Hate.

“Dad was asleep in his chair, snoring a little. I thought about waking him up, didn’t want to leave him there because then he’d get in the doghouse with Mom. But the table was covered with cards and beer bottles. I drank out of one but didn’t like the taste. Someone had left out a pack of cigarettes.

“I opened up the pack and inside were two . . . and a book of matches. I’d seen Dad strike a match before but never tried for myself. The first one didn’t light, but the second did. I watched the flame until it burned my fingers and then shook it out. The next one I dropped and it sparked a fire. They’d been keeping score on the table and there were crumpled sheets of paper everywhere. I tried to wake up Dad but he didn’t budge. The flames covered the table, bigger and bigger, and I didn’t know what to do. I ran to the kitchen and got a cup of water, but the splash didn’t do a thing.

“That’s when I went upstairs and got Mom. She was fast asleep and didn’t wake easily. Said I was having a nightmare and to go back to bed. I kept shaking her and finally she got angry and yelled at me. But by then the smoke was already coming up the stairs. She got to your room,” he told his brothers. “Pulled Archer out of bed and told Sawyer he’d have to walk. Both of you were sleepwalking and started throwing temper tantrums. When we got to the stairs, there were flames closing in but still room to get out the front door. Mom shepherded us outside a safe distance from the house. Asked me to hold both your hands, then she went back for Dad.

“I begged her not to go. Not to leave us. But she said Dad was in there. She said everything would be okay. She promised. And I believed her. She always kept her word.

“It was an old house. The fire must have gotten inside the walls. Everything destabilized fast. I didn’t know it then. I was just a kid. You two were crying and I was just staring at that door, willing them to come back. To be safe.

“Finally the door swung open and I knew everything would be okay. I might be in trouble forever but everything would be fine.

“That’s when the roof collapsed. Through the open door came Mom’s scream. It . . . it didn’t last long, only a few seconds, but I’ve never been able to get the sound out of my head.”

And then he could say no more. Only bury his head in his hands.

“Oh, Wilder,” Quinn said.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Sawyer asked after a moment.

“No one knew the cause of the blaze,” Grandma said. “The official ruling was that my son must have fallen asleep smoking. Wilder confessed everything to me that night but I told him never to speak of it. I hoped he’d forget in time.”

“I never could.” Wilder choked. “I can still see it like I was there.”

“It was wrong of me not to let you talk it out,” Grandma said. “But that’s not the way I was raised. It’s not what I know. Feelings weren’t things you shared; they are things you keep out of sight. A private matter.”

“I killed our parents,” Wilder said. “I killed our parents and hated myself. Eventually I had to leave Brightwater. The guilt got too much to bear. I figured, out of sight, out of mind. You’d all forget about me in time. What good could I bring you? I’d torn from your life the two people you loved the best in the world.”

“Stop talking like that. Stop it right now.” Grandma crossed the room and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “You were six years old and had an accident. I didn’t know what to do and made the wrong choice. Once you got bigger, I realized that you wanted to fight the world to get people to react and punish you. And what did I do? I came down harder. Threatened you. Told you I’d ship you off to military school. And then you did leave and I realized what a damn fool I’d been. I’ve lived with that regret for a long time, Wilder, and I will live with it for as many years are left to me.

“What your father did was stupid, leaving cigarettes and matches out. Drinking too much when he had three little boys. He loved you all but he had a reckless streak a mile wide.”

“I’m sorry.” Wilder looked around the room. “I’m sorry I never manned up and told you. I could barely speak the words to myself.”

There was the sound of a chair sliding back. Sawyer walked toward him, his boots loud against the floor. His brother pulled off his hat and threw it down on his desk.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“Throw a punch, I can take it,” Wilder said. “Do what you need to do. I owe you a lot more than that.”

Annie rushed forward and Sawyer held up a hand. “I don’t want to hit you.” He rubbed his stomach for a moment. “Shit. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

“There’s nothing I can do to make it up to you.”

“No. That’s not it. Wilder, I don’t blame you. You were just a kid, the same age as Atticus.”

All eyes turned to the little boy who had taken out a Matchbox car and was pushing it along the bench lost in his imaginary Formula 1 race.

“It hurts to know that’s what’s been eating at your insides for so long.”

“You don’t . . . hate me?” Wilder couldn’t believe that he didn’t see anger in Sawyer’s face, only sadness.

“Hell no,” Archer said. “And you either, Grandma. What happened to our family was a tragedy, but Wilder was too young to understand what he was doing and, Grandma, you handled the situation how you thought best. In hindsight it was a mistake, but you acted out of love for Wilder. You hoped he’d forget and move on.”

Grandma nodded, stiffly. “My heart wasn’t as tender as it should have been. But know this, I loved you boys with every ounce of strength in this skinny body.”

“And we love you, Grandma.” Archer slung his arm around her narrow shoulders and pecked her cheek. Sawyer did the same. Then they both looked at Wilder.

“I heard you and your grandma fighting,” Garret said. All heads swiveled to him; Wilder had forgotten he was even there.

“After our fight at the fair, my mom sent me to apologize to you. I heard you and your grandma arguing in the barn. You said, ‘You know I burned the house down and killed my parents. I did that. Me.’ ”

Grandma shook her head. “It was the only time we ever spoke of it.”

“I thought you were a killer, man,” Garret said. “When you came back into town covered in burns, I was suspicious. Then the fires started.”

“Sawyer said you were almost always first on the scene,” Wilder said.

“That’s true, but there aren’t many of us on the Brightwater force. It’s not hard to be the first responder.”

Wilder raked a hand through his hair. “If it wasn’t you setting the fires, and it wasn’t me, then who the fuck was it?”

Sawyer shook his head. “I’ll call ATF tomorrow morning and light one hell of a fire under their ass, pardon the pun. We can’t have some sort of nut job running around town setting fires.”

“Guys, PG language, please,” Annie said, reaching out to take Sawyer’s hand and nodding at Atticus.

Wilder rubbed his chin. “I still think it’s someone associated with the fire department.”

Garret shook his head. “Besides me, every other guy is a family man. What would be the motive?”

“To be a hero.” Wilder leaned back with a frown. “Or make one of you the hero.”

Quinn stepped forward. “What about Lenny?”

“What about Lenny?” Garret scoffed, wrinkling his brow. “He might be a joker, but he’s also a friend. Plus no way does he have it in him.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Wilder glanced over at Quinn with dawning awareness. “You’re a genius.”

She winked. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“You’re modest.”

“Are you serious? Lenny?” Garret glanced between them as if they’d each sprouted an extra head and announced an intention to take up tap-dancing. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Think about it. He was your lap dog all through high school,” Wilder said. “Always idolized you. What better way to set up a hero than to make him someone the whole town can get behind?”