check on back in a couple of hours.”
Outside, the air felt heavier. Her steps to the car dragged, as if she walked through water. Not a failure, she reminded herself. Just another waiting period.
Always waiting, she thought.
Inside the stifling car, she turned on the engine, letting the air cool her skin while her mind replayed Ward’s words. Her mother, on the floor. Awake. Moving. Trying. Why hadn’t she made it farther? Why stop there?
The questions gnawed at her as she drove, keeping her too occupied to realize where she was headed.
It wasn’t until she slowed the car in front of the empty lot where her childhood home once stood that she came back to herself.
Only the foundation remained. A blank scar where her life had fractured.
Sometimes it felt like it had never existed. Like her mother had been a dream she’d told herself too many times.
This time she turned into the overgrown driveway, weeds brushing the tires. Green blanketed everything but that blank spot where the house should’ve been.
Those dream-like memories played in her head like an old movie, projecting faded and skipping scenes of a slight, dark-haired woman running through the sprinkler with her little girl on a hot July afternoon, squealing every time the cold water sprayed them.
Or those cooler autumn nights, when Jocelyn would sprawl across her mama’s lap as she pushed them back and forth on the porch swing with one foot, humming her current favorite song. Bonnie’s fingers would trace along the skin of Jocelyn’s arms, sliding back and forth in time with the sway.
Her memory played other things. The buzz of cicadas, the slap of the screen door that hung crookedly against the frame, the creak of the porch step that always announced someone before they got a chance to knock.
Frustration leaked out of her like an old radiator, leaving behind a hollow ache as memory whistled through those echoey halls. Despite the southern heat that pressed against her body like a wool blanket, scratchy and uncomfortable, a chill rattled her on the inside.
“Can I help you?”
The voice was like that wool blanket—scratchy and warm—but Jocelyn turned more quickly than she meant to, and the woman halted, taking one step back. Gray-green eyes went wide, and the color leaked from her leathery cheeks as she took Jocelyn in.
"I’m sorry, Honey." She pressed a hand to her ample bosom. "But my word, it’s like seein’ a ghost.”
Jocelyn inhaled slowly, bracing herself against the sting. It would always sting, being told she was her mama’s shadow.
“Ms. Etta, right?” Jocelyn asked.
“That’s right. I s’pose you weren’t so little you wouldn’t remember.”
“I couldn’t forget the chocolate milk and cookies you gave me.” And the way flashing red and white lights had painted Etta’s living room that night. And then Nan had arrived, whisking her away before the fire was even contained.
Etta sighed wistfully. “My bakin’ days are behind me now. Diabetes.” She gave Jocelyn a rueful look. “But I’m glad I made an impression.”
Etta made no move to head back across the street, and Jocelyn glanced at the empty lot again. It sang to a loneliness she felt down to her bones.
“Why didn’t anyone rebuild?” she wondered aloud.
Etta huffed a mirthless laugh. “That’d be on Ned Turner. ”
Electricity rippled along Jocelyn’s body like there was a storm brewing. Ned Turner was their landlord back then. She remembered very little about him except that her mama was always complaining about him.
“What do you mean?”
With a frown and a shake of the head, Etta said, “The house was worth more gone than standing. Ned tried to sell the place out from under your mama, but he never could get anyone to bite. After the fire, insurance said he had to build and live there before he could sell it. He chose to keep the land and take the payout. The money’s all he wanted anyway. ”
The breath stuck in Jocelyn’s throat. Ned Turner. A name she’d skimmed past in every old file. He’d only ever been mentioned in passing, as if the town itself wanted to skip over him.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d set the fire for the insurance money,” Etta added.
Jocelyn tapped her fingers against her thumbs. “He still live in town?”
Etta nodded, those eyes piercing Jocelyn with keen understanding. “You lookin’ into this fire, baby girl?”
There was censure in her tone. Suspicion, too, and maybe even the edge of anger.
But it was the baby girl that slammed Jocelyn back to that night.
The way Etta’s long, fake nails had tapped against the glass of chocolate milk before she’d handed it to Jocelyn.
The shimmering pink lacquer had mesmerized her as it caught the light of the lamps around the older woman’s living room, but it was that whispered “here ya go, baby girl” that stuck like a fly in sap.
The sad drawl and the pitying looks became the standard in the weeks that followed.
But Etta had been the first, and it’d been a balm that night.
Jocelyn looked at Etta’s hands now, nails bare and brittle-looking. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted.
And it was true. She wasn’t an investigator. Just a daughter digging at an old grave.
“Ned ain’t no gentleman,” Etta warned, the edge softening. “He won’t tell you a thing just ‘cause you ask. He harassed your mama plenty.”
Suspicion surged hotter. If Ned had anything to gain from that fire, then he was worth pressing. Cooperation or not, his response could be very telling.
“Thanks, Ms. Etta.” Jocelyn touched her arm and dug a card from her purse. “Call me if you need anything. I can bring you a sugar-free treat—Nan’s diabetic, too. I know the tricks.”
Etta’s smile warmed. “Aw, sure, Honey.” She slipped the card into her pocket.