6 Rainier Drive

Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down beside her. “I was sorry to read about the fire.”

The Cedar Cove Chronicle had published a front-page spread about the arson, and everyone in town had been talking about it all week.

“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.

Anson had said he was leaving and wouldn’t tell her where he was going or when he’d be back. He’d kissed her goodbye and although she’d pleaded with him to stay, to talk things out, he’d disappeared into the night.

The next morning, on one of the worst days of her life, Allison’s mother, Rosie, woke her and said Sheriff Troy Davis needed to ask her a few questions. That was when she’d learned about The Lighthouse. As best she could, Allison answered the sheriff’s questions—except she didn’t tell him everything.

She couldn’t.

Not even her parents knew the full truth.

She dared not tell her dad for fear he’d lose his trust in Anson—and in her.

Allison was grateful for this job at her father’s office. Even though it was only part-time, it distracted her from her troubles for at least a few hours a day.

Her father had tried to help Anson. Allison appreciated the way he’d stepped in and stood at Anson’s side after that fire in the park. Her father had been the only one, too. Anson’s own mother had turned her back on him; Cherry Butler had as much as said that her son deserved whatever he got. Nor did she seem terribly concerned that Anson had now disappeared. According to Cherry, he’d come back when he was ready, and until then, she wasn’t wasting any time worrying about him. Allison was horrified by his mother’s attitude.

If Allison had run away, she knew her parents would never stop looking for her. And they wouldn’t ever give up on her, like Anson’s mother had on him.

But then, that was what Anson had said the night he left—that Allison was lucky. She had parents who loved her and cared about her. Anson claimed no one gave a damn about him. He was wrong. Allison cared. Her parents, too, were concerned about him, although of course their primary goal was to protect Allison.

Some kids were born lucky, Anson had told her, and she was one of them. He wasn’t. He insisted that he had to make his own luck.

As she opened the front door of Smith, Cox and Jefferson, Allison noticed that the reception area was full of clients who’d waited until the last minute to file their taxes. With only four days to go until April fifteenth, she sensed the uneasiness in the room. It was like this every year.

Mary Lou, the receptionist, returned Allison’s smile. “There’s someone to see you in the kitchen,” she said.

For a fleeting moment Allison thought it might be Anson. It couldn’t be, though. The minute he showed up, the sheriff’s office would become involved. Her father would be duty-bound to call them. Because Sheriff Davis suspected Anson would try to contact her at some point, her parents had discussed the possibility and the action they’d have to take. The matter was out of her hands and her father’s, too. Allison had no choice but to accept that.

“Who is it?” she asked.

Another smile appeared on the receptionist’s face. “You’ll just have to check it out for yourself.”

Allison was puzzled, since it wasn’t like Mary Lou to be so mysterious.

The kitchen, located behind the office, wasn’t a real kitchen—more of a lunchroom, with a microwave and a small refrigerator, plus a table and four chairs. Most days, Allison stuck her schoolbooks and purse in a cupboard there. As she walked into the room, she saw a baby carrier—complete with baby-resting on the table.

“Cecilia!” she cried, delighted beyond words. Her father’s assistant had been a good friend to Allison, a better friend than either of her parents would ever know.

Three years earlier, Zach and Rosie Cox had divorced. It had been a terrible time for their family, especially Allison. She’d rebelled, hanging out with the wrong crowd. Her grades had slipped drastically and she’d stopped caring about much of anything.

When her father offered her a part-time job, she wasn’t fooled. She’d been well aware that the only reason he was willing to hire her was to keep an eye on her after school. She’d taken the job, but she’d gone into it with a bad attitude.

Then she discovered she wouldn’t be working for her dad. He’d assigned her to assist Cecilia Randall, and the young navy wife had helped Allison understand her own behavior—what she was doing and why. Cecilia’s parents had divorced when she was ten and she understood the pain Allison was feeling. Cecilia had guided her out of the self-destructive rut into which she’d stumbled.

