Testimony

When I wake again, all I see is a glowing red through my eyelids. They slowly flutter open, and I startle, goose bumps flushing my arms. A flashlight. My heart races, but I’m too terrified to scream.

Then the light lowers. Sheriff Flynn hovers a few feet away, flashlight in one hand, a paper bag and thermos in the other. I can’t tell if the fleeting look that crosses his features is one of relief or disappointment that I’m okay.

My gut tells me to run, but where would I go? He stands between me and the doorway, and I can see the glint of his gun, holstered at his hip, as he sets the flashlight on the table beside him.

“Corey,” he says gently.

This is the voice of the Sheriff Flynn who checked on Luke and me when Mom was away for work. Who was Mom’s shoulder to lean on after Dad left five years ago. Still, Lost has threatened me, and he is part of that.

“Corey,” he says again.

I wrap my sweater tighter around me. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about what happened last night. May I?” He gestures to the chair next to mine.

I nod because I can’t really refuse. Sheriff Flynn looks like he hasn’t slept much either. Crime doesn’t usually keep him up at night, not in this town. We have nothing more to worry about than the occasional drunkard, the occasional bear, and Kyra’s manias. Now we don’t even have that.

“Why are you here?” I try to keep my voice even, but it cracks around the edges.

Sheriff Flynn pulls an end table between us and puts the bag on it, pulling out buttered rolls wrapped in paper napkins. The smell of freshly baked bread hangs in the damp air.

My stomach growls.

“We’ve gotten used to bringing over food.” Sheriff Flynn smiles, and with those few words, my appetite disappears. But my hands are shaking. I have to eat something.

I bite my lip. “What happened last night, Sheriff?”

“That’s what I came here to ask you. How are you, Corey?”

I grab a roll and pick at it, breaking off small chunks of crust to nibble. “Scared.”

Sheriff Flynn produces a notebook and scribbles something down. So much for empathy—he has a job to do. “Are you in pain?”

“I’m not burned, but I inhaled a lot of smoke,” I say. As if my lungs want to prove it, I start coughing again. The memory of not being able to breathe is almost as potent as actual breathlessness. “Should I see a doctor?”

“You should have been examined last night, but you disappeared before Dr. Stevens arrived.”

Sheriff Flynn sounds apologetic, but what he’s saying is blatantly absurd. Dr. Stevens could’ve come for me at any point in the past several hours; it wouldn’t have been hard to track me. But I nod because it still hurts to breathe and I’m too tired to argue.

“She would like you to come in. I’ll walk you there after our talk.”

“What happened to Kyra’s cabin, Sheriff?”

“The fire was contained, so it didn’t spread to the main house or any of the surrounding structures. The guest room and Kyra’s room were completely destroyed, unfortunately.” His words are cold. Emotionless.

“I was inside. I could’ve died.” Saying it out loud makes my hands tremble so hard I have to ball my fingers into fists so the sheriff won’t notice. My sliced palm burns.

Sheriff Flynn doesn’t even look up from his notes.

“Do you know what caused the fire?” I ask. This town has now burned down the two places I considered home. Was that foretold too? I want to ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m no forensic expert when it comes to fires, so I can’t give you a definitive answer, but we’ve seen this before, Corey. Space heaters that overheat. Electrical malfunctions. It was likely an accident, nothing more.”

“Like Kyra,” I mutter. The town may not want to murder me, but they’re certainly not above an intentional mishap.

At this, Sheriff Flynn looks up from his notebook. “Excuse me?”

I wince, and he continues. “It’s lucky you discovered the fire as soon as you did.” His voice sounds flat. Maybe he thinks it would’ve been luckier still if people in town had found a way to stop me from asking my nosy questions.

“Can I get out of here?” I keep my voice flat too, but inside I’m trembling. “I want to go home to my family.”

“Joe called the airline, but the next plane that will route through Lost is the one you’ve already booked your flight on. You can wait in town or here, if you’d prefer.”

“I’ll stay here.” I don’t have to think about that.

Sheriff Flynn nods, clearly not surprised. “We’ll make sure you have food, of course. Do you have everything else you need? Blankets, heater?”

“I’m fine.” I may not be comfortable using Kyra’s things, but I’m even less comfortable accepting help from Lost. At least Kyra never wished me harm.

I pick up another roll, and although I don’t have a taste for it, eating keeps my hands busy. “Has anyone called my mom to tell her what happened?”

The mood in the room shifts. “Did you not call her? As far as I know, no one else has been in contact with her. She hasn’t called me.”

He cocks his head with a glint in his eyes, and for a second, he reminds me of a hawk, or a vulture. And I’m the prey. There would be no witnesses if I died or disappeared. The town would get what it wanted.

I put the roll down on a napkin and brush the crumbs from my hands. “No, sorry. She expects to hear from me. I promised to call each day.”

I don’t know if I’m convincing, but I don’t think he’ll call my bluff. I don’t know what will happen if I stay here until my flight. But maybe that will be the safety I need until then. I still don’t know Kyra’s side of the story—and part of me is still waiting for the clues that will help her tell it.

I cannot abandon my friend again.

I set my jaw. “Tell me, Sheriff. Am I in danger here?”

“Why would you think that? Of course not. As I said, the fire was an accident. Regrettable, but nothing more. We’ll provide for you until you leave.”

I can’t sit through any more of these lies. I stand and flip through some of Kyra’s sketches that cover the big table, then pick up a sketch of the sheriff’s son smiling and flash it at him. “How is Sam?” I narrow my eyes and find a painting of the mines. “How is business in Lost?”

The temperature drops noticeably, and it wasn’t warm to begin with. I shiver, but I stare down the sheriff. I almost died.

Sheriff Flynn closes his notebook. “Why are you are unwilling to let this go, Corey?”

He stands and pulls on his coat, sliding his notebook and pen inside his breast pocket, but he leaves the bag of food and the thermos.

“Walk with me. I’ll show you to Dr. Stevens,” he says, his words measured. “And after that, stick to the spa. You’re not one of us anymore.”

I can’t tell if he’s angry or defeated, but right then and there, I don’t care.

He’s right. I’m not one of them anymore, and that’s almost a relief.