“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
