Gertrude stood motionless at the counter, as though she were remembering it, too.
“From the top of the basement stairs, you could have thrown a Molotov cocktail against the brick wall. The explosion would have set off the other bombs on the workbench.”
Gertrude remained still.
“You would have had a couple of seconds to get out before the explosions reached the stairs,” Diana said. “You could have run out through the mudroom, then out the back door.”
Gertrude seemed to awaken. She looked back at Diana. “But they found my remains.”
“Because you planted them, didn’t you?” Diana said. “The fires burned for six days, so no one was able to search the wreckage. What did you do? Cut off your finger and braid? Scorch them along with your clothes and go back to leave them in the ruins?”
“I see you’ve become an ace detective, too.” Gertrude’s voice sounded tired.
“Then you disappeared, hating Larry, hating Jonathan, and hating me. Waiting for the right moment to destroy each of us, because we took away your voice.”
Gertrude picked up one of the Molotov cocktails and took a lighter from her pocket.
Diana knew nothing she could do or say would stop Gertrude from fulfilling what she saw as her destiny.
Gertrude lit the rag in the bottle. “You got it right, Di, except for one little thing.” She drew her arm back, the bottle clasped in her hand. “I wasn’t the one who blew up the brownstone.”
What was she saying?
Gertrude let out a laugh that could have been a cry. She flung the flaming bottle toward the wall above the counter, as she sang out, “April Fool!”
CHAPTER 51
The fireball burst over the kitchen counter, hypnotizing Diana for barely an instant.
Ethan! she thought, dropping to the floor.
The second, louder explosion came a fraction of a second later, the force of it crushing her chest. Something flew across the room, as plaster and glass fell all around her. Then Diana could no longer hear anything, just shrill, high-pitched ringing.
But she was alive. She was still alive.
Something over her head was trapping her. She rolled away. The coffee table had protected her from the worst.
Ethan . . . she had to get to him.
Smoke burned her eyes as she felt around for a piece of broken glass and cut through the binding on her wrists, then ankles, trying not to breathe.
She covered her mouth and nose with her blouse and crawled behind the sofa toward the door, barely able to see through the thick smoke. Flames shot up around her, the floor shifted beneath her.
Ethan. Where was Ethan?
Something was lying in a heap. Red and blue and white.
The little boy on the tricycle. She had to save him.
She crept toward him on hands and knees.
The head was wrong, eyes wide open, neck broken, blood pouring from his face. Diana stared into his blue eyes.
Not the little boy. Gertrude.
The hot air was crushing her. Flames bursting. Ringing in her head like a relentless siren.
The little boy. She needed to save the little boy.
Di’s head was filled with cotton, so no sound could break through. Only a shrill, high-pitched ringing. She ran from the brownstone as the ground fell from beneath her. She turned to see bricks flying through the air, the building collapsing.
On the sidewalk, a red tricycle. Near it, something blue, white, and red. The little boy.
Di crawled toward him. She needed to save the little boy. Something warm was running down her check, in her eye. The ringing sound screamed in her head.
She picked up the child and tried to run, but her feet were trapped in quicksand. The boy—he was so very heavy. She heaved her legs away from the smoke and fires and flying debris.
“You’re going to be all right,” she said to the bundle in her arms. She pulled herself down the street, past two people huddled by the stoop of another brownstone. A flash of white. A flash of black. Something familiar about them.
She kept dragging herself forward, the warm wetness in her mouth, in her eyes so she could no longer see. The ringing so loud that all she wanted to do was scream. Then she became weightless as she fell into darkness.
Diana coughed. She stretched out her arms and thrashed the air. She had to get to Ethan, but the darkness was too thick.
And there was nothing to break her fall.
CHAPTER 52
Aubrey felt it before she heard it. A tremor beneath her feet. Then came a blast so loud, so sudden, that even from a hundred feet away where she stood with Smolleck, the sound reverberated through her body.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes off the small building that seemed to swell as though it had just taken a shallow breath. Hundreds of cracks appeared in the walls as windows burst out of their frames and mustard-colored stucco fell to the ground.
Blinding lights flashed in the downstairs apartment.
Aubrey found her voice. “Mama!” she screamed.
Something was restraining her arm, keeping her from running toward the exploding building, where black smoke flowed out like lava.
“Mama!” she cried, trying to run. “Let me go. Let me go!”
Someone pulled her back. He was stronger than she. She looked up. Smolleck.
“Aubrey. We have to get away from here. Now!”
She took deep breaths. Calm down, she willed herself. She stopped fighting him and went slack.
He eased his grip.
And then she took off and ran toward the building.
“Aubrey, stop!”
She didn’t know whether he was following her, but she sprinted toward the building, charged with adrenaline.
She yanked on the outer door and ran into the building. Smoke poured into the hallway, coming out of the apartment on the right. She covered her mouth and nose, ducked down low, and tried not to inhale. Part of the wall to the apartment was missing. She stepped through the torn gap. Flames shot up where the kitchen had been. The outer wall of the building was gone, and part of the upper floor dangled above her.
She searched through the haze for her mother.
Two bodies were lying on the floor, head to head.