Prologue
Gone in a Blaze
The dark-haired woman stood on the edge of the dirt road and looked in at the tiny fires that exploded from the second-floor windows. She didn’t know whether to call the police station or the fire station, so she stood there like a mannequin. Her torn, soot-stained robe hid the tattered remnants of her night shirt, while her ripped slippers kept only her toes warm. In less than an hour, Regina had become another model for loss in a world already racked with far too much deathGone in a Blaze
The fire consumed floors and ceilings, and then it shattered windows and spread up along the roof. The only sound came from the cracking of glass and the crackling of wood. Even though she knew her family had died in the blaze or died long before the blaze, she still heard their screams. She had heard her mother’s sobbing and her younger sister’s high-pitched screams. She had heard her father begging their attackers to take him and leave his family in peace.
Hands had grabbed at her shirt and her hair. They had thrown her from side to side, making her feel like a ragdoll. She swore they had claws, but their nails could have been exceptionally sharp. In her state, she was far too sensitive. If it weren’t for her older brother taking the bullet, she would have been on the floor of the house, her dead body used as fuel for the flames. He told her to run. He told her to live. And then the light disappeared from his eyes. The life never flickered or faded. It was as if he just ceased to exist.
She had thrown herself to the floor, narrowly avoiding another of her attacker’s bullets, and then scrambled back to her feet. Her nails dug into the wood of the floor; her bare toes slipped and slid, but she found a solid stance. She covered her head and she ran with everything she had left, but she felt foreign fingers grasping at her nightshirt. The person tried lifting her off her feet to drag her back to the living room, the execution room. She heard the ripping of fabric and felt the cool air along her spine--he’d torn three strips from her shirt, straight down her back.
Coward. She felt like a coward. She’d hidden underneath a bed in the master bedroom. She’d covered her mouth to keep herself quiet. She’d listened to the screams and the pleas. She’d stayed in her hiding spot until the flames trapped her in the room, and then she’d been forced to climb from the second-story window. The grass stains along her side and her back were evidence of her final trial.
As the night air slipped through the fabric of her robe, her mother’s robe, she wrapped her arms around her side and sought refuge within herself. Her family. Her home. Her belongings. Her dignity. She’d lost everything except her life, and that felt meaningless in the dark night.
When a hand brushed against her upper arm, she swung around to punch the person, but she found herself looking at a police officer. He spoke to her with a foreign tongue, even though he spoke in English. She felt as if she were underwater and they were struggling to get her ashore. The man gently took her arm and led her further from the burning manor, but her limbs were stiff and it took much longer than anticipated.
Who? Who had done that to her family? Who had set fire to the manor? Where had they gone? What had they said? She had several people around her now and they all asked her several different questions. None of them asked why.
