“Good girl,” he said. “You’ll make it just fine.”
I stared at him, the steam from my coffee swirled in the shape of a question mark.
“Coming from you, that’s a high compliment.” I took my coffee with me and walked out.
Maybe it was just my gypsy blood churning, but I was suddenly sick of Cliffhouse. I was sick of Del Gloria. While my surroundings might imply I was a princess in a castle, the truth was, I’d failed here just like everywhere else. I was done letting Denton or anyone else have power over my emotions and my life. I’d make my own choices from here on out. I didn’t owe him any explanation. I could do what I wanted. What I felt was best for me.
And that meant going home. But Denton didn’t have to know that. I’d finish out the semester, then hop on a bus and be home in time for Christmas. Six months’ exile was long enough. I’d take two weeks’ vacation in Michigan, then head back to California in time to start classes and keep working on our renovation project. It would be like I never left.
The next week passed uneventfully. Denton’s eyes followed me more than usual, as if trying to read my mind. But I kept a relaxed look on my face, enjoying the peaceful days before my road trip, comforted in knowing that he couldn’t possibly guess my plans.
Two days remained in the countdown. I waited for the opportune moment to share my plans with Portia and Celia.
“Hey, guys,” I said, scraping stain remover goo from the floor planks, “Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a short trip. I’ll be back right after break.”
“Where are you going?” Celia’s clear voice asked from over by the front windows. She held her scraping tool, filled with slimy gook from the sills, suspended for a moment.
I looked away. “Back to Galveston for Christmas.”
“Got your phone call, huh?” Portia asked without pausing her work.
“Kind of. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going.”
“Does the doc know?” This time Portia stared me down.
“No. And you’re not going to tell him.”
“Hmmm.” Portia’s body took on a “we’ll see about that” attitude.
“I mean it, Portia. Please don’t say anything. He’d be really upset.”
“Why? ’Cause you lied to him?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You just didn’t tell him the truth.”
“He can’t handle it.”
“Because he knows it’s not safe. If you didn’t get the phone call, then it’s not safe.”
“What’s going on here?” Celia tried to keep up with us.
I shook my head. “Nothing a few days in Mi-” I stopped before I said the word, “-Texas won’t solve.”
Portia stood, hands on hips. “Come here. We have to talk.” She grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to the tiny back bedroom. The door crashed closed behind us. She practically pinned my arms to the wall. “I know who you are.”
19
My heart skipped a beat. “Alisha Braddock. I’m Alisha Braddock.” I hoped the more I said the name, the more convinced Portia would become.
She squinted in accusation, shaking her head. “Your name is Patricia Louise Amble. You’re from Walled Lake, Michigan. You were the first ever convicted of assisted suicide in the state. You were a suspect in the murder of some guy named Martin something, but they let you go without charges. And the cops in Michigan want you for murder one, grand theft auto, and leaving the scene of a crime. Did I forget anything?”
My eyes felt like saucers in my head. “How do you know all that?”
“Come on, Alisha, Patricia, whoever you are. It’s the information age. You just have to know where to look.” She put her hands on her hips. “Okay, I confess I had Koby check into it. And if he got the info that easily, so could anyone else. Am I right?”
“So-,” I gulped, “what do you want? Money or something?”
She turned away in frustration. “I can’t believe you’d think that. I’m your friend. I want you to be safe. Believe me, if it was money I was after, I could have sold the information a month ago.”
I looked around, dazed. “I guess so. Didn’t know there were warrants out for my arrest. Denton said he took care of everything for me. Covered my tracks. I figured he must have explained what happened and everyone understood and let it go.”
“You’ll be surprised to hear that you’re also dead. Funeral and everything. Maybe that cancels out the warrants.” “Dead? Are you serious?” I giggled, then sobered as I digested the information. “If you and Jane both know who I am, other people probably know too. How safe am I here?”
Her face was blank. “I don’t have an answer for that. But I have a few ideas how you can get off that hit list.”
From the other room came the sound of glass breaking. Then a scream.
“Oh no.” Portia raced into the hallway.
I followed behind. Air rushed past as we staggered down the hall toward the sound. Then came the whoosh of an explosion.
“Celia!” Portia’s voice came from just ahead, but flames and smoke blinded me. I kept one hand on the wall as a guide.
Celia’s cries came shrill from across the room. “Help! I’m on fire!”
Orange blazed over the floor and up the windows, fueled by the chemicals we’d been using. Through eyes burning with heat and smoke, I watched Portia make a dive toward Celia’s chair. But flames drove her back, gasping and slapping fire from her own clothing.
“The tarp! Grab the tarp!” Portia crouched to the floor and crawled through the thick haze toward the kitchen. Right behind her, I snatched a corner of the cotton painter’s cloth she thrust toward me and scooted back into the mayhem.
Celia’s screams of agony and fear filled our ears, mixed with the deafening roar of the inferno.
“Hurry!” Portia pulled the fabric out of my hands as she made the rush toward Celia and threw the cloth over her frail body, crouched and burning in the wheelchair. Portia patted out flames where she could, even while her own clothing caught fire. She grabbed the handles of the chair and pulled it toward the hallway and the back of the house.
Another crash of glass as a second bomb, what looked like a bottle stuffed with burning gauze, hurled through the back door and exploded, blocking our escape.
“We’re trapped. Get to the bedroom, quick!” Portia’s orders kept me from dropping into a useless heap on the floor.
We pushed through the blinding smoke toward the tiny space.
Portia jammed Celia’s chair against the threshold. “It won’t go through.”
A moan came from beneath the charred tarp.
“Thank God she’s still alive.”
I heard Portia, though I couldn’t see her through the smoke. I dropped to the floor for a breath of air. Through heat-singed lids, I caught a glimpse of Portia. Hair had melted like a helmet to her head. One cheek was black and oozing. Her palms were blistered from the heat of the chair handles. Smoke came in puffs from her clothing. Portia’s burns spurred me to action. “We have to get out of here.”
I yanked the wheelchair from the doorway and squeezed through, pulling Portia behind me. Her vacant eyes told me she was heading into shock. I left her on the floor by the window and went back for Celia, still wrapped in the smoking tarp. I dragged her by the feet onto the floor. Her head made a thud as it hit the wood.
“Sorry,” I muttered, tugging her dead weight across the planks. My lungs were at the bursting point. I stretched out a leg and kicked the door closed, hoping to conserve oxygen. I crawled across the room and felt around for the window latch. A twist, then a push as I tried lifting the sash. But the years had left it swollen in place, like so many
