LITMIR.BIZ

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save her.”

      “Nobody else tried what you tried,” he said.

      “That’s why I want to know if their clothes burned. I don’t believe it was because of the extinguisher.”

      “Really.” He said it as a statement, not a question. His brow wrinkled. His tapped his pen on his pad.

      “Contemplative.” He smiled at me.

      “Exactly,” I said. “I’m asking an odd question. Heffly ignored the implication. You’re ignoring it too, Mr. Bluestein.”

      “Please call me Doug.”

      “Okay, but, if you ask the other witnesses if their clothes were untouched except that they dropped to the ground, then you can prove to me that it was not what I did. Can you find this out for me?”

      “Why does this matter?”

      “I don’t know why it matters. It may not. But if you watched what I watched, you’d know it wasn’t the predictable thing. Fire captures everything usually.”

      “There are burn-proof fabrics,” he said.

      I shook my head. “PJ’s for kids, not women’s business suits.”

      I waited, staring at him, daring him to push this aside as Heffly had done, as the Bangalore police inspectors had done to me so long ago about Banhi. It was because I was a woman. They’d assumed my perception was clouded by my emotions. That, I knew, was the smug superiority they wore with their uniforms, the belief that, if they couldn’t explain something to me, then it didn’t need explaining. It could be dismissed. I could be dismissed.

      “It’s an important question,” I said. “I don’t know why, but isn’t that part of your job? To get the answers? You can’t get answers unless you ask the questions…the right ones.”

      I stood up and grabbed the portable phone from the side table. I hit the dial button to return the call to Bruce Gilbert. He’d seen Cindy. He could answer this. I didn’t need to wait for Doug Bluestein to report back.

      “Bruce?”

      “Hi Cassandra,” he said. “What a day, huh?”

      “Bruce, I’m so sorry. We both had a tough day. But I just need to ask you one question. We can have coffee or something and talk soon, but can you tell me one thing?”

      “Gees, Cassandra, slow down.” I sensed a slur. He must have had a few drinks.

      “Is Pam home?” I asked.

      “She’s on her way.”

      “The kids home?”

      “Yes, of course they’re home. It’s dinner time.”

      “You okay?”

      “I’m not sure…”

      “Do you need me to come over?”

      “No, of course not. Ah, here’s the wife. Home at last.” A rush of relief filled me. I knew Bruce. He had spent a few months renovating my kitchen and there had been a few days when he’d smelled of drink after lunch. The idea of him home with his boys and drinking set my neck muscles in a knot.

      “Bruce,” I tried again.

      “Cassandra?” he replied.

      “Did her clothes burn?”

      “The woman in the reservation?”

      “Yes,” I said.

      “I don’t remember,” he said. “I just remember calling 911 and watching her die.”

      “Bruce,” I said. “Can you just think back for a second. Just try to remember.”

      “Cassandra, I am trying to forget. It was awful.”

      “I’m sorry, Bruce. Yes, it was awful. For me too.”

      “Can I let this wait till tomorrow?”

      “Sure. Sorry. Thanks. Listen, take it easy, huh? I’ll check in with you tomorrow. I’m going to call you tomorrow. Maybe you can try to remember?”

      “Yeah, bye,” he hung up with a firm click.

      “Well, that was no help.”

      “I will ask the question,” Doug promised me. “Heffly should be able to answer it. And I’ll let you know the answer.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He bowed slightly and left.

      I watched Doug go, feeling a strong sense of simpatico, a shared consciousness, and a confirmation that he had enough respect for me to accept my observations as sound. Still, that raging flame, from so many hours earlier, flared in memory and, like Bruce must be feeling under his apparent drinking, I felt ragged and fearful. I went to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and dug through the top shelf. There still were a few Xanax left. I cut one in quarters, swallowed one piece, and followed it with a glass of water. India was one thing. Hindu beliefs and traditions rising out of poverty were factors I could accept as an element to help endure suffering. Self-immolation was done there. Accidents with stoves too. Burning bodies did not happen in Hillston, but it had, three times in one day. I could not imagine what the police or firefighters might say about this once further investigation was complete. My early speculation with Heffly that the blue-suited woman might have done it to herself was ending because I could not accept that Cindy would have set herself on fire. Or that a school principal would do it in front of all those school children. I also could not imagine who would kill Cindy.

      In Banhi’s case, I blamed Rehani, Banhi’s mother-in-law. That made cultural and social sense. I had also learned there were four million missing women in India. I learned about sati, about the Hindu belief in reincarnation, and how that became distorted to encourage the destitute to end their lives in hopes of a better one next time. These fires in Hillston did not have a cultural context. The police and fire department would have to solve this puzzle. I just wanted to know my children would not be hurt or anyone else I knew, including myself. These women were in the middle years, but it had happened to Banhi when she was so young. Pete no longer discussed Banhi and Bangalore with me, not after we returned to the states. It was an agreement we made. If he learned of this morning, would he see my need to compare? Would he let me break my promise to stay away from the subject that had nearly driven me crazy and him along with me? That whole tragedy is what brought us home to Hillston, to my hometown, to the place I had fled as a young graduate student and, for the first time ever, I imagined maybe it wasn’t Rehani and dowry murder that had destroyed Banhi, but perhaps there was something else at work and maybe the same was at work here in Hillston.

      “Affection is a coal that must be cooled; Else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire.” - William Shakespeare

      Chapter 4

      And there he is, the engine dying in the driveway, the screen door slapping, and his steps on the porch announcing the end of his week. He is home and the sun is still up and it is Friday and there is a weekend ahead for togetherness and I feel my energy create a smile and I can feel a brightness shining in me. He drops his briefcase, his hair is curly and in disarray as is his loosened tie over his Oxford shirt. He sees the girls at the table, goes to them, and drops quick pecks of kisses onto their lowered heads. They turn for kisses, real ones, and he bends to accept theirs on his shadowy cheek with the prickles and they return to their work. My hands are wet from cooking chicken and I move to the sink to wash them. He doesn’t wait for me to finish and turn for a hug, but he pecks a kiss on my lips, quick, dry, prickly and moves away. I am too late for an embrace.

      He says, “Have I got time for a few miles before dinner?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but disappears up the hall toward the stairs.

      “Did you see that I called?”

      “Yes,” he said.

      “Do you want

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