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  “Did McAllister realize you’d overheard him?” I asked, wondering if that would explain the glare he’d sent in Susannah’s direction.

  She shifted on the bench. “I took a video of them on my phone.”

  “And McAllister knows that?”

  Susannah nodded, fear flickering in her eyes. “I think Jeremy must have told him. But I don’t know why he would do that to me.” She sniffled, but fortunately no more tears spilled from her eyes.

  “Jeremy?” My brain was on high alert now.

  “I was here rehearsing with the youth orchestra one day when the reverend was around. Jeremy could tell that I didn’t like the reverend and asked me why. I told him about the video and the things Reverend McAllister had said, but he thought I was exaggerating. So I sent him a copy of the video so he could see for himself. He believed me after that, but then he told me it would be best to keep quiet about the whole thing if I didn’t want to make my uncle look bad. Except . . .”

  “Except what?” I prompted, the gears turning in my head as I wondered if any of what she was telling me could be related to Jeremy’s death.

  Susannah clenched her hands together and took a deep breath. “Just before the funeral, Reverend McAllister cornered me and told me that if I ever showed the video to anyone else or posted it online, I’d be sorry.” Her voice quavered when she continued. “So Jeremy must have told the reverend about the video, and then he got killed. What if his death is my fault? And now my mom’s late picking me up, and I really don’t want to be left alone when Reverend McAllister is around.” Her last words came out in a rush.

  So Susannah thought McAllister had killed Jeremy to keep him quiet about the video. That sounded like a good theory to me.

  I reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Even if McAllister killed Jeremy, and even if it was because of the video, his death wasn’t your fault.”

  “But what if the reverend wants to kill me too?”

  That was a valid concern.

  “I think you should tell your mom the whole story as soon as she gets here. Then you two can talk to the police.”

  Susannah nodded reluctantly. “I guess you’re right.”

  A floorboard creaked. I leaned forward to see if anyone was nearby, but there was no one in sight.

  Standing up, I turned my attention back to Susannah. “Do you want to go wash up? Hopefully your mom will be here any moment.”

  She got to her feet and I accompanied her to the small restroom down the hall. While she locked herself in a stall, I waited by the sinks, pulling my phone from my purse to check the time. JT would likely arrive in the next few minutes, and I was glad of that. As much as I sympathized with Susannah’s predicament, passing her off to the care of her mother would be a relief.

  I returned my phone to my purse and decided I might as well make use of the facilities while I was there. I locked myself in the stall next to Susannah’s and hung my purse on the hook on the door.

  Outside my stall, the washroom door opened with a creak of oil-­thirsty hinges. I winced at the metallic screech I heard next. It sounded like someone had dragged the metal garbage can across the floor.

  A maintenance worker?

  I paused, listening.

  I heard a splash of liquid, then a click and a loud whoosh.

  I didn’t like the sound of that whoosh.

  The washroom door banged shut as Susannah’s toilet flushed.

  Abandoning my plan to use the facilities, I grabbed my purse and fumbled with the door latch.

  The smell of smoke needled my nose. Alarm bells went off like crazy in my head.

  “Midori?” Susannah’s trembling voice came from her stall.

  I pushed out of my own stall and froze.

  Someone had moved the large trash can over to the door and lit its contents on fire. Flames danced in the air, dangerously close to the wooden door of Susannah’s stall.

  “Is there a fire?” Panic had sent the pitch of her voice up several notches. She undid the latch on her stall.

  “Don’t open the door!” I warned.

  The wooden stall ignited and the flames grew bigger.

  Susannah screamed. “Midori!”

  “Crawl into the next stall!”

  As soon as her head poked under the divider and into the stall I’d vacated, I took three cautious steps toward the burning trash can. I reached out with one foot and nudged the can away from the door. It only moved a few inches.

  Heat blasted my skin. I couldn’t get any closer to the can without getting burned.

  Behind me, Susannah crawled out into the open and climbed to her feet. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stay calm.” I said it as much for my sake as hers as I inched my way around the fire. My heart skittering in my chest, I reached for the doorknob.

  My hand seared with pain. I snatched it away with a cry. The knob was hot, heated by the flames before I’d moved the trash can.

  “Midori! Are you okay?” Susannah hovered in the background.

  I ignored her. I blinked back tears of pain and slid out of my blazer, careful not to let the fabric touch my burned hand. Shaking now, I wrapped the garment around my good hand and reach for the doorknob again. I turned it. Nothing happened. I rattled the door and tried the knob again. Still nothing.

  The door was locked.

  Chapter 13

  I POUNDED ON the door. “Help! Somebody help us! We’re trapped!”

  I threw my bodyweight against the door, hitting it with my shoulder, but it barely even shook in its frame. I tried again, but it still didn’t budge.

  Choking on the thickening smoke, I shied away from the intensifying heat, stumbling backward into Susannah.

  She clutched at my arm. “How can the door be locked? How can this be happening?” Tears streamed down her face from her wide, terrified eyes.

