For half an instant, I wished Pete were with us. Then I thought of the shitstorm that would ensue when he learned I’d taken his son into such a potentially dangerous situation.
“Maybe you should wait here,” I suggested. “If I’m not back in an hour, call for help. Call your dad, then 911.”
Skink shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way! I’m coming with you. We had a deal!”
I nodded in reluctant acquiescence, then reached into my backpack, pulling out the extra sets of keys to the van I kept there. I handed them to Skink.
“What’s this for?”
“In case you need to make it out of here on your own.”
“Lizzy—”
“You know”—I gave him a weak smile—“like to go for help or something.”
“You and me and Lauren are walking out of here,” he said, clearly doing his best to sound action-hero-ish. “That’s the only way this is going to go down. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, hopping out of the van and into the rain.
I was soaked to the skin in five minutes. The wind was blowing the rain at us from all angles, coming in through my sleeves, up through the bottom of my coat. My jeans and sneakers were waterlogged. And Skink was worse off in his heavy work boots, jeans, and cotton hoodie.
The road was muddy, full of ruts that had filled with water, turned to miniature rivers. On we trudged, uphill. At last, the road leveled and I saw it: what remained of Gran’s old house. All that was left was part of the front porch, a cellar hole, and piles of debris: charred wood, broken glass, a rusted bathtub. It amazed me, really, to see what little remained.
The house had been intact when I’d seen it last. This fire must have happened after it had been abandoned.
I looked across the overgrown field at the Inn. The carriage house and barn had been leveled, but the Inn itself was still there, looming like a broken-backed thing, a monster all its own. Part of the front wall had crumbled away, the yellow bricks lying in heaps amid charred wood and indiscernible debris. The roof had caved in, but most of the old slate shingles remained. The windows were either broken or covered with pieces of plywood, which had weathered and buckled and were covered in graffiti.
I could almost smell the smoke still, though it had been over forty years.
We stood in the rain staring at the Inn, neither of us moving. It was getting dark, and late-season crickets were chirping.
“Is that a light on in there?” Skink asked, squinting and raising one hand to shield his eyes from the rain.
He was right. There was a soft glow coming from the lower windows.
“She’s waiting for us,” I said.
For me.
She’s waiting for me.
“Come on,” I said, leading him across the road and over the grass. I was pulling him along, and just like that, I was thirteen years old again, running across the yard with Vi, slipping and sliding as we held each other up, alive and giddy. Two girls setting off to learn the truth they thought would save them.
Stop! I wanted to scream to those girls.
Turn around!
Go back before it’s too late.
But there was no changing what had happened. No reaching back through time.
The light in the window flickered, jumped, and twitched, giving off a soft orange glow.
Flames.
“Hurry,” I said, starting to sprint. “It’s on fire!”
Vi
July 28, 1978
I AM, I SAID.