slightest hint of irritation in Marion’s voice. I was varying the routine, it seemed. I wondered how frowned upon that sort of thing was. But in any case, a few moments later I was sitting with the morning paper and a steaming cup of coffee, reading the day’s news, so it couldn’t have been too big a breach in protocol.
As I turned the page from the local headlines to the national news, a photograph caught my eye. And then the headline above it made my blood run cold.
“Bishop House Burns to the Ground. Arson Suspected.”
My house?
I held my breath and scanned the story:
Last night, Chicago firefighters were called to the Lincoln Park home of Jeremy Bishop, a.k.a. the Midwestern Bernie Madoff. Neighbors reported the house had gone up in flames around 2 A.M. The house was engulfed by the time they arrived. Firefighters are calling it a total loss.
Bishop died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound three months ago, but his wife was believed to have been in the home.
I dropped the paper as though it, too, were on fire and stared at the page on the table. Something about the photo had caught my eye and wouldn’t let go. I bent down and squinted to get a better look and… could it be? I gasped aloud when I realized what I was seeing. In the crowd on the sidewalk in front of the smoldering wreck that had been my home, a familiar face. Adrian’s.
I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up, turning to the window, my heart beating so loudly that I was sure the cardinals perched on the pine tree outside could hear it. A flurry of conflicting thoughts were running through my mind, not one of them gelling into anything that I could use to make sense of what I had just learned. My house had burned to the ground and Adrian had been standing outside of it. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with that information. I felt like I had just slipped into a nightmare. Or one of Mrs. Sinclair’s stories.
Was it really him? I wasn’t sure, but it certainly looked like him. Could he possibly have… I couldn’t even finish the thought. Surely he didn’t. He couldn’t have been the arsonist.
Although… He did promise to make me disappear from my old life. Had he taken it one step further?
I crumpled the newspaper and threw it into the garbage just as Marion appeared with breakfast on a tray.
“Mrs. Sinclair will be joining you in just a moment.” She furrowed her brow at me. “Are you all right, Miss Julia? You look rather pale.”
“I’m fine!” I said, a little too loudly, and reached for my coffee cup. I set it down quickly when I saw how badly my hand was shaking.
“Has it gone cold?” Marion asked, still staring at me with a quizzical look in her eyes.
“Yes” was all I could manage to say.
She set the dishes on the sideboard, and picked up the coffee pot and poured some of the steaming liquid into a new cup. “Hereyou are,” she said, handing it to me and taking my old cup away. “Lukewarm coffee is just ghastly, isn’t it?”
“Ghastly.” I nodded, holding the new cup to my lips.
She pushed the door open to head back into the kitchen but stopped before going through it and turned to me. “Please let me know if you need anything, Miss Julia,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “Anything.” And then she was gone.
I had the urge to get up and run away, to somewhere, anywhere that I knew was safe. But where was I to go? So I just slumped back into my chair at the table and sat there, stunned. The house I shared with Jeremy, a pile of ashes, just like the state of our marriage itself.
Was Adrian responsible? Did he set that fire to erase all traces of my old life, so I could vanish into thin air just as his mother had? I shook my head, as if trying to shake that particular thought out of it. I couldn’t bear to think Adrian would’ve done something so dangerous on my behalf. But if he wasn’t the one who set the fire, who did?
I tried to comfort myself by repeating what I had
As I turned the page from the local headlines to the national news, a photograph caught my eye. And then the headline above it made my blood run cold.
“Bishop House Burns to the Ground. Arson Suspected.”
My house?
I held my breath and scanned the story:
Last night, Chicago firefighters were called to the Lincoln Park home of Jeremy Bishop, a.k.a. the Midwestern Bernie Madoff. Neighbors reported the house had gone up in flames around 2 A.M. The house was engulfed by the time they arrived. Firefighters are calling it a total loss.
Bishop died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound three months ago, but his wife was believed to have been in the home.
I dropped the paper as though it, too, were on fire and stared at the page on the table. Something about the photo had caught my eye and wouldn’t let go. I bent down and squinted to get a better look and… could it be? I gasped aloud when I realized what I was seeing. In the crowd on the sidewalk in front of the smoldering wreck that had been my home, a familiar face. Adrian’s.
I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up, turning to the window, my heart beating so loudly that I was sure the cardinals perched on the pine tree outside could hear it. A flurry of conflicting thoughts were running through my mind, not one of them gelling into anything that I could use to make sense of what I had just learned. My house had burned to the ground and Adrian had been standing outside of it. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with that information. I felt like I had just slipped into a nightmare. Or one of Mrs. Sinclair’s stories.
Was it really him? I wasn’t sure, but it certainly looked like him. Could he possibly have… I couldn’t even finish the thought. Surely he didn’t. He couldn’t have been the arsonist.
Although… He did promise to make me disappear from my old life. Had he taken it one step further?
I crumpled the newspaper and threw it into the garbage just as Marion appeared with breakfast on a tray.
“Mrs. Sinclair will be joining you in just a moment.” She furrowed her brow at me. “Are you all right, Miss Julia? You look rather pale.”
“I’m fine!” I said, a little too loudly, and reached for my coffee cup. I set it down quickly when I saw how badly my hand was shaking.
“Has it gone cold?” Marion asked, still staring at me with a quizzical look in her eyes.
“Yes” was all I could manage to say.
She set the dishes on the sideboard, and picked up the coffee pot and poured some of the steaming liquid into a new cup. “Hereyou are,” she said, handing it to me and taking my old cup away. “Lukewarm coffee is just ghastly, isn’t it?”
“Ghastly.” I nodded, holding the new cup to my lips.
She pushed the door open to head back into the kitchen but stopped before going through it and turned to me. “Please let me know if you need anything, Miss Julia,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “Anything.” And then she was gone.
I had the urge to get up and run away, to somewhere, anywhere that I knew was safe. But where was I to go? So I just slumped back into my chair at the table and sat there, stunned. The house I shared with Jeremy, a pile of ashes, just like the state of our marriage itself.
Was Adrian responsible? Did he set that fire to erase all traces of my old life, so I could vanish into thin air just as his mother had? I shook my head, as if trying to shake that particular thought out of it. I couldn’t bear to think Adrian would’ve done something so dangerous on my behalf. But if he wasn’t the one who set the fire, who did?
I tried to comfort myself by repeating what I had
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