Dear God, it happened again.
The thought keeps spinning in Frank’s head as he and the boys sort through the wreckage at the old Thornton house. In his thirty years of service as a firefighter, he’s been called to duty at plenty of horrific scenes. From fatal car wrecks to meth lab explosions and every flaming mess in between. But there’s only one case that still haunts him to this day. One memory that wakes him in a cold sweat, whole body shaking until Rita coos him back to sleep like a two-hundred-pound baby.
It happened right here, ten years ago, on Christmas Day.
Frank had just made chief a week before the call came through, so he was all the more determined to show his crew what a good leader he could be. His team hustled to the scene and put out that house fire in record time; but before they could assess the damage, that creepy cop stepped out from the shadows.
“I’ll take it from here, boys.” Dying embers glinted off the sheriff’s badge reading Brock.
Frank puffed up his chest at the dismissal. “We need to enter first, make sure it’s safe to—”
“I appreciate your service.” The sheriff’s big paw clamped down on Frank’s shoulder. “But you are not under the employ of this community. Now, please take your men out of Nodland, and have yourself a merry little Christmas.”
Frank wanted to punch the son of a bitch right in his merry mustache, but the thought of his men watching from the sidelines gave him pause. Good chiefs don’t punch sheriffs.
“Okay, boys.” Frank mustered as much authority as he could, acting like it was his decision. “Let’s pack it up.”
He knew there was something off about that lawman, about the whole town of Nodland. They did things their own way, and every other town in the county knew that well.
Just leave Nodland be
But that little hamlet was too small for its own fire department, so Frank had no regrets about crossing community lines to lend a thankless hand.
No, the regrets would come a week later.
Rita had fixed him a big breakfast before his day shift while he sat at the kitchen table with his morning paper. When he saw the Candy Cain Killings headline, he puked right there into his scrambled eggs and bacon. According to the article, it wasn’t just a fire that killed the Thornton family.
It was murder.
Frank stewed with that awful knowledge until another week passed, and that same paper issued a retraction, blaming a drug-addled medical examiner for the misinformation. Nothing more than a tree fire. Nothing to see here.
Just leave Nodland be.
Even Rita was pushing him to let sleeping dogs lie, saying it wasn’t Frank’s concern. But the way the whole story unfolded and then folded back up again left an ick in his gut that just wouldn’t unstick. He couldn’t help feeling guilty, like if he’d stayed on the scene, insisted on finishing his investigation, then maybe they’d all know what the hell really happened at the Thornton house back in ’95.
But he didn’t, and now he’s standing here ten years later, looking at the crumbled remnants of the house he couldn’t save. The mystery he couldn’t solve.
The only thing Frank knows for sure this time is that the sheriff won’t be coming to stand in his way. ...
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