Girl on Fire - Chapter 1: “Rachel”
Rachel was the first person to discover the remains of a girl who’d fallen victim to a heinous murder. As the only eye witness to the tail end of the drama, Rachel knew that she could be in trouble, too. Could the man who’d screeched away in the van that morning have seen her watching? It didn’t help that the press had stupidly published Rachel’s name in connection to the story. For weeks after the murder, as the police continued to call it a hate crime, Rachel lived in a state of fear for her own life. Her nerves were shot from being on constant high alert, so she started eating a ton of CBD gummies to help her cope with her trauma. One day, stoned out of her mind, Rachel made an impulsive decision to buy a house that was priced well below market value. There was no way she could’ve known that this house would inextricably link her forever to the dead girl she’d found on the side of the road, the girl on fire.
This two-part story is fictional. Any resemblance to living people is coincidental.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
As she ran up the last hill before the turn to her parents’ house, Rachel saw a sudden, explosive flash of orange about 50 yards ahead of her. What the hell? It was 5:30 in the morning, dark and cool on a mid-October day in Austin, Texas. Rachel jerked to a stop, nearly falling. In the darkness, she was just able to discern a grayish van speed away with a sickening screech of tires. For a moment, Rachel was too alarmed to move and just stood there, breathing hard. She could see that the orange flash was quickly turning into a fire. What if it spread and the surrounding houses got burned up? She took a last ragged breath and leaped forward, pumping legs that felt as if they were made of clay.
The fire was on a grassy verge by the side of the road. Rachel felt its heat as she approached.
She smelled gasoline – and something else, a kind of barbecue smell that made her stomach contract. She bent over to have a closer look. A female body lay there; Rachel could just discern strands of hair as red as her own, and the glint of a chain around the woman’s neck. She had the feeling the woman was young, about her age, early thirties. But perhaps that was projection, a fear that whatever had happened to this person could happen to her.
She didn’t have her phone on her – stupid!!! Breathing heavily, she took one last look, then turned and veered down the road that led to her parents’ very grand house, which she was house sitting while they were away in Israel. Inside the front hall, she tore off her hoodie and soggy T-shirt, throwing them on the floor as she raced to the kitchen for a cold bottle of water. She guzzled thirstily before snatching her phone from the counter and dialing 911. Somehow she managed to answer questions – Where are you? What’s your name? Are you all right? – and it seemed like she’d barely hung up when she heard the wail of sirens.
For a few days she felt special and famous. The police interviewed her and so did the press, but the press took photos, which she begged them not to publish. (Of course they didn’t listen to her.) She was a pretty girl, tall with bright red curly hair that went halfway down her back and large breasts that she was thinking of having made smaller since their weight hurt her shoulders.
In the week following the fire she stayed home, too traumatized to leave the house beyond running simple errands. The police had no idea who the murdered girl was, nor, of course, who had committed the crime. But they had a possible motive. A Star of David was found by the body, and it only took a small leap to consider the burnt girl a victim of a hate crime. That made Rachel increasingly nervous. Although she had asked not to be identified, her name had somehow been leaked and now she was publicly associated with the event. Normally outgoing and confident, Rachel shrank from all the publicity and just wanted to hide. On top of everything else, a massacre of partygoers had just occurred in Israel, sparking a new land war, and Rachel was frantic with worry for her parents who were there visiting her sister in Tel Aviv.
This was the first time Rachel had spent more than a few days at her parents’ house since leaving for college.
For the past five years, she and her boyfriend, Lars (whom she was supposed to marry in a big wedding the following year) had been living in Seattle, but Lars had just accepted a job as a software engineer in Austin that was set to begin the next month. That was the other reason Rachel was in Austin: to find a house for them to live in.
Couldn’t be too small, couldn’t be too big, had to have curb appeal and at least three bedrooms and preferably a view over the greenbelt. Not an easy combination since they were limited in funds. Rachel, who’d majored in commerce and merchandising at the University of Wisconsin, worked remotely as a business analyst for a large firm. The work was difficult and required four or five hours of intense concentration, but at least Rachel was free to manage her time. Obviously she didn’t mind staying in her parents’ luxurious home (the bathrooms with their deep tubs and soft lighting!); the only problem was that the house had tall glass windows on all sides and Rachel couldn’t be disabused of the notion that, unless she was careful, people could see in and watch her as she drank tea in the kitchen or lay reading on one of the living room couches. For this reason, Rachel installed herself in a room they used as a den on the second floor that had no windows.
In the week after the fire, Rachel began to drive around looking at houses. At this point, she didn’t want to involve a realtor, just wanted to tool around at whim. Her parents lived in an exclusive neighborhood filled with steep hills and canyons. It wasn't a neighborhood Rachel could afford, but it was the area she preferred and she hoped to find something that at least approximated it. But as she drove around the northwest side of Austin, all she saw with For Sale signs were duds – shabby houses with awkward lines and front yards that were too small or lacked proper driveways or only had a few scraggly trees and would need expensive landscaping. She began within a few short days to feel defeated and had to remind herself that it was supposed to be fun looking for houses. But there wasn’t a single property she saw that she could imagine herself living in, and that – perhaps exaggerated by the horror of the fire – led to feelings of hopelessness and despair. All she really wanted to do was lock herself up in her parents’ house and be left alone.
This made sense.
The perpetrator had no idea how much she had seen or how much she knew, and this put her in danger. What if he broke into the house while she was sleeping and shot her dead?
