Rainier Drive (Cedar Cove #6)(4)

“It was…a shock,” she mumbled, suddenly cold.

“You’re going to rebuild, of course?”

She nodded. She couldn’t imagine Seth not wanting to rebuild. Within a few months, all of this would be behind them, she told herself again. Everything would be all right. There was simply no other option.

A chill raced up and down her arms as she remembered that this was exactly what she’d believed the day they’d buried Jordan. It was over, she’d thought then. All the relatives would go home and school would start and everything would go on the same as before. Only it hadn’t. How naive she’d been, a thirteen-year-old girl who’d trusted her parents to maintain the steady course of her life. They hadn’t; they couldn’t. Their own suffering had made them unable to cope with hers, destroying their marriage and tearing their family apart. Far from being over, the grief had barely begun.

“Warren,” she said, panic rising inside her all at once. She reached for his hand, gripping it hard. She was hyperventilating; she couldn’t get her breath. She heard herself gasping for air. The world began to spin.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Are you ill?”

“I…don’t know,” she said on a choked whisper, the panic settling in. Suddenly she felt an overwhelming need to find her mother.

“What should I do?” he asked, placing his arm protectively around her shoulders. “Should I take you to the clinic? Call for an Aid Car?”

She shook her head, feeling small and lost and childlike. “I…I want my mother.”

Warren didn’t hesitate. He leaped to his feet. “I’ll get her.”

“No.” She tried not to sob. She was an adult. She should be more capable of dealing with the events in her own life. Looking at Warren, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She forced her heart to stop racing.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” Warren said, brushing damp hair from her temple. “My poor Justine. Where’s Seth?”

“H-home.” She couldn’t, wouldn’t tell him anything more.

“Should I phone him?”

“No! I—I’m fine now,” she said shakily.

Warren slipped his arm around her and held her head against his shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he whispered soothingly. “I’ll take care of you.”

Two

Clutching her textbooks, Allison Cox rushed from her first-period American History to her French class. She slid into her desk and ignored the whispers that ceased abruptly as soon as she entered the room.

No one needed to tell her the topic of conversation. She knew. Everyone was whispering about Anson. Her friends assumed he was the one who’d burned down The Lighthouse. He wasn’t! She refused to believe he was in any way responsible for the fire. Anson wouldn’t do anything so underhanded to the Gundersons. Not only had they been good to him, he wasn’t that kind of person. He wasn’t cruel or vindictive. Allison didn’t care what anyone thought or said—she wouldn’t lose faith in Anson or the love they shared.

Turning, she glared over her shoulder at Kaci and Emily. According to her so-called friends, she was walking hand in hand with denial. Fine, they could think whatever they wanted; it had nothing to do with her. They could condemn Anson, but she wouldn’t.

The class bell rang, and she slowly turned around, ignoring the flow of gossip. Yes, Anson had disappeared right after the fire. Yes, he’d burned down the shed in the park. But she just couldn’t accept that he’d had anything to do with what had happened at The Lighthouse.

She’d convinced herself that Anson would return to Cedar Cove soon. With all her heart, she believed he’d be back by graduation. She clung to that hope, focused on the date—June fourth—and refused to doubt him.

The afternoon dragged by. Every day had since she’d seen him the night of the fire. After her last class she couldn’t get away fast enough. She hurried off the school grounds to her part-time job at her dad’s accounting firm. As she walked to the building owned by her father and his partners, she reviewed the facts as she remembered them. She did this often; she went over and over every detail she could recall. Logically, she understood why someone who didn’t know Anson might conclude that he was an arsonist. Okay, so he’d made that one mistake last fall, with the park shed. But he’d owned up to it, taken his punishment and moved on.

It’d been a week since she’d seen him—the longest week of her life. She remembered how he’d come to her that night. She’d been asleep and he’d tapped against her bedroom window, waking her. It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared in the middle of the night, only now he wouldn’t come inside. He’d explained that the only reason he was there was to tell her goodbye.

She’d argued with him, but he’d been adamant, insisting he had to leave. So many questions remained unanswered, including the issue of the missing money. Anson swore he knew nothing about that and she believed him. Mr. Gunderson was wrong to blame Anson for a crime he didn’t commit.

Worse, according to the terms of his plea agreement, the agreement Anson had made with the court after the first arson, he’d pledged to stay in school and make restitution.

But Anson hadn’t been in school the week before the fire, and Allison had been worried sick, wondering where he was and what he was doing. No one seemed to have any idea, and no one seemed to care, either. Not even his mother.