Sweet Water(106)

And what about Josh? Did he ever make it inside the house to look for Dad? If so, did he make it out?

The mask is pulled off. “I want to—”

I try to speak, but someone is shoving a straw in my mouth and asking me to drink. My throat feels tight, but the water goes down. I cough, and my head is woozy, the smell of smoke everywhere, no matter which way I turn my head.

It’s in my hair, and the smell is so pungent, I think it might be soaked into my bones.

My worries are endless, but no one will listen to me.

Have they caught Cash, and what have they done with him?

And . . . the house. I finally put it last on the list, where it belongs.

Did Stonehenge’s exterior withstand the elements thrust upon it like the historic landmark it was named for, or is it beyond repair? Will I be able to renovate the damages or is it lost forever?

The aching in my chest deepens.

Martin rushes into the room. He’s one of the people I don’t care to see, but he’s the one who has the answers to all my questions. I haven’t figured out how to break it to him yet that we’re getting a divorce, but this isn’t the right time. I don’t have my voice back yet to argue with him.

“Sarah?” he says. “Thank God.” He has this stupid, hopeful look on his face that this near-death experience of mine will put us back together.

“The kids?” I manage.

“They’re fine. They were actually together, at the same bonfire in the country, no cell phone coverage. They didn’t get your messages until after they’d driven away, and they rushed right home once they did.” His grin turns dismal at the mention of our home.

“My dad?” I close my eyes, and all I can do is listen to Martin’s voice, because if his face betrays him, I will lose it.

“Your dad is in critical condition, but he’s alive.”

Thank God! Relief sweeps through me. Martin grips my hand, and I allow it. Then I let out a huge exhale, and my lungs burn from the effort. The cough that follows next rattles even worse, and I let out a yelp because it hurts so much. “How bad is he?”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Martin’s voice makes me sick. “He’s suffered severe smoke inhalation; he’s unconscious but breathing on his own, so that’s good, but he’s got some third-degree burns on his legs. The rest of him was spared.”

“Oh no.”

“The fire chief said it could’ve been so much worse. The fire started upstairs. You must have gotten there shortly after.”

I think about the towering flames of Hell engulfing the inside of the house, and I can’t fathom that the fire had just begun. If so, and we’d gotten there moments later, my father would be dead. I didn’t imagine the internal ticking time bomb sensation, the extreme sense of urgency building in my chest. I knew after leaving Alisha’s house—“whatever happens to your son now is your own fault”—that we were on a stopwatch to figure out what’d happened to Yazmin or someone else was going to die, but I didn’t anticipate it would be my father.

“And Cash?” I ask. Does Martin even know he’s the one who set the fire? Do the police?

“He’s been detained. And don’t you worry. He’s going to go away for a very long—”

“The house was retaliation for us doing what we did.”

“We didn’t do anything, Sarah—”

“Yes. We. Did. Martin. None of this would’ve ever happened if we would’ve made different choices that night.”

Martin makes a clicking sound with his mouth and stares up at the fluorescent lights as if choosing his words carefully. He didn’t read the journal. If he’d read it, he would know I’m right, but he still doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong. If the burning down of our home didn’t teach him that, there’s no redemption for him. Martin was ruined by the Ellsworths long ago, and there’s nothing I can do to change the person they’ve created.

“You can’t blame us for—” Martin tries.

“Yes, I can, actually, but we’ll save that for a different time. I don’t have the strength to argue right now.” My words are coming out in dry patches.

I try not to focus on the fact that I withheld the journal from Alisha. I’ll be eternally remorseful for not turning it in to her sooner. It’s all Alisha really wanted. Although I feel bad that I left it in the car. Now the real police (not Alton) will see it and have proof of all Cash’s wrongdoing. And possibly Josh’s. I still don’t know what Finn was trying to hide or if he was involved in her death or not. But Monroe will question him after reading the journal, and that’s okay. It’s time for the truth.

“Sarah, I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes . . .”

Bite your tongue. There’s no amount of marital counseling that can fix this problem, but I still have a chance with Finn.

Martin hasn’t stopped talking. “And, Sarah, part of me always thought you kind of knew about Tush, but it was something we just never talked about.” Martin’s searching my eyes for some acknowledgment. I nod, but it’s all I can give him for right now. Acknowledging doesn’t make it right on either of our parts; it just makes it exist.

As to whether I colored my memory the way I’d wanted to, as Josh suggested, I wasn’t sure anymore.