As soon as Cecilia saw Allison now, she opened her arms wide for a hug. “I decided Aaron could do with a day out in the sunshine,” her friend said, wrapping her arms around Allison and pulling her close. The baby was only three weeks old, so Cecilia hadn’t been out of the office long. It felt like an eternity, though, because so much had happened.

Clasping Allison’s shoulders, Cecilia leaned back and studied her. “You look…”

“Dreadful,” Allison muttered. With everyone else, including her parents, she could pretend, but not with Cecilia. She wasn’t sleeping nights, and she’d grown so weary of carrying this burden of worry and fear.

“Anson,” Cecilia whispered.

Allison nodded.

The baby began to cry, demanding attention. He was loosely covered with the blanket Allison had knit. At first glance she thought Aaron resembled Cecilia’s husband, Ian, but as she studied the baby, Allison saw plenty of his mother in him, too.

“Oh, Cecilia, he’s adorable,” she whispered, giving Aaron her finger to hold. The infant immediately clutched it with one tiny hand, and she was surprised by the strength of his grip.

“He’s already spoiled,” Cecilia said, smiling fondly down on her son. “It’s bad enough that I’m at his beck and call, but you should see Ian. You’d think the sun rose and set on this baby.”

Because Cecilia and Ian’s first baby had died shortly after her birth, Allison knew how precious this child was to her friend. Aaron started to fuss again, more loudly this time. Cecilia lifted him out of the carrier and sat down at the table. “I think I’d better nurse him for a few minutes,” she said, draping the blanket over her shoulder while she unfastened her blouse and expertly arranged her son.

“Sit,” she ordered Allison, gesturing with her head at the chair beside her.

Allison willingly complied. “I’ve wanted to talk to you so badly,” she said. Thankfully, no one had come in search of her. Busy though the staff was, they seemed to know that Allison needed this time with Cecilia, just the two of them.

“You can call me whenever you need to,” Cecilia assured her. “I worried about you when I didn’t hear anything.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Cecilia said as she nursed her infant son. Her gaze was focused on Aaron. With her free hand, she stroked the wisps of hair at his temple.

“Do you remember that when we first met, I was going out with Ryan Wilson?”

“The kid with the paper-clip earring?” Cecilia asked, grinning down at her son as if to suggest she dreaded the day he’d become a teenager. “I believe your father might’ve have mentioned him.”

Allison felt embarrassed now to recall how foolish she’d been. Ryan was trouble, and getting involved with him had been a blatant attempt to pay her parents back for their selfishness—what she saw now as their temporary insanity. Soon after that, her parents had reconciled, and before the summer was out they’d remarried.

“Anson isn’t anything like Ryan.” She shook her head. “People might think he is, but Anson’s a much better person. He’s smart and loyal and kind. Ryan isn’t any of those things. He isn’t even in school anymore. I have no idea where he is.” But she had no idea where Anson was, either…

“I know that,” Cecilia said calmly, “and the reason I do is your father. He would never have gone out of his way to help if he thought Anson would hurt you.”

“He has hurt me,” Allison protested, clenching her fists. “I don’t understand why he ran away.” She wondered if Anson considered what a terrible position he’d put her in. She realized that he didn’t have the luxury of thinking about anyone but himself. He had to escape, had to run. However, he’d left Allison to face his detractors, alone, and she was afraid.

“Sometimes people don’t know how to deal with pain,” Cecilia said, her gaze still on her baby. “The only way they can react is by running.”

“That only makes things worse,” Allison said.

“You’re wise to recognize that,” Cecilia told her. “But unfortunately, Anson hasn’t figured it out. My guess is he’s hurt and confused, and taking off was kind of a knee-jerk reaction to pain.”

“Where would he go?” As far as she knew, Anson didn’t have any family. His mother was a sorry excuse for a parent, and he’d never known his father. Not once had Anson mentioned grandparents or uncles or aunts. She’d racked her brain, trying to work out where he could possibly find a hiding place. She hoped he was safe and had enough to eat.

“Mom and Dad said the minute he contacts me I need to call Sheriff Davis.”

