Free Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis

The sides of my throat squeeze together like there are invisible hands around my neck. Then my heart pounds back into my chest. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.
    I thought if I ever found out who killed Doppler it would be like something on the news. Someone who was passing through, someone who I’d never get to meet. A person I never heard of who got caught doing something they shouldn’t.
    Willis leans forward, one hand on the door frame. He grins a snaggle-toothed smirk. “That Buck—he’s dirty. I know it. He got that dope Willard to fix his van for him. Helped him cover up the whole thing.”
    “How do you know? I mean, how do you know for sure?” I don’t want to believe him. For anything this town’s worth I don’t want to believe him.
    Willis leans back and his tone rises as if he’s annoyed. “I done told you that. I’ve got ears all over this town.” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to reply.
    “Prove it.” I fight to hold back the wetness in my eyes. The rest of my body burns like I’m either going to explode or go into meltdown.
    “Shit, son. I ain’t got to prove anything. You already believe me. I can see that plain as dirt.” He shifts from one leg to the other and says, “Now you go on and do what you got to do. I won’t stop you.”
    I turn away, knuckles bound over the steering wheel. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. With one more watery glance at Willis, I slam the shifter back into drive and floor it.
    The thrashed motor belly-aches the whole way down the road. I’m a missile as I pass the trailer park, the holler, and the mill. I curse all the lone houses I see on my way past the outskirts of town.
    Letting out every obscenity I know, I pound my fist into the dash until the display on the radio goes dead. Buck? Buck Armstrong? That sloppy son of a bitch? All this time he’s been walking around, a free man. Never accused of nothing.
    A cloudy film of the last twelve hours fills my head. Getting beaten. Breaking into the hardware. Setting the fire. Then years past creep in—times when Doppler was still here. Fishing. Taking swigs of his whiskey. Collecting cans along the roadside. I drive toward his place without really thinking about it.
    Another ten minutes and I’m heading down the loneliest, most forgotten road in Halgraeve. No houses, no grain silos. Just a stringy, barbed wire fence that runs for miles.
    When I reach the narrow drive, I’m done crying. Whatever’s inside me is just an ember now, but I’ve got all the aggression in the world to fuel that back up to a raging flame. I stop short of getting the car stuck and leave it near the road.
    Trudging down the unplowed drive is a chore; the snow’s knee high. I can just make out Doppler’s old shack at the end. One side is close to being buried with all the drifting. The slate shingles hide under a thick blanket.
    It’s really just a two-room cabin with a small workshop on the one end. Doppler kept junk he collected in there along with rusty old tools. I know the lock was busted on that door and so I start there.
    Like I expect, the latch is loose and there’s nothing to keep me from getting in. Wedging enough room between the snow and door is another thing entirely, but with a few violent surges I’m able to squeeze past.
    Inside, I trip over old gas cans, ramming my left shin into the lip of one of them. They don’t budge because they’re full. Beyond them lies a workbench buried under boxes and paint cans. I remember smoking out here a lot.
    The inside door is locked, but that hasn’t stopped me all day so I heave into it with a numb shoulder. It must be the sturdiest thing in the house because it won’t give. I resort to some of the forgotten tools lying nearby to destroy the latch but don’t succeed.
    I give up and exit, marching around to the back of the house to jimmy the rear window with a screwdriver. The old wooden casing slips and I’m in, head first. The dusty kitchen