I froze. I didn’t know whether to look through the window or call my Mom. I crept to the front entrance. Tentatively, I inched the drapes aside a fraction, and on seeing my visitor, I yanked open the door and flung myself at him.
“Riley! I’m so glad you’re here.” I pulled him inside and locked the door behind us. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
“At intermission I couldn’t find you. Sasha said you were home alone suffering with my cold. I felt bad and decided to come over and keep you company. By the looks of it, I made the right choice.” He smiled.
“Quick, come over here.” I led him to the couch. The laptop was open on the coffee table. “Did you know Mr. Jenkins lived in the same house he does now when he was a child?”
“No, but why is that important?”
“Look.” I pointed to the article. “When he was seven years old he saw another kid run screaming out of this house. Our house. The boy’s mother had died, right here.” I gestured to where we sat, and shivered. “She was an alcoholic and drug addict, who had overdosed. Mr. Jenk—Simon—called for his own mother, who ran into the house next door and found the woman dead on the couch. Simon saw the body too.” I forced a deep breath. “The boy whose mother died was Wayne. Wayne Rickers. The man who’s dating my mother.”
“Oh man,” Riley said.
“He’s been visiting us, having dinner with us, getting close to my Mom, and he never even thought about mentioning that he spent his early childhood in this very house?” I stood, fuming, and then sat as dizziness overtook me.
“You okay?”
I nodded. “What kind of morbid person does that?”
Riley ignored my question as he read the article then clicked on page two, which I hadn’t read yet. “Ah, Sav?” he said, eyeing me with concern. He pointed to the end of the article:
After Mrs. Jenkins found the body and called police, she tried to take young Wayne out of the room, but the boy insisted on staying with his dead mother. According to Mrs. Jenkins, Wayne stood by the dying flames in the fireplace, stoking them, and repeatedly mumbling that he needed to keep the fire burning for his mother, that he couldn’t let it die out. “Mommy was sick. She told me I had to put three big logs on the fire to keep it burning while I was at school, to make her feel better. I did my best. I made the biggest fire I could. She said I was a good boy for helping her keep warm,” the now orphan reportedly said. “If I can make the fire big again, she might wake up. She might not be dead anymore.” The traumatized child was eventually removed from the house and placed in foster care.
“Holy crap.” I held a shaking hand to my mouth. My father’s words that night, when he’d warned me about someone, reverberated in my ears: “The flames, he needs them. He needs to keep the fire burning. For her. For the one he lost.”
Wayne. Wayne needed to keep the fire burning. As some deluded way to keep the memory of his mother alive.
Riley grabbed my arm. “Do you think he could be—”
“It has to be him. Oh my God.” I told him about my dad’s warning and pointed to the exact same words in the newspaper article.
All fatigue and sickness drained from my body. The only heat and chills overtaking me were from the realization that my mother was involved with a messed-up criminal. And even worse…
“Where is he now?” Riley asked.
Fear churned in my belly. “He’s with Mom, helping backstage at the play. And the whole town is there!” My hands shook and my breath came in short bursts.
Riley stood and yanked me toward the door. “We have to go, now!”