“And they’re right.”

Allison agreed, although she didn’t like it. “Anson is what the sheriff called a person of interest.” She was interested, too, darn it. She had questions of her own.

As soon as Aaron was finished, Cecilia buttoned her blouse and placed the baby over her shoulder, rubbing his back. “Everything’s going to work out, Allison. If Anson is innocent—”

“He is,” she said vehemently.

Cecilia raised her head abruptly, staring at Allison. Her dark eyes seemed to burn straight through her. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

Allison swallowed convulsively.

“I can see from the look in your eyes.” Cecilia paused, waiting. “Allison? Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

“Allison?” she asked again, her voice calm. “You’d better tell me.”

“I…I’m not sure…”

“Why are you afraid?”

Lowering her head, Allison bit her lip. “No one else knows,” she murmured. Last week, when the sheriff had come to speak to her, she’d answered all his questions—to the letter. But he hadn’t asked about this particular thing, and Allison hadn’t volunteered the information.

“You can trust me,” Cecilia added. “You know I want only the best for you.”

Allison nodded. “You won’t tell anyone?” She tried to keep the pleading out of her voice.

“If you ask me not to say anything, I won’t.”

“Not to anyone,” she insisted.

“I promise.”

“Okay.” Allison took a deep breath. “If I tell you…you might think—you might believe Anson set the fire.”

“You’re not withholding evidence, are you?” Cecilia asked urgently. “Because that would change everything.”

“No! I couldn’t do that.”

Cecilia sighed with relief. “Good, because that would make you an accessory.”

Sheriff Davis and her parents had already explained this. “I answered all his questions truthfully,” she said.

Cecilia frowned. “This was a sin of omission, then?”

Allison slowly released her breath. “That night…when Anson knocked on my bedroom window.”

She glanced up and Cecilia nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“We talked, and…and then he came into my room.” Her mother had been really upset when Allison admitted that; she could only imagine what Rosie would say if she knew the rest.

“Yes?”

Allison hesitated again. “He…he was in my room for a few minutes and then he left and when he did—” She nearly choked on her words.

Cecilia leaned closer.

Allison could hardly make herself say it. “I…I could smell smoke.” Her throat was painfully dry. “Not at first, I didn’t, because all I could concentrate on was not letting him leave. I noticed a smell but I didn’t think about it. Later I did, and when I realized what it was, I cried myself to sleep.”

“Anson smelled of smoke?” Cecilia whispered the question.

“Like that other time,” Allison said shakily. “As if…as if he’d been standing close to a bonfire.”

Cecilia’s shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes.

It was just as Allison had feared. Now even Cecilia believed Anson had burned down The Lighthouse.

Three

Arching her back, Maryellen Bowman shifted positions on the sofa, her temporary bed. The family living room had become her prison as the pregnancy moved into its final trimester. Jon was gone for the afternoon with Katie, their three-year-old daughter, so the house was quiet, peaceful. Maryellen knew she should try to rest. The problem was, she couldn’t.

Worries assailed her from all sides. She worried about her unborn baby and this difficult pregnancy. She worried about the pressures her husband was under as he struggled to support their family now that The Lighthouse, where he’d once worked as chef, was gone. She worried about his photographic career, her marriage and all the mistakes she’d made. The worst one had come from the best intentions. Maryellen had tried so hard to heal the rift between Jon and his parents, and it had nearly destroyed her relationship with her husband.

She found it impossible to rest, and yet that was what the doctor had ordered—bed rest for the remainder of this pregnancy. She was forbidden to climb stairs or exert herself in any way.

Yet how could she lie around when so much needed to be done? Leaning against the sofa, she closed her eyes and fought back depression. It’d never been like this when she carried Katie. That pregnancy had been normal in every respect.

Then she’d miscarried their second child. The emotional costs of this third pregnancy had yet to be calculated. Still, they both desperately wanted their child. All Maryellen could do was follow her doctor’s instructions, try not to worry and pray that the baby would be born healthy and whole.

