Page 68 of The Candle Palace (Jamison Valley 6)
“Denny crashed into the house.”
“Is he . . .” I gulped. I couldn’t see the driver’s side door from this spot. It was buried under the corner of the house. But there wasn’t an ambulance. Or maybe it had come and gone. “Is he okay?”
“They arrested him.” She pointed past me and Milo toward the cop car parked behind a fire truck.
In the backseat, Denny was slumped forward, his head hanging down. His hair shielded his face.
Milo frowned at Denny, then turned to the cops. “He didn’t hurt anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” I sighed. Maybe the backseat of that cop car was the best thing that could happen to him right now.
“Ma’am, we’ll need to finish taking your statement,” a police officer told Mom as he hovered outside our circle. He looked cold, his teeth chattering and his nose bright red.
He’d have to tough it out because it wasn’t like they could go inside to talk.
“All right.” Mom let me go, then crossed her arms over her chest. Her legs were bare except for the knee-high rubber boots she’d pulled on. Their yellow and white daisies were too friendly on a dark night like this.
“Come on, babe.” Milo took my hand and led me closer to the house.
As we approached the back of Denny’s truck, one of the firemen stopped us. “Please be careful. This whole house is unstable.”
“We’ll stay back,” Milo assured him, dragging me closer.
From where we’d been standing, Denny’s truck had hidden the damage. But now that we were coming around the side of the house next to the garage, I could hardly believe what I was seeing.
The house wasn’t unstable, it was collapsing.
The living room, the place where Dad and I had watched movies and eaten popcorn, was destroyed. The couch I’d picked out for Dad the year before he’d died was toppled over and broken in half. The main-floor windows were all cracked or shattered. The porch was now broken boards and splinters scattered on the snow-covered lawn.
The corner of the second floor drooped over the wreckage. The corner that had once been my bedroom. Even after Dad had bought me my condo, even after he’d died and Mom had moved in, that had been my bedroom. Denny had moved into the guest bedroom because that was my room.
Now it was moments away from crashing down into the rubble. The supports creaked. Glass continued to crack, filling the yard with eerie sounds.
This home—my home—was gone.
“I’m so sorry, babe.” Milo put his arm around my shoulders.
I was shaking, not just from the cold, but from the shock. “He ruined my home.”
“They can rebuild it.”
“Maybe. But it will never be the same,” I whispered as tears flooded my eyes.
They’d rebuild this house—they’d fix the windows and sunken walls—and in that process the little touches that had been Dad’s would be erased.
The need to cry and scream choked me, so I turned away from the chaos and marched across the yard. I marched right up to one of the police officers standing guard outside the car where Denny was sitting.
“Is he high?” I asked.
At my voice, Denny’s eyes lifted. They were red-rimmed and glassy and held a stream of apologies.
It was too late for I’m sorry.
“We believe so, yes,” the police officer said. “He’s also been drinking.”
I held my brother’s gaze, wondering if I’d ever be able to forgive him for this. He’d taken something away from me that I’d held dear. He’d taken my sanctuary. He’d taken my roots.
