“I was crazy to get involved in this case.”

He shakes his head, his eyes on the great column of smoke rising into the sky. “Gutless sons of bitches . . . laid hands on my granddaughter. If I find the man who did this, I’ll flay him alive.”

“Do you know anything about Ruby’s condition?”

He sighs heavily. “They carried her to St. Catherine’s Hospital. Peter Carelli’s in the ER with her now. It doesn’t look good. Massive third-degree burns, a broken hip. The helicopter’s on its way from Jackson. I’m about to go over there.”

“We’ll follow you as soon as Mom gets back.”

He nods absently, watching the water pour onto the ruin that sheltered our family for thirty-five years.

“Dad, the library—”

“I know. No point thinking about it now. Right now we worry about the living.” He looks down at me, his eyes flinty and cold. “This is the crossroads, son. We back off or we go forward. It’s your call. I’ll back you either way.”

Go forward? After this? “Let’s just find Mom and get to the hospital.”

He nods. “I’ll see you there.”

The treatment room in the ER is crowded but quiet. The muted beeps of monitors punctuate the hushed voices like metronomes. Ruby lies at the center of the room, a technological still life surrounded by doctors, nurses, a respiratory therapist, and my father. I move closer, straightening the scrub shirt a nurse brought me to replace the shirt I lost in the fire. Two large-bore IV lines are pouring fluids into Ruby’s arms, and oxygen is being pumped into her lungs through a mask. Her mostly nude body is exposed to the air, the parts ravaged by fire—her right arm, shoulder, trunk, and both legs—bathed in Silvadene ointment. She was apparently wearing some sort of synthetic dress that caught fire and melted into her skin. The helicopter ambulance summoned from Jackson is under orders to whisk her to the burn center in Greenville as soon as it arrives, but my father doubts she’ll survive to make the flight.

“Let my son in here,” Dad says, and the white coats part for me.

My first reaction is horror. Ruby’s dentures have been removed and this makes her face look like a sunken death mask. Her black wig is also gone, leaving a thin snowy frizz atop her head. Her eyes are closed, her respiration labored. She looks like a dying woman photographed in some plague-stricken African village.

“Is she conscious?”

“She was until a minute ago,” Dad replies. “She’s in and out now. Mostly out. In her condition, it’s a blessing.”

One of Ruby’s hands is undamaged, and I move around the table and take it, squeezing softly. “Did Mom talk to her?”

“A little. Ruby had a panic attack, and Peggy calmed her down.”