Always Watching

around. It was warm that day and the first thing I noticed was the smell, the sick odor of fire and smoke, not a pleasant, woodsy smell, but a mixture of everything that had gone up in flames. What had once been beautiful buildings and lush grounds now lay sprawled out, ripped open and gutted. The foundation was visible, some walls and parts of the building still standing, black and misshapen. Trees near the burned buildings also showed their scars, blackened trunks and branches. Crime-scene tape fluttered in the breeze.
    We placed our bouquet of flowers with the rest piled outside the gate, a sea of grief that stretched the length of the site. We also took some time to read the poems and sentiments that people had tied to the fence. I cried at the photos of the victims that had been left by loved ones, with mementos, stuffed animals, a child’s toy train, which made me think of the little boy I’d seen in the window.
    When we were finished at the memorial, I walked around carefully through the wreckage, making out the shape of the buildings, where some of the rooms might’ve been, crying when I thought of the last time I’d seen my daughter at this place. We didn’t speak much, Kevin and I, or the sergeant, and when we did, only in whispers, still sensing somehow that the dead lingered. The tragedy that had befallen that spot hung in the air, the energy of pain and death and fear remained with the buildings, and I felt it to my core. My stomach and body were weak and shaky and sick with it. I tried not to let my imagination take over, but I couldn’t stop the flashes of brutal images running through my mind, people screaming in pain, the terror they must have felt in their last moments. I reached out a hand and touched one of the walls, feeling the wood turned to charcoal, rubbing it in my hands and letting the fragments drift to the ground, staring at the ash below my feet. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
    Then, finally, the one image my mind had never been able to face until this moment, my daughter’s possible death. The smoke trapping in her lungs, the screams of agony. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, sobbing. Then Kevin was beside me, his arms wrapping around me, holding me up as I broke down.
    When my tears had subsided, and I could stand, the sergeant took us down a metal ladder that had been left, leading to the underground chamber. Though it was warm that day, we all felt the chill, the empty chamber with the door hanging open, the toilet dug into the ground, the metal cot with its thin blanket, which had somehow survived the fire. I went inside, rubbing my arms in the dark, thinking of all the members who’d begged to go in there, fasting until they were hallucinating, desperate for their glimpse of the other side. I hoped that Aaron’s beliefs had at least brought them some comfort as they faced their deaths.
    When we left the commune that day, I was exhausted, resting my head on Kevin’s shoulder as we drove home, my hand holding his. I’d hoped for closure, but I’d just found more questions. Why wasn’t my daughter seen those last days? Had Aaron or Joseph done something to her before they came to Shawnigan? My head filled with terrifying thoughts. What if she’d been put somewhere else, but no one came back for her? I tried to remind myself that Aaron had been happy with Lisa. He’d had no reason to punish her, no need for revenge.
    I was still thinking about it when Kevin and I picked up my car at the station, then drove to my home. We were partway up my back steps, Kevin carrying some groceries we’d picked up for dinner, when I heard a noise. I spun around and noticed the door of my potting shed banging in the wind.
    Kevin followed my gaze. “Did you close the latch all the way when you were in there this morning?” His voice was worried.
    “I’m trying to think but—”
    This time we both heard the footsteps running down the road.
    Kevin dropped the bag of groceries and gave chase, yelling over his shoulder, “Call the police.”
    *   *   *
    Kevin ran halfway down the road, but didn’t catch sight of anyone. He returned to the house a few minutes later, panting and out of breath. When the police showed up, their dogs tracked a scent from my shed, through the yard, until it disappeared in the middle of a street a couple of blocks over. Whoever it was must’ve had a car waiting, which meant they had planned for a quick escape.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
    For the next