Chapter 6 - INTO THE SMOKE
The heat hit us the moment we reached the stone steps leading down to the cellar.
The air was thick with the suffocating smell of scorched wood and gasoline. Smoke curled along the low, vaulted ceilings like living shadows.
"I can't go down there!" Camille coughed, pulling back against my grip, her eyes wide with terror. "The fumes—we'll choke!"
"Your mother poured the accelerant, Camille!" I yelled over the crackle of burning timbers, shoving a wet kitchen towel into her hands. "Cover your mouth and move!"
We stumbled down the stone steps. The floor was slippery with water from a burst pipe. At the far end of the cellar corridor, orange flames were already licking the wooden support beams surrounding the old nursery storage lockers.
And standing right beside the main gas line junction, clutching an iron crowbar and an open gas canister, was Eleanor Whitmore.
Her face was smeared with ash, her expensive coat scorched at the hem. She looked completely unhinged.
"Mother, stop!" Camille cried out through her towel. "Adrian knows everything! The police are already on their way! If you blow the gas line, you'll kill us all!"
Eleanor spun around, her eyes wild beneath the smoke. "You fool! You weak, sentimental little fool! If those ledgers burn, there is no forensic evidence! Without the paper trail, it's just the word of an eight-year-old child against mine!"
"Elizabeth recorded you, Eleanor!" I shouted, stepping forward into the heat, keeping my flashlight beam fixed on her face. "We found the cassette tape in the South Boston storage locker! We know you tampered with the brake cylinder on Elizabeth’s sedan!"
Eleanor froze. The iron crowbar dipped slightly in her hand. "The tape was supposed to be destroyed three years ago."
"Camille kept it," I said, taking a calculated gamble. I looked at Camille. "Didn't you, Camille? You kept the tape as insurance against your own mother, in case she ever tried to cut you out of the trust."
Camille flinched, but she didn't deny it.
"You betrayed me?" Eleanor snarled, turning her fury toward her own daughter. "I built this family! I sacrificed my life to pull us out of bankruptcy, and you kept a noose around my neck?"
"You killed Elizabeth!" Camille screamed back, the truth finally tearing out of her throat like a sob. "You told me it was an accident! I didn't find that tape until six months after the funeral! You made me an accessory to murder, Mother!"
"And you enjoyed the lifestyle, didn't you?" Eleanor hissed, raising the crowbar. "You liked the designer dresses! You liked the Romano name! Now get out of my way before I drop this match!"
In Eleanor’s left hand, an antique silver lighter snapped open. A yellow flame danced inches above the gasoline-soaked floorboards.
"No!" Camille screamed, throwing herself forward.
She didn't run toward the stairs. She threw her entire body straight into her mother.
Both women crashed heavily into the stone wall. The lighter flew from Eleanor's fingers, skittering across the wet concrete and splashing into a pool of water near the drain, the flame hissing out in an instant.
"Rachel! The wheel!" Camille choked out, pinning her mother's arms against the floor as the older woman clawed violently at her face.
I didn't waste a second. I lunged toward the heavy red iron wheel of the main gas valve.
It was scalding hot.
I wrapped my apron around both hands and threw my entire body weight into the turn. The rusted iron groaned. My muscles burned; blisters formed across my palms through the fabric, but I refused to let go. I thought of Olivia’s bruised little hand. I thought of Elizabeth’s lullaby.
With a deafening clank, the valve snapped shut.
The hissing of the gas main ceased immediately.
Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into the cellar door at the top of the stairs.
Marco burst through the smoke, followed by two armed guards with chemical fire extinguishers. White foam sprayed across the burning storage lockers, smothering the flames in a hiss of suffocating steam.
Within two minutes, Eleanor Whitmore was face down on the wet stone, her wrists bound tightly behind her back with industrial zip-ties.
Camille sat against the wall, bleeding from a scratch across her cheek, her burgundy gown ruined, sobbing uncontrollably into her soot-covered hands.
Marco walked over to the corner of the room, shining his tactical light onto the top shelf of the storage rack that had been spared by the foam.
He reached up and pulled down a large, flat package wrapped in oilcloth.
"Rachel," Marco said, handing it to me. "I think this belongs to the little girl."
I wiped the ash from my eyes and carefully peeled back the cloth.
May you like
Beneath the canvas was a pastel portrait of a four-year-old Olivia sitting at the cherrywood piano, smiling up at her mother. And written across the bottom in Elizabeth’s elegant hand were four simple words:
For my daughter: Never let them take your song.
