Chapter 5 - The Night of the Fire
Natalie remembered the smell first. Smoke. Wet wool. Burned sugar from the dessert her mother had carried into the conservatory.
Then came the red coat. Wren Pierce had worn it over her pajamas, though it was June. She had been frightened of thunderstorms and refused to sleep unless someone sat beside her. Natalie had been seventeen.
She remembered being at the Pierce estate because her mother, Claire, had been working late. Claire cleaned the house and sometimes watched Wren when the family attended parties. Graham had been twelve. He had stood near the staircase, one hand clenched around a toy soldier.
His father, Leonard Pierce, had been shouting. Not at Wren. At Claire. The memory broke apart whenever Natalie tried to hold it.
A slammed door. A glass breaking.
Her mother saying, “Please, Mr. Pierce.”
Then Wren’s voice from the conservatory.
“Daddy?”
Natalie had gone toward the sound. Leonard caught her wrist.
“You didn’t see anything,” he said.
The next memory was smoke rolling beneath the door. Natalie had screamed. Leonard had grabbed her shoulders and told her to run. Claire pulled Natalie outside while the housekeeper, Della Hart, came from the rear hall carrying a bucket.
Della had been blamed for leaving an old heater plugged in. She went to prison for arson and manslaughter. She died there six years later. Natalie sat at the kitchen table with the letter spread before her.
Her father, Eli, had arrived after Tessa called him. He looked older than Natalie remembered, his shoulders curved beneath his coat.
“You knew,” Natalie said.
Eli sat across from her.
“Your mother told me after the funeral.”
“And you let me forget?”
“She believed forgetting was the only way to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Eli looked toward the windows.
“Leonard had money. Lawyers. Friends in the sheriff’s office. Your mother was afraid he would say you started the fire.”
“Why would he say that?”
“Because you were the only person who saw him lock the conservatory.”
Natalie’s hands began to shake. The photographs in the tin showed the door. A thick brass bolt sat on the outside.
“Why did my mother keep these?”
“She tried to expose him. He threatened to have you taken away.”
“And Graham?”
Eli hesitated.
“He was a child,” he said.
“But he knew his father lied.”
The front door opened. Graham came inside without knocking. Tessa rose.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I want to speak to my wife.”
“She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
Graham ignored her. He looked at the letter.
“You found it.”
Natalie stood.
“How long have you known?”
“About the fire?”
“About what I saw.”
“You remembered before I did.”
“Don’t turn this into something shared.”
His face tightened.
“I was twelve. My father told me Della did it. My mother believed him. Everyone believed him.”
“You didn’t.”
“I saw the bolt.”
“Then why did you let Della go to prison?”
“Because I was twelve.”
“You’re not twelve now.”
Graham looked toward the blue tin.
“My father kept records. Payments. Names. He made sure the people who could contradict him were compensated or ruined.”
“And you found those records?”
“After he died.”
“Where are they?”
“Sienna wanted them.”
“Sienna is Della’s granddaughter.”
“Yes.”
Natalie felt the room shift again.
“You hired her knowing who she was?”
“She applied under her mother’s name.”
“You knew.”
“I knew after she started.”
“And you kept her here?”
Graham’s silence was answer enough.
“Why?”
“Because she was looking for the same thing I was.”
“You were investigating your father?”
“I was trying to understand how deep it went.”
Natalie laughed, and the sound came out broken.
“You used our child as bait.”
“I needed leverage.”
“Against Sienna?”
“Against everyone.”
Graham stepped closer.
“You think I’m the villain because I did what was necessary. But if those records come out, your mother’s name is in them. So is yours.”
Natalie stared at him. He lowered his voice.
“The night of the fire, you didn’t just see my father.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You opened the conservatory door before the smoke reached it.”
His words struck with the force of a blow.
“I couldn’t.”
“You did.”
“No.”“You went inside.”
Natalie saw the red coat again. The brass bolt. A child’s hand reaching through smoke.
Graham whispered, “You were the last person Wren saw alive.”
The doorbell rang. Tessa looked through the window. Two police cars had stopped outside. One officer held up a photograph of Sienna.
“They found her,” Tessa said.
“Where?”
Natalie asked. The officer approached the door.
May you like
“At a motel on the other side of town,” he said.
“She’s alive, but she’s asking for you.”