Because she was bedridden, everyone had pitched in. Her mother, especially, helped as much as she could, coming by twice a week with dinner and looking after Katie as often as her own busy life would allow. This gave both Jon and Maryellen a much-needed break. She hated to intrude on her mother, since Grace and Cliff were newly married and just now setting up house together. Grace had her own adjustments to make without taking on Maryellen’s problems.

The phone rang and Maryellen grabbed it, eager for any distraction.

“Hello,” she said, hoping her voice disguised the self-pity she’d fallen into.

“It’s Ellen Bowman. Is everything all right?”

Her mother-in-law’s sympathy nearly overwhelmed her, bringing her close to tears. Maryellen felt dreadful, about as low as she’d been in her entire life, other than during her brief first marriage. “I’m okay,” she managed to tell her.

“And Jon?” Ellen asked hesitantly.

“He’s…” Maryellen was willing to stretch the truth about her own state of mind and health, but she couldn’t lie about her husband’s. “Not well, Ellen. He’s not doing well at all.”

Her mother-in-law grew quiet. “Joseph and I thought that might be the case. I know Jon’s angry. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with either of us. His attitude’s killing his father. But I know you’ve tried to talk to him, and we both appreciate your efforts more than we can say.”

Maryellen had paid a high price for interfering between Jon and his parents and she dared not do it again. She and Jon had actually separated for a time, just before the miscarriage, because of her attempts to effect a reconciliation. Afterward, they’d sidestepped the whole issue. But earlier in the month, soon after she’d begun her regimen of bed rest, Jon had conceded that they didn’t have any choice other than to ask his family for help.

Yet he hadn’t made the phone call, hadn’t contacted them in any way, at least not that Maryellen knew about. Instead, they struggled from day to day until she feared their lives were about to implode. Neither Jon nor Maryellen could continue living with this constant, unrelenting stress.

“Jon was going to phone you,” Maryellen said. “He told me.”

“He was?” Hope elevated Ellen’s voice.

“He hasn’t, because, well, because he’s afraid, I think, and proud. Too proud.”

Ellen laughed softly. “He’s like his father in that regard.”

Maryellen smiled and tried to relax. This nervous tension was bad for the baby, bad for her, bad all around. At her last appointment, Dr. DeGroot had emphasized the importance of staying calm. When he’d said she should try to keep her life stress-free, she’d nearly laughed out loud.

“Joseph and I ordered the Cedar Cove Chronicle mailed to us here in Oregon,” Ellen said, “and we read about the fire at The Lighthouse. We know Jon went back to work there.”

“Yes, it’s terrible news.” Without his job as chef, Jon was left with only his photography earnings to support the family. His work was displayed in a Seattle gallery and sold well, but the money he made wasn’t nearly enough to cover their living expenses, particularly now that Maryellen no longer had medical insurance.

“Jon’s not working anywhere else, then?”

“His photographs are selling nicely,” Maryellen felt obliged to tell her. “He’s so talented.” It was through his art that Maryellen had first come to know Jon Bowman. He’d brought his photographs for display at the Harbor Street Gallery, where she was employed as manager. They were among the most popular in the gallery.

Unlike some of the other artists, Jon preferred to keep a low profile. It wasn’t until after Katie was born that she’d learned this man she loved had spent time in prison. In order to save their younger son, his parents had lied and Jon had been sentenced for a crime he’d never committed.

“Joseph and I want to help,” Ellen insisted. “What can we do?”

“I’m not sure…” She didn’t feel comfortable stating the obvious—that she needed someone here, in the house, looking after Katie, preparing meals, cleaning.

“There’s something wrong,” Ellen said sharply. “What is it?”

“I’m—I’m having problems with the pregnancy,” she admitted. “I’m on complete bed rest.” The baby gave her a hard kick as if to remind her.

“What about Katie? You can’t possibly be taking care of her if you’re confined to bed.”

“I’m not. I can’t. She’s with her father,” Maryellen said. Jon was doing his best to sell his work and take care of their child, run the household, and everything else.