Cold Fire [SAMPLE]

[42]

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

We talk for a while about nothing in particular until my stomach growls and we head downstairs. On the way to the kitchen, I pass the living room and spot Rand watching television, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. When he sees me, he nods. It’s funny how such a small movement can convey so much meaning. In a single gesture, he’s saying hello, asking if I’m okay and commending me for getting on with my life when others would give up.

I flash a smile – small, quick and crammed with as much meaning as his nod.

In the kitchen, I pull out the things I’ll need, barely even thinking about where everything is. In such a small amount of time, I’ve grown incredibly familiar with Rand’s house and everything in it – so much so that it almost feels like home. Almost.

But nowhere has ever felt like home. Not the house where my father currently resides, doing god-knows-what. Not the house my real mother lives in, along with the closest friend I’ve ever had. And not the houses I’ve lived in previously, scattered across the globe. The only place that’s ever felt even remotely close to a home was the farm I lived on when I was still a relatively ordinary girl. And back then, I was too young to remember anything.

With my lunch made, I move to sit down on the couch with Caden and Rand, my eyes following their gaze and landing on the television. I freeze, suddenly forgetting all about my stomach.

On the screen, film footage of Kira’s house is being displayed, a reporter’s voice relaying the supposed events of the night in the background, and her words make me feel sick.

“… In other news, a sixteen-year-old girl went missing at a house party on Monday night. Lauren Evans, the teenager at the centre of the mystery, was last seen at the house at 9:30 last night after a woman wielding a gun stormed the party. Evidence of gunshots lie in the living room but neighbours don’t report hearing anything but smashing and shouting. It’s unknown what really happened, but investigators are looking into it and have deduced that Lauren was shot, as can be seen by the blood at the scene of the crime. Witnesses who were there on the night tell of the woman in her early thirties who had stalked into the house.”

Suddenly, the screen cuts to a shot of Kira, a pained expression on her face as she relays the story to reporters. “I was just talking to Lauren when all of a sudden this lady came from nowhere and slammed her into the wall. People started screaming and I’m pretty sure I saw a knife or a gun or something and I panicked.” She looks down as tears start to escape her eyes. “I guess I thought she’d make it out okay.”

Then her face disappears and we’re faced with images of the investigators taping off the crime scene. The reporter continues. “Several others claimed to see Lauren later that night, coming out of the front door looking stunned, and it is believed that she stumbled into the woods by the side of the house. Police have sent out search teams and are scouring the state parkland as we spea–”

I switch off the television, unable to listen to another word, and we descend into silence.

“They took her,” I say, splintering the heavy atmosphere with my angry words. “They killed her and then they took her and now no one except us will ever know what really happened.”

No one has anything to say in response. The two of them just stare unseeingly, their eyes focusing on insignificant spots on the floor and wall.

The fury of the night is returning to me in tiny portions, and I feel my body becoming restless, aching for movement and action. I want to do something. I want to fix this mess I’m in and get revenge for the deaths of those I cared for. And more than anything else at this moment of time, I want to get Lauren back. I want her parents and friends to know the truth, so they aren’t haunted by all the ‘what if’s that I have come to know so well.