  The acrid smoke grated at my throat and nostrils. I coughed and shoved Susannah toward the back corner of the cramped, windowless washroom, as far from the flames as possible. I pushed her down into a crouch. “Stay down. Below the smoke.”

  I huddled down next to her and fumbled around in my purse with my good hand until I found my cell phone. My hands shook so much that I dropped the device. It clattered to the floor. With fear constricting my chest and my heart galloping at a frantic pace, I snatched it up and dialed 911.

  “Help!” Susannah yelled next to me. “Someone help us, please!”

  Despite Susannah’s panicked calls for help, I heard the dispatcher on the other end of the line ask me to state the nature of my emergency.

  “There’s a fire and we’re trapped!” I realized that I sounded as frantic as Susannah, but we both had reason to be freaked out.

  Both bathroom stalls had caught fire, and the flames crept toward us, the heat intensifying with every passing moment. Dark gray smoke filled the room, choking us despite the fact that we were huddled down low on the floor.

  I let out a harsh cough, but managed to relate the details of our location to the dispatcher before my hacking turned into a full out fit.

  “We’re going to die!” Susannah croaked between coughs of her own. She grabbed onto my arm and buried her face in my shoulder.

  Somewhere out in the corridor an alarm sounded with a sustained, shrill ringing.

  “Please hurry,” I rasped into the phone. I knew we didn’t have much time left.

  Somebody shouted outside the washroom. I couldn’t make out what they said, but I didn’t care. There was someone there.

  “Help!” Susannah and I yelled.

  Our voices were hoarse, but whoever was out there must have heard us.

  “Hold on!” the voice called to us. A male voice.

  Susannah clung to me as we both succumbed to coughing fits again.

  Seconds later somethin
g banged against the washroom door. It shuddered in its frame but held. A second bang splintered the wooden frame. With a third blow the door broke open.

  The flames grew bigger, greedily consuming the new oxygen flowing in through the open door. I winced and Susannah screamed. The heat was so intense, the smoke so thick.

  A large hand grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. I stumbled along with our rescuer, my good hand clutching Susannah close to me. I couldn’t see anything but smoke and flames. I couldn’t breathe.

  We ducked past the hungry flames, heat blazing against my face. The rescuer pulled us out of the washroom and down the corridor to the narthex. I tripped and almost went down, but the hand on my arm tugged me upright and propelled Susannah and me out the double doors and onto the stone steps.

  Somehow we made it down the stairs without falling. At the bottom, we collapsed together onto the wet grass next to a sodden flower bed. I cradled my burned hand against my chest and held onto Susannah with my other arm. We clung to each other, coughing and hacking, drawing fresh air into our lungs whenever we could.

  I was only half aware of sirens piercing the air with their wails, of two fire trucks pulling up in front of the church. I hardly even noticed the dampness from the rain and wet grass seeping through my clothes. All I cared about right then was the fact that Susannah and I were safe. No flames were going to burn us to ashes, no smoke was going to suffocate us.

  Still coughing on and off, I concentrated on moving beautiful, clean air in and out of my lungs. It was only when I’d had several breaths of damp air that I registered the sight of our rescuer.

  “Ray?” I was more than a little surprised that the oboe player was the one who had saved us.

  He was breathing heavily, but otherwise seemed fine. “You two okay?”

  “Thanks to you,” I said.

  I didn’t have a chance to say anything more to him. Two firemen approached, and Susannah and I quickly became separated as they—­and soon, paramedics as well—­looked us over, asked us questions, and assessed our health.

  By the time a female paramedic led me over to an ambulance, my coughing had subsided to only the occasional hack. Fresh air was the best thing for me, the paramedic had told me, and she was right. I’d never been so grateful for clean, cool air. My throat felt sore and irritated, but I could breathe, and that was what mattered most.

  Once I was seated in the back of the ambulance, the paramedic tended to the burn on my right hand, cleaning it gently. Despite the care she took, I winced with pain.

  “I don’t have to go to the hospital, do I?” The thought of spending hours in the emergency room didn’t appeal to me in the least.

  “No,” the paramedic said. “You’re lucky. This is just a minor burn. I’ll get it cleaned and bandaged for you. Then you just need to look after it on your own. If it doesn’t seem to be healing properly, go see your doctor.”

  She finished cleaning the burn, and the pain in my hand eased to a less excruciating level. As she wrapped my hand with gauze, my attention wandered. Outside the open back door of the ambulance, firemen moved back and forth between the church and their trucks. The sense of urgency about them had dwindled over the last several minutes, and I figured that the fire was probably out. Hopefully it had remained contained within the washroom and hadn’t damaged any more of the church.

  Several ­people, probably residents of the neighborhood, had gathered in a cluster nearby, watching the excitement outside the church. A blond woman pushed her way through the crowd and rushed toward the church’s entrance. Cindy McAllister.

  I lost sight of her, my view limited by my position within the ambulance.

  The paramedic finished wrapping my hand. “There you go. Be sure to keep it clean.”

  “Thank you.”

