Free On Blue Falls Pond by Susan Crandall

window. Maybe it would have been better if Glory hadn’t come back at all.
    Thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding a break in a long string of sweltering days. Eric closed his office door. Storms usually meant lightning strikes and car accidents, maybe even a flash flood. It looked as though a busy day loomed ahead for the department. If he was going to have an uninterrupted hour, this would be it.
    Hands on his hips, he circled his desk, staring at the file folder lying between his untouched coffee and a stack of mail that needed his attention. It had been over a year and a half since he’d opened this particular file. He should leave well enough alone.
    He inched closer, then paused, staring at the folder as if it were a wild animal and he was prey. No quick movements, no posture of fear, or it’d all be over.
    Slowly he reached out and settled the fingertips of one hand on the folder, but went no further. There was no sensible reason to open it. He’d run a by-the-book investigation. The report was complete. The state fire marshal had signed off on it. End of story.
    The tab read: 11632 LAUREL CREEK ROAD . It sounded like an idyllic place for a newlywed couple to build their storybook cottage. And that’s what Andrew and Glory Harrison’s house had appeared to be, something from a fairy tale—of course, it was the updated,
Southern Living
version of happily-ever-after, spacious and new, nearer castle than cottage. It had been tucked into the fold of a wooded hillside. In Eric’s mind’s eye he could still see it: a white-painted Carolina house, with steeply pitched gables, forest green shutters, and a deep verandah with red geraniums in huge pots flanking the front door. A brick drive led to a quaint carriage house garage in the rear.
    Jill had lusted after the Harrisons’ house, had asked Eric to drive past every time they were on that side of town. Which was probably why he could recall it so vividly now; that, and the fact that those drive-bys often led to a point of contention. Jill had always taken notes and clipped magazine articles, planning on how they would build
their
new house.
    As far as Eric had been concerned, the 1920s crafts-style bungalow they owned (without a gargantuan mortgage), set on quiet, tree-lined Montgomery Avenue, left nothing to be desired. It had a big fenced yard. It had hardwood floors. It had character.
    Jill had said it had other people’s dirt.
    Instead of the old adage: location, location, location, Jill’s motto had been: new, new, new. That had been part of their undoing, Jill’s overriding desire to have the best, her worry over everyone else’s opinion of her house, her car, her clothes. He’d never been able to figure out where her insecurity had come from, but it had loomed larger with each passing day of their marriage. She had refused to quit work after Scott was born, as they’d originally agreed—and not because she was a career-minded woman, but because she’d wanted that house more than she wanted anything in her life.
    Eric closed his eyes and forced Jill away from his thoughts. Best to keep focused on one bothersome issue at a time.
    He drew again on the memory of the Harrisons’ house.
Idyllic
; nothing described it better. Only the discreet sign noting the security company that guarded the house had marred the image of peaceful perfection.
    But the storybook cottage had turned into a house of horrors. And Eric couldn’t ignore his suspicion that it had begun to transform long before the night of the fire. He recalled one day in particular:
    It was Eric’s first day back on duty after Scott’s birth. Jill called with a list of things for him to pick up at the drugstore on his way home. It was only late afternoon, four-thirty or so, when he pulled into the Walgreens at the edge of town.
    He didn’t waste time with a cart; he figured he could handle the five items easily enough. Anxious to get home after eight long hours of separation from his