She shook her head, the tears no longer flowing but lying on her cheeks in thin, bright tracks. Jacob almost felt sorry for her, this woman he had loved for nearly a decade. She had lost as much as he had. Perhaps her suffering was even worse, because she believed in a merciful God, and God had proven the worthlessness of her faith.

“I don’t have it,” she said. “Talk to Donald. He’ll tell you. You’re ruined, Jacob. There’s no money left, the banks are foreclosing on your property, and even if you get your insurance money, it’s going to be too late to bail you out this time.”

“No. I’m a Wells, damn it. This is my town. They can’t take it away from me.”

“Sorry, Jake. You shouldn’t have dropped out of your own life.”

“Give me your keys,” he said.

“No. It’s my car.”

“Our car. Don’t forget whose name’s on the title. Wells.”

“Just like the house, huh? And there’s nothing left of it but ashes. Everything we owned together is ashes now. Everything a Wells ever touched.”

They both looked at the urn. It had the power of a sacred relic, an icon that marked not the abiding mystery of faith and life but the absolute consuming nadir of despair and failure.

“I’ll drive you back to the Wells farm,” she said.

“I can’t stay there.”

“You can’t sleep in the bushes.”

Jacob looked at the couch, then down the hall at the starched covers of her bed. When you turn your back on your life, you leave everything behind, even those things that once seemed valuable. “Take me by the ruins, then. Show me where the person called to you from the woods.”

“That was you, Jake.”

“It wasn’t. I swear.”

But he couldn’t be sure. Maybe visiting the scene of the nightmare would rob it of its power. He had nothing left to lose. Except two million dollars, his wife, and the Wells homestead.

They drove to Buffalo Trace Lane in silence, Renee keeping her purse in her lap, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The town seemed like a movie set to Jacob, a false-front stage for the Wells illusion. He hadn’t owned Kingsboro. All he had was a name heavier than blocks, girders, and bricks.

As they pulled into the driveway, Jacob was struck by the harsh emptiness of the lot, as if the blank space in the sky required the satisfying geometry of walls and roof in order to be complete. The rectangular bed of ashes lay like a black, sunken grave. The yellow crime scene tape had drooped, and in places it was broken and fluttering in the breeze like the tails of crippled kites. The trees around the ruin were scorched, the branches stunted and bare. New blackberry vines had thrust from the dead embers scattered beyond the block foundation, as if sharp and painful edges were the next natural evolutionary step here.

Renee stopped the engine and sat with her hands in her lap. “We’re home.”

Jacob looked up to where the second floor would have been, to the haunted air of Mattie’s vanished window. “I tried to save her. You believe that, don’t you?”

“I was there, Jake. I remember.”

“But you couldn’t see. All that smoke.”

“Like I told the fire chief.”

“We were cut off from each other. You had to go downstairs. It was the only way out.”

“I thought you and Mattie were already safe, or I never would have left.” Renee adjusted her glasses on her nose, as if using a memory trick to recall her half of the story. “But I had to get my glasses out of the car.”

“And the back door was open.”

“The door that swings both ways.”

“Huh?” Jacob imagined flames licking at the afternoon sky, a daytime Armageddon, a cleansing wave pushed up from the bowels of hell.

“The door that swings both ways. Like you told me the night you were hiding in the woods.”

“I wasn’t hiding in the woods.”

“Something about the door, Jake. And when you smelled the smoke, you told me to wait in the bedroom. Like you were afraid of what I might see.”

“I didn’t want you to see Mattie. I wanted to protect you. Both of you. Like I couldn’t protect Christine.”

That sounded good. He swallowed.

The charred flecks of Christine’s crib lay somewhere in the burned-out basement, along with a menagerie of stuffed animals, hair brushes, Barbie dolls, and an Easy-bake oven. The Weebles and Lego and Strawberry Shortcake and Pooh pajamas. Tweety Bird sleepers and Dr. Seuss videos. Purple plastic bracelets and silver wigs, sneakers that lit up with red LED’s when a girl danced. The solid things were the only believable reminders of Mattie, because memory clung not to her smile in the sunshine but to her face in the fire.

“Jake, I can’t talk to Chief Davidson anymore. She suspects something.”

“It won’t be much longer. The SBI has run about every test they have. They’ll have to close the case soon, and we’ll get our money.”

“It’s not ours, though. You want to give it to Joshua.”

A car came up the road behind them, slowing as it passed the driveway. Jacob glanced in the rearview mirror. The Nelsons from 217, who lived around the corner. Their house had a thousand square feet less of floor space than the one he’d built here. With the insurance money, he could build an even larger one, an envy-inspiring Wells monument that would be three stories and—

He wouldn’t rebuild here. This wasn’t his home anymore. He belonged in Joshua’s house. And Joshua would get the two million, money from the fire and Mattie. Fair was fair. Jacob opened the door and got out of the car.

The air carried a faint charred aroma in its heavy dampness. If he’d believed in spirits, he could imagine Mattie hovering over the bed of dead embers, picking among the ruins for the ghosts of toys. He touched his face, recalled the searing heat that must have been ten times as intense to her. The fire had robbed her of oxygen, suffocating her in its selfish consumption. The greedy fingers of flames had stroked and groped and seized, had pulled all that lay before it into its arms.

The fire had risen from a muted spark and swelled to a stubborn, hungry thing. The fire refused to recognize its limits. Therefore, it was the fire’s fault, not his.

Never his.

Because a Wells never fails.

Renee came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. He shivered. She had always been colder than Carlita. “Jacob, what are we going to do?”

“Wait.”

“But what happens after that? M & W is wiped out.”

“The partnership can declare bankruptcy. The claimants can’t touch the insurance money. That’s mine.”

“Ours. A joint asset.”

“Ours.” The word had lost most of its meaning. Still, if she wanted to believe in a fantasy future, it would make things that much simpler. Betrayal worked best when it came as a surprise. Enemies were the only people you could trust, because they were predictable. The only trouble was figuring out which ones were enemies.

“Why did your brother come back?”

“He’s a Wells. He’s part of me.” In a way that Renee would never be. Her blood, no matter how hot it ran or how much of it spilled for him, would never have the purity of Joshua’s. Even Mattie and Christine were diluted, only half Wells.

“Somebody knows, Jake.”

“Nobody knows.”

She pulled the Rock Star Barbie out of her purse. “Remember this?”

The fire, laying on the floor, screaming “Wish me” against the crackling chorus of flames. “Mattie’s doll.”

Renee triggered its audio chip and it bleated “Housewarming present.”

“Some kid playing a joke, maybe. Some drunk. Or crazy bum.” Not like him. Not him.

“I found it in the woods.”

“Forget it. Nobody saw nothing.”

“Let me show you something,” she said.

Jacob looked up the road, half expecting to see Davidson round the corner in her fat-wheeled SUV, all chrome and insignia and fog lights. If she smelled arson, she would hang the crime on somebody. And an arson that caused a child’s death would be a second degree murder charge at a minimum.