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I ignore him, keep walking away with Sarah’s hand in mine. We head over to Sam.
“I’ll find the truth, Mr. Smith. I always do,” Baines yells behind me.
“Henri is on the way,” I say to Sam and Sarah.
“What the hell was that all about?” Sam asks.
“Who knows? Somebody thinks they saw me run in, probably somebody who drank too much,” I say more at Baines than Sam.
We stand at the end of the driveway until Henri arrives. When he pulls up he steps out of the truck and looks at the smoldering house far off in the distance.
“Ah, hell. Promise me you weren’t a part of this,” he says.
“I wasn’t,” I say.
We get into the truck. He pulls away while looking at the smoking rubble.
“You guys smell like smoke,” Henri says.
None of us reply, making the drive in silence. Sarah sits on my lap. We drop Sam off first, then Henri pulls out of the driveway and points the truck towards Sarah’s home.
“I don’t want to leave you tonight,” Sarah says to me.
“I don’t want to leave you either. ”
When we arrive at her house I get out with her and walk her to the door. She won’t let go of me when I hug her good night.
“Will you call me when you get home?”
“Of course. ”
“I love you. ”
I smile. “I love you too. ”
She goes inside. I walk back to the truck, where Henri is waiting. I have to figure out a way to keep him from finding out the truth about tonight, from making us leave Paradise. Henri pulls out and drives home.
“So what happened to your jacket?” he asks.
“It was in Mark’s closet. ”
“What happened to your head?”
“I hit it trying to get out when the fire first started. ”
He looks over at me doubtfully. “You’re the one who smells like smoke. ”
I shrug. “There was a lot of it. ”
“So what started it?”
“Drunkenness is my guess. ”
Henri nods and turns down our road.
“Well,” he says. “It will be interesting to see what’s in the papers on Monday. ” He turns and looks at me, studying my reaction.
I keep silent.
Yes, I think, it most certainly will be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I CAN’T SLEEP. I LIE IN BED STARING THROUGH the darkness at the ceiling. I call Sarah and we talk until three; I hang up and lie there with my eyes wide-open. At four I crawl out of bed and walk out of the room. Henri sits at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. He looks up at me, bags beneath his eyes, hair tousled.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” he says. “Scouring the news. ”
“Find anything?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure what it means to us yet. The men who wrote and published They Walk Among Us, the men we met, were tortured and killed. ”
I sit across from him. “What?”
“Police found them when the neighbors called after hearing screams coming from the house. ”
“They didn’t know where we lived. ”