  She helped me out of the ambulance, and I stepped up the curb to stand in the damp grass. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from the branches of the trees planted along the street, and the sidewalk was dotted with puddles and earthworms.

  The firemen had waylaid Cindy McAllister, preventing her from entering the church. She seemed distressed, but that wasn’t surprising. I spotted the reverend talking to another fireman near one of the trucks. When he saw his wife, he excused himself and hastened across the lawn to join her.

  “Dori!”

  I spun around. JT jogged diagonally across the street toward me. Until then my emotions hadn’t gone beyond relief at being safe, but somehow the sight of JT brought the enormity of the experience down on me. I could have died. A few more minutes in that room with the smoke and flames and I would have.

  As soon as JT reached me, I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my cheek against his chest, my eyes closed. I was careful of my burned hand but still held on tightly. It was as if I’d been thrown a life preserver in the midst of a stormy sea. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I managed to hold them back.

  JT’s arms closed around me. “Midori, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  I didn’t feel like talking right then, but I knew from the alarm in his voice that he needed an immediate explanation. I didn’t relax my hold but I tilted my head up so I could speak to him. “There was a fire. I was trapped in the washroom with Susannah, but Ray broke down the door and got us out.”

  “Susannah? Ray?” He shook his head before I could explain. “Never mind. Are you okay?”

  I nodded against his chest. His warmth and solid frame were so comforting that I didn’t want to let go. But I did. I stepped back out of his arms and held up my bandaged hand.

  “Just a minor burn on my hand. I don’t think I’ll be able to hold my bow for a few days.” That was annoying and disappointing. I didn’t like the idea of taking time off from playing the violin, but I wasn’t about to complain too much. It was better than being dead or lying in the hospital with serious burns.

  JT must have been thinking along the same lines, because he pulled me back into a tight hug. “Your violin will have to wait. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too.” I drew back then, realizing that I reeked of acrid smoke. “Sorry about the smell.”

  “Believe me, that’s the least of my worries right now.”

  His brown eyes were fixed on mine, and a fresh wave of intense emotion hit me. My breath caught in my irritated throat. That set off a coughing fit, and several seconds passed before I could stop hacking.

  JT put a hand on my back. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded. “Promise.” The coughing fit had distracted me enough to calm my emotions, but now exhaustion swept over me.

  “Ma’am?”

  I turned around. It was a uniformed policeman who had addressed me.

  “Are you one of the ladies who was trapped?” the officer asked.

  “Yes. Susannah and I.” I pointed across the lawn toward Susannah. She was in the arms of a plump, middle-­aged woman. Her mother, presumably.

  The policeman followed my gaze and nodded. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

  I closed my eyes briefly, fighting off the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm me. JT kept his hand on my back, and his steady warmth helped to ground me. I related everything I could remember to the officer, including the sounds I’d heard as I stood inside the bathroom stall. I sensed JT tense next to me as I told my story to the officer, but he didn’t speak until I finished my narrative.

  “The fire was set deliberately?” JT asked with an edge to his voice.

  “It must have been,” I said. “Why else would someone have dragged the trash can over by the exit and locked the door on us? And the splashing sound I heard . . .” I directed my next question at the police officer. “Did the person who set the fire use an accelerant?”

  The officer wrote something in his notebook as he answered my question. “That will be for the fire investigation team to d
etermine.” He jotted down another note before raising his head. “Do you remember anything else? Did you see anyone in the area before you went into the washroom?”

  “Only Reverend McAllister. He came out of the nave and went upstairs.”

  “How long after that did you go into the washroom?”

  “Not long,” I replied. “A few minutes, maybe.”

  The officer made another notation in his book, but I barely noticed. Had Reverend McAllister overheard me and Susannah talking about him? Had he been so concerned about getting in trouble over his drunken comments that he’d deliberately set the fire, to . . . what? Frighten us into keeping quiet? Silence us forever?

  I shivered at the thought and leaned into JT’s side.

  Although I wanted to share my suspicions about the reverend with the police officer, I decided to hold back for the moment. It would probably be better to go straight to Detectives Bachman and Salnikova.

  JT put his arm around me. “Officer, can I take Midori home now? She’s been through a lot.”

  “Of course. Ma’am, I just need your contact information in case we have any more questions.”

  I rattled off my address and phone number, and he copied them down into his notebook. Once he was done recording the information, the officer left us and headed in Susannah’s direction.

  I let out a tired sigh and leaned more of my weight against JT.

  He gave me a quick squeeze. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  “There’s nothing I want more than a shower and clean, dry clothes,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the stench of smoke that clung to my hair and damp clothing like a harsh and pungent cloud.

  JT returned his hand to my back to guide me toward his truck, but I stopped before we reached the street.

  “Hold on a second.” I left him standing by the curb and turned back toward the church. I’d spotted Ray talking to a policewoman, but as I headed in his direction, the officer finished her conversation with him and went to speak to one of her fellow officers.

  Ray started off down the street, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. His hunched shoulders and brisk steps suggested an eagerness to get away from the scene.