Chapter 8 - Ashes of the Cottage
Before we could hunt down Thomas, Marcus insisted I be moved somewhere secure. My father suggested the family’s historic salt-marsh cottage on Edisto Island—the very cottage my father had transferred entirely into my name that morning.
It was an antebellum property, shaded by ancient, moss-draped live oaks, far removed from the predatory eyes of the Charleston press.
"Stay here with two uniform officers stationed at the gate," Marcus instructed as he escorted Arthur and me up the creaking wooden steps of the wrap-around porch. "My team is executing a search warrant on Dr. Sterling’s lab right now to verify the chemical batches. Once we have the forensics locked down, the state police will move on the hunting cabin."
"Don't let him run, Marcus," I said, leaning against the sturdy cypress doorframe.
"He won't run far," Marcus promised, his hand lingering over mine on the railing for a beat longer than protocol required. "Lock the deadbolts, Claire. Keep your phone charged."
The cottage was quiet, filled with the comforting scent of cedar, salt air, and old paperbacks. It was the only place in my childhood where I had felt genuinely loved. My grandmother’s watercolor paintings still hung on the pine-paneled walls.
Arthur spent the evening checking the window latches and making chamomile tea, trying to act as though our family hadn't just disintegrated into a den of vipers.
"You should sleep, Claire," he whispered around eleven o'clock, placing a blanket over my lap as I sat by the hearth. "Tomorrow is going to be long."
"I can't close my eyes, Dad," I murmured. "Every time I do, I hear Lauren laughing, and I smell that terrible, caustic chemical."
At 2:15 in the morning, the silence was shattered by the sharp, terrifying crackle of burning pine.
I snapped awake. The living room was bathed in an eerie, flickering orange light.
Smoke was pouring in through the air vents, thick and acrid.
"Dad!" I screamed, tearing the blanket off and stumbling to my feet. "Dad, get up! The house is on fire!"
I ran toward Arthur’s bedroom, throwing the door open. He was coughing violently, disoriented by the smoke filling the hallway. I grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the rear kitchen exit.
Through the kitchen window, I saw the two uniformed officers slumped over the steering wheel of their patrol car at the gate, completely unresponsive. The front porch was engulfed in a wall of towering flames.
Someone had poured an accelerant across the entire wraparound deck, cutting off the main escape route.
And standing out by the treeline, illuminated by the roaring blaze, was a tall figure in a black trench coat, holding an empty gasoline can.
He didn't run. He stood under the mossy branches of the oak tree, watching the house burn with chilling detachment.
When the flames flared bright enough, the light caught his face.
It wasn't a stranger.
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It was my brother, Thomas.
***