Even though it seemed like every person I had a conversation with ended up dead, it didn’t dawn on me that Ethel’s murder was connected to me until I was nearly home. I smelled something odd in the air and then, still six blocks away, saw the plumes of smoke billowing into the sky.
Two block away I began running.
My entire block was lined with fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
In front of my building, three giant fire engines were parked and firemen stood on tall ladders shooting water out of hoses. Two ambulances were parked nearby.
A crowd was gathered across the street from my building. Smoke poured from the top floor and flames licked out of the windows. Django and Thanh-Thanh.
I raced toward the police tape and was stopped by strong arms.
It was just like in the movies — a screaming hysterical woman being held back by a firefighter as she tried to fight her way into the burning building.
“Please! You have to help me. I live here. Is there anybody still in the building?” I was wild-eyed and my voice was shrill, but the man looked me in the eyes so calmly, I felt tension ease from my body for just a second. But then I began fighting again.
“We’re trying to determine that right now,” he said. “Wait over there. Our public information officer is gathering some details and will share them as soon as she can.”
I walked closer in a daze, staying away from the small crowd of spectators. I slumped onto the curb and stared at a small pile of cigarette butts swirling in a bit of wind.
There was no hiding from it. People were dying because of me. If Ethel had been murdered like the woman said, it had to be because of me. It was my fault. I knew it in my bones.
There was no avoiding it. Thanh-Thanh. Trang. And that poor damn dog. I was trying to save him from an asshole master and instead sent him to a painful death.
I watched as firefighters rushed out of the building. I heard a familiar bark and raised my head. Django. And Thanh-Thanh on the other end of the leash. She was frowning as she watched the building. Relief shot through me.
I whistled and Thanh-Thanh’s face lit up in a smile. How could she smile? She was homeless. Probably everything she owned was destroyed. But she raced over with short, waddling steps and embraced me, talking rapidly in Vietnamese. By her gestures, I figured out that Thanh-Thanh had taken Django for a walk so they’d been gone when the fire started. Thank God.
Django wasn’t interested in me scratching his belly. His ears were up and his eyes on the building. Small whining sounds came rumbling from his throat.
After a few minutes, a small crowd began to gather a fireman with a clipboard. Thanh-Thanh and I walked over. The fire man gave us the details.
Nobody died in the fire.
Trang had kept the building up to code and had smoke alarms installed in every apartment and in the hallway on every floor. Thank God. Then the fire captain said that it was arson. Somebody had set fire to the top floor apartment — mine.
They were investigating, but it was clear the fire was not accidental.
I was relieved nobody was injured or killed, but sickened that all these people had lost their homes. It was my fault. It was catastrophic for them. Unlike me, they’d lost all their material goods in the world. I’d always had something to fall back on. In a bank account.
I watched small groups huddling and crying. Red Cross workers showed up to pass out cards and tell all my neighbors — about a dozen lived in the six apartments — where they could sleep. These people had lost everything they owned. The fire captain said later, once the building was secured, firefighters would either let residents in to recover belongings or bring out any remaining possessions themselves for residents to sift through.
One thing was clear: Whoever was trying to kill me knew I was still in San Francisco.
I could easily buy more clothes and belongings. I had my gun. I could replace everything. Except one thing: The box that had belonged to my mother.
Those love letters my parents had exchanged seemed like my last link to them on this earth. And now they were gone. I had no home. No money. No nothing.
It seemed like it could get no worse.
A police car came to a screech with a dark sedan on its tail. Good. I hoped they had a lead on the arsonist. Because obviously, that was who was trying to kill me. Took them long enough to get here, though. Like the arsonist would be standing around.
“Little bit late to be in a hurry,” I said, looking up at the smoldering remains of my building. It was still standing, but probably everything inside had been destroyed. I’m sure the building would have to be gutted.
I didn’t notice the commotion that started in the crowd until some shiny black shoes were on the pavement in front of me and Django.
“Gia Santella?”
I looked up, warily.
“Monterey P.D. You’re going to have to come with us. You’re under arrest for the murder of Vittorio Guidi.”