All eyes turned to the man who stood in the doorway. He wore a white coat; his hair was short, tinged gray at the temples. To Peyton’s shock and joy, her brother Andrew stood there, alive and well. Peyton wanted to cry at the sight of him, to rush to him and hug him. But the words he said next crushed her, shattered her heart.

“She didn’t do it, Peyton. I did.”

Chapter 121

Chapter 121

Time seemed to stand still. With Avery tucked safely behind him, Desmond studied Conner’s badly burned face. A gust of wind caught the tall man’s long blond hair, pulling it back like a curtain, revealing more of the mottled flesh. Desmond now knew how Conner had gotten the hideous injuries.

At the remains of Desmond’s childhood home, he had recalled the full memory of that day in 1983 when his home had burned.

That morning when he awoke, he had rushed into the kitchen, where his mother sat in a chair, holding Desmond’s infant brother: Conner. The baby was smiling—in fact, Conner always seemed to be smiling or laughing. Their father had often remarked that the boy cried a great deal less than Desmond, and because of that, they might be getting another sibling. Desmond had hoped so. He was as taken with his younger brother as his parents were. But that morning, he had paid the infant no attention at all. He had stuffed his face full of eggs and toast spread with Vegemite and beaten a path out the door.

Later that day, when the flames were devouring the home, he had screamed Conner’s name before running into the blaze. The desire to get his mother and his baby brother out of the home drove him on as the fire burned his legs and the smoke strangled him until he could go no farther. He had failed both of them that day, and that failure had haunted Desmond his entire life.

In April of 2003, he had gone to Australia to visit his family’s grave, to lay a wreath there on the twentieth anniversary of the bushfires. He had expected to see a grave marker for Conner, but there wasn’t one. That sparked Desmond’s curiosity—and hope. He spent weeks in Adelaide, tracking down old records. He hired the best private investigator in the country, and the second best. The cost was exorbitant. He paid for endless travel, record requests, and attorney fees for court proceedings when records were withheld. Finally, he learned the truth: their mother had saved Conner in an act of breathtaking bravery and sacrifice. She had cleared the wood and ashes out of the fireplace, then set Conner inside it. She had rolled the refrigerator close, then tipped it over to cover the fireplace’s opening.