Free Hush Hush #2 by Anneliese Vandell Page A

group of women swarm around me, moving in to examine the photograph. One of them says something, but in my panic-stricken haze, I can’t hear the words. The rest of the women burst in giggles, totally unaware of the black storm descending around me. Of the heavy, suffocating weight that fills my lungs. The thinning breath. The panic setting in.
    It’s only after I shove my way to the door and stumble onto the sidewalk when I finally start to breathe again. I gulp in the cool afternoon air as my mind casts about desperately, trying to process what’s just happened.  
    What does Miranda do in this situation, when the person she’s conning tells her that they’re onto her?
    Is this it?  
    Is it over?
    No. It can’t be, I think wildly. There are still so many questions left unanswered.
    My hands tremble as they dig inside my purse for my car keys. Eric and Kimberly Benz. They may still be too frightened to speak with me, but I’ll do whatever it takes to convince them. I’ll give them my real name, my whole story—whatever they need. I need to learn what they know.  

    I know that something is wrong before I’ve even arrived. A thick, gray haze hangs low over the street. The air smells acrid; I wrinkle my nose.
      As I turn onto the familiar block where the Benzes live, that’s when I see it. My foot slams on the brakes.
    The Benzes’ little green cottage is wreathed in flames. The fire violently spits out red-hot embers into the air. Black fumes billow up to the sky, noxious and thick. There’s a crackling sound, a kind of sizzling that I can hear even from here—the sound of scorching wood, of a lifetime of memories vanishing into smoke.
    The sound of sirens can be heard faintly in the distance. The Benzes’ neighbors have spilled out onto the street, but there’s nothing anyone can do but watch helplessly. My eyes scan desperately for the familiar faces of Eric and Kimberly, but they’re nowhere to be found.
    But that could mean anything, right? They could have found shelter at a neighbor’s house. Maybe they’re inside right now, clutching mugs of tea and waiting for the fire department to arrive
    A smaller, darker voice pipes up in the back of my head. Or maybe they’ve been hurt…
    A shiver runs through me. I gaze up at the scene as a sense of dread swells inside of me. As clearly and suddenly as though someone spoke into my ear, I know the truth of what’s happened here.
    The Hawthornes know they talked.

8

    “April, slow down. What are you saying? What’s on fire?” Riley says, blinking from behind his glasses. He’s sitting behind the counter in his bookstore, a hardcover now laying forgotten in his lap. A bearded man perusing the “New Inventory” section stares blankly at me, apparently unsure what to make of the girl who’s just slammed through the front door.
    I move in closer and lower my voice, so that only Riley can hear. “The Benzes’ house. I just drove by and it’s on fire, Riley. The Hawthornes are the cause, I’m certain of it.”
    He leaps to his feat. The book slides off his lap and falls to the ground with a thud.  
    “Are they all right? Kim and Eric, I mean?” he asks urgently.
    “I don’t know,” I say, feeling helpless. “On the way over here, I called the Urgent Care on Harrison Avenue and told them I was a relative, but they said they didn’t have any patients named Benz. Same with the Tulane Medical Center. And East Jefferson General Hospital.” Tears fill my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. My voice drops to a whisper. “And I called the county morgue. They’re not there, either.”
    “Maybe they’re with family, somewhere safe,” Riley says hopefully, but his tone falters.
    “Maybe,” I echo. “But God, Riley, what if they’re not? What if something happened to them? What if the Hawthornes have them?”
    Riley glances up at the customer, who is steadily inching closer to us—a painstaking attempt to listen in on the conversation.