Page 148 of Hot Shot

And I don’t find Trent until it’s almost too late.

CHAPTER 54

IN THE ASHES

WILDER

Ipull to a stop in front of the house and park, scanning the windows for a sign of him. It’s getting dark, the shadows in the dark house too deep to make anything out.

“What’s he doing here?” I wonder.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good,” Cass says. “Not with the way he was talking earlier. Maybe we should call the police.”

“He’s trespassing—they’ll come fast for that alone.” My gaze is still stuck on the house. From the front, it almost looks intact. The back is all but gone.

Something is wrong. I don’t know what compels me to say, “Stay here,” and open the truck door. Maybe I’m too familiar with walking into things that my body says are wrong and dangerous. Maybe I’m just a fool. But I get out anyway.

“What are you doing?” Cass asks, her eyes wide.

“I’m just gonna check it out. Call the police.”

“But what if the house…I don’t know. Caves in or something!”

“It won’t, or they already would have demolished it. It’s stable. But I don’t know if Trent is. If he’s in there and there’s a chance he might hurt himself, you and I will never forgive ourselves for driving away. Don’t worry. I’ll be safe. Okay?”

She’s worrying her lip between her teeth, brows drawn together, but she nods and picks up her phone. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

I shut the door and walk around the truck in the quiet evening. It’s preternaturally still here too, like the rain stopped time. When I cross the overgrown lawn, heading for the taped-off front door, I hear the murmur of a voice and freeze. There it is again, but I can’t make anything out.

Frowning, I open the front door, ducking under the tape. The dark living room smells of mold and smoke, but the room feels oddly undisturbed. Everything is covered in a layer of soot and ash, but there’s a book on the coffee table with a soda can next to it. Under the front window is a little bookshelf with some of Cricket’s toys, some dolls, and when I look behind the door, there’s a row of sooty shoes on a mat against the wall. Ashley’s and Cricket’s. Just sitting there, waiting for their owners to return.

The sound of Trent’s voice snaps me away from the heartbreak. I’m about to call his name when I hear someone else, his voice frantic and pitched up a notch. The tone stops me from speaking, unsure what I’m walking into. Quietly, I walk deeper into the house, doing my best to avoid looking too hard when I pass the kitchen, frozen in time with dishes in the sink, a pot on the stove, a glass on the island. They’re beyond the hallway that must lead to the bedrooms. Fading daylight illuminates the hall, and I approach, my ears straining.

“Admit it,” Trent says.

“I told you, I didn’t do it!” the other man all but shrieks. And I glance around the corner to a sight that warns me to run.

The remains of the hallway only span a few feet before it chars and crumbles into dust. I can see that Cricket’s room was first—a few remnants of furniture and scraps of toys litter the ashes, the sight of her fire-eaten bed sending a chill so cold through me, it burns. But beyond, in the space that must have been Ashley’s room, Trent stands, boots planted and back stiff. Cowering in the ashes is a man I’ve never seen before, his hands in the air and eyes trained on the barrel of the pistol in Trent’s fist.

“I know you did, you fucking liar,” Trent says through his teeth.

“The cops have the proof!” the guy rambles. “It wasyou!You were here that night, I saw you myself! Y’all were always fighting, cops were here more than a few times. Why would I burn down my own house?”

The landlord.

But Trent sneers. “I know your bookie, you son of a bitch.”

The landlord pales, his face shocked and sagging. Quietly now, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Three hundred grand,” Trent says, clicking his tongue. “That’s a lot of money.”

“More than the house is worth!”

“Sure, if you hadn’t mortgaged it to the teeth. You already took all the money out of it. But if it burned down, you’d get all that insurance money.” Trent takes a step closer, and the landlord stares up at him in terror, the gun trained on his forehead. “You’ve ruined my life,” he rasps. “You killed Ashley. You took away my little girl. You have this whole fucking town thinking I’m a murderer. But it wasn’t me, was it? It wasyou. Admit it.”

The man is frozen in shock.

---