Page 119 of Hot Knot Summer
Something in his tone, urgent but not panicked, penetrates the fog of my anxiety. I press my lips together, wrapping my arms tighter around myself like I can physically hold the pieces together.
“We found the candle,” Levi continues, opening the folder with deliberate care. “But there’s something very strange about where it was located.”
He pulls out his phone, clicks it a few times, then hands it to me with a photo. My hands shake as I accept the phone. It takes me a moment to make sense of what I’m seeing, the charred remains of what used to be the cabin’s blackened fireplace beams and ash-covered debris creating a hellscape ofdestruction.
“I don’t understand what I’m looking at,” I admit, squinting at the image.
“Look closer,” River says, moving to stand behind my chair. His hand settles on my shoulder. “See that area under what used to be the far wall?”
I follow his pointing finger to a section of the photo where fallen timber has created a sort of cave. Nestled in the shadows, almost hidden from view, is a partially melted glass jar surrounded by debris. Atlas is studying it over my shoulder, too.
“That’s the candle,” Levi explains quietly. “Or what’s left of it.”
“But that’s...” I frown, trying to reconcile what I’m seeing with my crystal-clear memory of that night. “That’s not where I put it when I had it lit.”
“Where should it have been?” Atlas asks.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to relive those final moments in the cabin. “On the coffee table. Right in the center, on one of those little wooden coasters shaped like leaves. I remember being so careful about it, worried about wax dripping onto the wood.”
“The coffee table was on the complete opposite side of the room,” River says quietly. “Nowhere near where we found the candle.”
My eyes snap open, and the world tilts sideways. “What are you saying?”
“We’re saying the candle didn’t start the fire from where you left it,” Levi explains, reaching over to the phone still in my hand and flicking to the next image. “Someone movedit.”
“But who would... why would...” The words come out as barely a whisper.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Atlas says.
I glance down at the photo, and this one is a close-up of the melted candle jar. The glass has partially fused with whatever surface it was sitting on.
“But there’s something else,” Levi continues. “Something that doesn’t make any sense.”
I study the image, noting how the heat has warped everything beyond recognition. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“Look at what’s underneath it,” River says.
I squint at the photo, holding it closer to my face. There’s definitely something beneath the melted remains of the candle—fabric, by the look of it. The fire has partially fused it to the glass and whatever surface it was sitting on.
“Is that...” I start to ask, but Levi is already reaching for his laptop.
“We managed to get a clearer shot before the investigators moved everything,” he says, flicking to the next image on the phone.
Even charred and partially melted, the pattern is unmistakable—tiny gold moths swirling through inky blue fabric, their delicate wings caught mid-flight.
“That pattern looks familiar?” I whisper, staring at the screen in growing confusion.
“Where?” Levi asks.
I shake my head, studying every detail of the design. “I’ve never owned anything with that pattern,but I’ve seen it before. Those moths, that specific shade of blue…”
“Could it have been something that was already in the cabin?” River suggests. “Maybe curtains or a throw pillow?”
“The investigators would have documented everything that belonged to the property owner,” Levi says, scrolling through his notes with methodical precision. “This fabric isn’t listed in their inventory.”
“So, if you didn’t leave the candle there, someone else was in the cabin,” Atlas says, his voice going hard and dangerous. “Someone who moved Emma’s candle.”
I sink into my chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. “You think someone did this on purpose? You think someone actually wanted to frame me?” I keep studying the screen, at those golden moths frozen in their final dance, and suddenly the memory flares over me.
