Chapter 42

Poppy

Silence is a man ' s best friend and an insane man ' s worst enemy. It allows you to fill the quietness with thoughts.

" It ' s Andrew," I blurt out as Julian drives slightly over the speed limit to my childhood home. " It has to be him," I insist again. Andrew killed his father and is on the run; he ' s here, nearby, close enough to burn down my parents' house.

Andrew warned me that he would take away everything I loved. He threatened Henry, who is obviously guarded, so Andrew hit what was left unprotected.

A memory I cherished. My childhood home.

Julian grips the steering wheel so tight that I reach out for his hand and remove it. If he breaks the car, it'll take me longer to get there.

He exhales. " It makes sense."

I lay my head between my knees, pressing my kneecaps into my skull, trying to make it all stop so I can breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.

It should be easy and simple. I shouldn ' t have to think about it.

Isn ' t that something the brain just does automatically?

Why is it so hard?

It requires more thought than the SATs.

I hear my heart beating so loudly it ' s trying to escape through my ears, but at the same time, it feels like I can ' t breathe.

" My memories, Jules. Andrew has taken them. All my parents' things, my things, Peter's, even Henry's, they were in that house. Things I left there when I moved because I thought it was safe. Andrew took them."

Oh god. It ' s so painful.

All the photo albums mom made, dad ' s old computers he built with Henry and Peter, all my baby clothes, all the dishes my parents used to cook our Christmas dinner. All the gifts I saved from my childhood. Every memory that was solidified in a tangible material item was subject to fire.

Did anything survive?

" He ' ll pay for this," Julian mutters.

" I don ' t care about that anymore. I just need it to stop," I gasp, my hot breath turning my pale face a sickly shade of crimson as I bury it between my knees.

The car slowly stops, and Julian rolls down the window. " The street is closed off," a man says.

" This is Poppy Moore. Her parents' house was the one that caught fire."

God, those words don't sound right.

" You said, Poppy Moore?"

I look up now into the eyes of a police officer. " That ' s me."

" We ' ve been trying to get a hold of you. The house is under your name."

" I never got a phone call," I mutter. My eyes closed. That's because I left my phone when Harper and I ran. I missed the call, but then again, if I didn ' t run, I ' d be in Texas getting that call. I ' d have to suffer the flight back home. This was faster; I was here already.

I turn and look out the window; it ' s a cloudless day, perfect and sunny like the day of Peter ' s funeral.

Maybe all these stupid and silly decisions have led me right where I needed to be, back in my hometown at the scene of the crime.

Fate is a sick bitch.

" When we couldn ' t get a hold of you, we reached out to your brother, Henry. We didn ' t know if you were inside when it happened."

There ' s a twisted thought. Did Andrew know Harper and I left Texas and returned home? Did he think/hope I was inside?

" Pull up ahead," he waves Julian and me through.

" Oh god, Julian," I whisper.

" I ' m here, Pumpkin. You can stay in the car if you need to and take it as slowly as you need. Just tell me what to do."

" I don ' t know," I declare, feeling like I ' m gonna be sick.

Julian nods. " I ' ll lead then," he offers. " I ' ll be your crutch; you just hold on, and even when you think you can ' t know, I ' m here holding you up. I love you."

I love you, too. I want to say it, but as the car gets closer to my childhood home, words can no longer form on my tongue.

As promised, he parks and gives me a moment. I see a few police cars and a fire marshal SUV along the road. Julian gets out, rounds the car, and opens the door for me. The first thing I notice is the smell. It ' s like a bonfire, thick and crisp in the afternoon air.

It ' s wrong.

Our house used to emit good smells. Smells of home-cooked dinners when my parents were alive and freshly cooked breakfast when Peter took over. Now it ' s just smoky.

I place one shaking foot out of the car and stand. How can someone so shocked and broken stand?

Julian takes my hand, grasping it tightly; his other hand slides around my lower back.

That ' s how you stand, with a hero guiding you.

The thing we often forget is that heroes have flaws, too. Yeah, Julian lied; it ' s a flaw he ' s got to work on. He ' s still my hero.

I don ' t know if my lungs will fully inhale again, not after what I see in front of me. I had hoped some of the house was still standing, a frame, some furniture. Something.

" There ' s nothing left." My whisper feels like a flag of surrender that was fiercely waved in the middle of battle, but instead of accepting, the other side just blasted bullets right through it.

It ' s just a pile of smoking soot. " Where ' s the furniture?" I blindly stumble forward.

" Miss! You can ' t go there. It ' s not safe," someone shouts.

Julian ' s hand tugs me gently back, but he allows me to take a few more hesitant steps. The ground feels warm and sticky under the soles of my shoes.

I grasp my throat. " Where is everything?"

I looked to where the kitchen was. " There should be pots there," I point. " Pots don ' t burn; they withstand an oven. Where are they, Julian?"

Where the fuck is everything!

Is it under the ashes, buried safe?

" My mom had a ceramic platter she used every Christmas with poinsettia flowers painted on it. She used to put it in the oven. That means it should have survived the fire. I have to find it, Julian. I wanted to use that same platter for my Christmas dinners."

I try to step forward.

Julian tries to tug me back, but I resist. I try to lunge, but he grabs me, locking his arms around me.

My feet sink to the ground, but before I can hit it, I land in Julian ' s lap, like a shield protecting me from the debris.