Miracle Creek(88)

He turned to the thick cluster of pine trees behind him and breathed in deep. Fresh and clean, green woods—that’s what he expected, told his brain it should register, but the smoky smell was still there. And something else. A faint hiss in the distance. A crackle. He looked around and saw it: smoke, billowing up in a barely noticeable column before fanning out into wisps in the bright blue sky.

He felt a flicker of relief—he wasn’t hallucinating, wasn’t losing his mind—before panic set in. Fire. The Yoos’ house? Trees were in the way, and it was hard to tell. Turn the fuck around, run straight to the car, and drive away, a voice in his head said. He thought of his phone in the car, how the smart thing would be to grab it and call 911.

But he didn’t. He ran. Toward the smoke, through the cluster of trees. Once he got closer, the smoke seemed to be coming from the front of the house, so he ran around the side. The fire’s crackle was getting louder, but there was another sound. Voices. Pak’s and Mary’s. Not shouting in fear or calling for help, but calmly discussing something.

Matt tried to stop running, but too late. They looked up as he rounded the corner. Pak gasped. Mary squealed and jumped back.

The fire was inside a rusted metal container in front of them. The container—a trash can?—was the same height as Pak’s wheelchair, so the flames shooting out were level with Pak’s face, coating it in a flickering orange glow. Pak said, “Matt, why are you here?”

He knew he should say something, but he couldn’t think, couldn’t move. What were they burning? Cigarettes? Were they destroying evidence? Why now?

He looked at Pak’s face, eclipsed by the translucent curtain of fire, the flames appearing to lick at his chin. He thought of Henry’s facefire and wanted to throw up, and it was making him wonder: How could Pak get so close to the fire—so close that the flames were reflecting off his skin, the heat penetrating into his nerves—without freaking out into a puddle of fear? Through the flames, the sharp angles of Pak’s cheekbones looked eerily sinister, and Matt could picture him striking a match under the oxygen tube. It seemed real. Believable.

“Matt, why are you here?” Pak said again, and pressed his hands down on the wheelchair, as if to stand up, and he remembered Young saying the doctors couldn’t figure out why Pak was still paralyzed since his nerves appeared intact. At once, he knew: Pak had faked his paralysis, and was about to get up and attack him right now.

“Matt?” Pak repeated, pressing down again. Every muscle in Matt’s body tightened, and he stepped back, ready to sprint, but then Pak—still sitting—rolled his wheelchair out from behind the trash can. With Pak’s body fully visible, Matt could see: Pak was pressing down to force his wheelchair through gravel.

Matt cleared his throat. “I was heading back from court, and I thought I’d check on you since you weren’t there. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, we are fine.” Pak’s eyes flicked to the trash can, and he said, “That is for Mary’s birthday. Eighteen. In Korea, it is tradition to burn childhood items. It is symbolism for becoming adult.”

“Wow,” Matt said. He’d never heard that, and he’d gone to a dozen Korean eighteenth-birthday parties.

As if Pak could read his thoughts, he said, “It is maybe only in my village. Young did not know this tradition. Have you heard of it?”

“No, but I like it. Janine’s niece is turning eighteen soon. I’ll tell her,” Matt said, thinking how his in-laws did this, too—invoked some “ancient tradition” bullshit to cover a lie. He looked over Pak’s shoulder at Mary. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” She looked at the trash can, then back at him, shaking her head no. “Janine”—she paused—“is she … with you?” She shook her head again and frowned, her eyes widening—in a plea or threat, he couldn’t tell. Either way, her message was clear: Don’t tell Janine about us burning things. Whether it was a Please or an Or else, he didn’t care.

“Yes, she’s waiting in the car,” he said, realizing even as he told this lie how nervous he was about getting out of this situation safely. “I should go, or she’ll start worrying. Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned to go. “Happy birthday again, Mary.”

He could feel their stares on his back as he walked away, but he didn’t look back. He just kept walking, past the house, through the cluster of trees, past the ruins of the barn, and into the car. He locked it, cranked it on, put it in drive, pressed the accelerator, and got the hell out of there.





TERESA





SHE WAS THE ONLY PERSON in the courtroom. After the chaos of the last ten minutes—Elizabeth shouting about a cat, Shannon’s minions dragging her out, the judge pounding the gavel and ordering a lunch recess, everyone rushing out, trying not to get trampled by the reporters running and talking on their phones—Teresa craved stillness. Silence. Most of all, aloneness. She didn’t want to go outside and face the women who were (she was sure) flitting from café to café, scavenging for gossip. Of course, they’d be careful to coat their tattle with feigned concern to make it seem like a quest for justice for Henry (“abused for so long!”) and Kitt (“five kids!—a saint, really”) rather than what it actually was: the glee and excitement of being a voyeur to someone else’s pain.