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The car was on fire.Leander’scar was on fire. Thick, black smoke rolled out from the interior. The windows were completely shattered and flames danced on the inside.
I lurched toward it anyway. The closer I got, the worse the smell became. Burning hair and charred flesh. Scorched metal and heated motor oil.
Covering my nose with my forearm, I staggered toward the rear, trying to see into the backseat. Something. Anything. But it was impossible to see through the wall of fire.
I sank to my knees, staring at the car. I saw it, yet I didn’t believe it. Icouldn’tbelieve it, even with the unbearable heat on my face.
People yelled behind me. All around me. They hadn’t stopped yelling.
Vaguely, I thought I heard someone shout my name. I didn’t bother moving, but somehow the ground beneath me shifted. Someone grabbed me, dragging me away.
It was Elijah.
He hauled me to my feet and spun me by the shoulders, pushing me forward, toward the gravesite and away from the car.
We were only a few steps away when another explosion knocked us forward.
Elijah recovered first, pulling me to my feet and asking me questions. I stared blankly at him. He may as well have been speaking Greek for as much as I understood.
Getting nowhere, he resorted to grabbing my sleeve and leading the way. There was a little cluster of people near Cole’s grave: Jake, Madison, and Gertrude, the little old lady who ran the historical society with an iron fist.
Jake knelt on the ground, his head bowed. When we got a little closer, he turned toward us, shouting something to Elijah. I couldn’t hear what. I was too focused on the lump of black behind him.
It was Leander.
Sitting upright, Leander was propped against a headstone, holding his arm. Gertrude stooped beside him, pressing an embroidered handkerchief to the side of his face. Jake was talking to him, but Leander didn’t respond.
Shoving past Elijah, I sprinted the rest of the way. Jake wisely got out of my way when I collapsed to my knees, seizing Leander in a hug.
Blood dripped from his ear, along with a dozen tiny cuts on his face. His left arm, cradled against his chest, was covered in flash burns from his hand down his forearm. His suit was destroyed but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece, at least on the outside.
Gertrude said something, but I ignored her.
“Where’s Olivia?” I asked, holding on to a thread of hope. By the grace of God, he made it out alive. So did she. She had to. “Leander?”
Leander blinked slowly, lost in his daze.
I repeated the question louder, making sure to enunciate.
Still, he said nothing. He did, however, lift his right hand and point a shaking finger at the car.
The last bit of hope snapped completely.
Closing my eyes, I buried my face against his unburned shoulder and exhaled an unsteady breath.
Of course, I was furious Olivia was dead. I was sick. Heartbroken.
But like the asshole I was, I thanked whatever god there was that Leander was still alive. If I had to trade every single life in this cemetery for his, I would — mine included.
32
Bennett
They say tragedy has a way of bringing people together. In some ways, it was true. For the first time in the history of Easton, the town actually sympathized with the Welles family. Easton PD, Leander’s historic nemesis, displayed an altogether different side following the explosion. Even Chief Albrecht showed up to offer his sympathies.
At the hospital we learned Olivia and two other people were dead — our driver and one of Cole’s construction workers. Three others, including Leander, were wounded. Meanwhile the rest of us were in utter shock.
Leander’s physical wounds were mostly superficial. Nurses plucked crap from the explosion out of his face and carefully wrapped his burned skin. His perforated eardrum, they said, would heal over time, as would the concussion and sprained wrist. The doctor told me all of this with an encouraging smile and a pat to the arm. It was well and good, but it wasn’t his body I was most worried about.