That could easily happen: a man dressed in black, face hidden behind a ski mask, slipping into the house and climbing noiselessly up the stairs to the room where she lay scrunched in a ball, terrified. She counseled herself severely to stop thinking these thoughts, but at night she was petrified and slept with a sharp kitchen knife under her pillow. She had no faith that the guy couldn’t disable the burglar alarm, but still kept it on at all times, even when she was in the house, working or watching TV.
She didn’t want to seem like a baby but wished Lars could leave his current job immediately and come stay with her at her parents’ house till they found their own place. This was impossible, of course, so she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps she should have therapy? Not an appealing idea, though she certainly could use medication to lighten the mood. Instead Rachel treated herself to a stiff Scotch every night and ate a ton of CBD gummies (which didn’t do anything but make her dizzy). If she didn’t have to work so hard, she would have smoked pot and gone around stoned all day. But that would have made her even more paranoid.
She was in a state of high alert about her family in Israel and her own personal safety and that lent an air of urgency to everything she undertook.
One day, as Rachel was driving down Shoal Creek stoned out of her mind, she saw a house with a For Sale sign and knew it was the one she had dreamed of. Unless it was the drugs misleading her.
From the outside, at least, it had all the things she wanted: a big front yard, nice architectural lines, lots of trees, plus it was fenced in and backed up to the greenbelt. It would need some work – the windows would have to be replaced and she would want a new front door – but otherwise it seemed perfect. She photographed the realtor’s sign and decided to call him right away.
The name on the sign said “The Naser Group.” A man with a gruff voice answered. “I’m interested in a house you have listed on Shoal Creek Boulevard,” Rachel said.
“Ah yes, you must mean 4116, three bedrooms, two baths.”
“That’s right,” said Rachel. “What’s the price on that?”
“Asking price is $450,000, but of course that can be negotiated.”
Rachel knew enough about housing prices to realize that $450,000 was well beneath market value for the neighborhood. Maybe she was so stoned that she hadn’t heard right? “$450,000?” she repeated in a dazed voice. “That’s kind of, um, cheap, isn’t it?”
“Owner’s in a hurry to sell.”
“I’d like to see it,” Rachel said.
“Of course,” said the realtor. “I could set something up for tomorrow.”
“No, I want to see it now,” Rachel said, too anxious to wait.
At the other end of the phone, there was a loud sigh. “Okay, I could meet you there in twenty minutes.”
Rachel spent the next twenty minutes on the phone, researching skin creams and cosmetics. After a while, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up and a man in a dark, well-cut suit stepped out. He was probably in his forties, but wore aviator sunglasses so it was hard to tell. Before they even shook hands, Rachel could smell his cologne. “Let’s go this way,” he said, walking swiftly toward the house. Rachel followed, noting his slim body and erect posture, a well-dressed, handsome man who was extremely sure of himself and professional. Inside the house, he showed her around, pointing out brand new kitchen appliances, a newly built deck, ultra modern bathrooms, skylights that made the place bright and airy. There was barely any furniture, just a couch, a glass coffee table and two thickly cushioned armchairs. Rachel twirled around, mouth open as she studied the walls, windows, flooring. The back deck had an excellent view over the greenbelt. The place was perfect, even had palmettos and a big old oak tree in front that she could imagine a child swinging from.
“Have many people looked at this place?” she asked the realtor.
“Yes, quite a few. I have a client who’s about to make a bid, so if you’re interested you’d better move fast.”
Rachel thought a minute. The drugs were beginning to wear off and she felt a little weak. “I’d have to talk to my fiance,” she said.
“Better do it quickly.”
Rachel nodded, but then changed her mind and said, “No, wait a minute. I’d like to start with the paperwork now.”
“You mean you want to buy the place? Don’t you want to think about it?”
“No, I know what I want and what I want is this.”
Six weeks later they were installed in the house. By then Rachel’s parents had returned from Israel and Lars had arrived in Austin. He was a handsome blond-haired man, the same age as Rachel, who loved playing soccer and couldn’t wait to start a family. The two had met in a wine bar in Seattle, something they liked to joke about since, from the beginning, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Lars didn’t actually see the house till just before the closing, but fell in love with it the same way Rachel had. They had their furniture shipped from Seattle and bought whatever else they needed from Ikea. Rachel acquired a new, shiny Honda CRV, not a fancy car but one that was reliable and she could easily get around in.
The memory of the fire had thankfully receded. By now the authorities knew who the dead girl was – Amanda Stern, PhD candidate in political science at the University of Texas – but they still had no idea who had killed her, or why, and continued to consider the murder a hate crime.
All they knew about Amanda was she came from Chicago, had excellent grades, didn’t have many friends, and lived in a tiny, cramped apartment in Hyde Park. She had recently come into a small inheritance and they figured her murder may have had to do with money, although that was never established. She was Jewish, but apparently not very religious, and that, certainly, must have contributed to her death as well. (The Star of David lying beside her body: had that been hers or had the killer planted it?)
Rachel and Lars luxuriated in their new house. Together they planned where to install a vegetable garden and new patio, and what color to paint the walls. The front door would be changed from red to green to match the tropical feel of the place. They were so happy! They quickly made friends with their neighbors, and as winter turned into spring threw joint barbeque parties in their various backyards. Their wedding was planned for the summer and Rachel was consumed with all the details – bridesmaids’ dresses, the cake, the flowers, the venue in Dripping Springs. She had never before been so content, and attributed her happy mood to the house, her hideaway, refuge and source of joy. What luck it had been to find it! She went around metaphorically pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
One Saturday afternoon in April, Lars was on the back patio having beers with his neighbors when one of them said, “You don’t mind living in a house where there’s been a murder?”
Lars’ face slowly drained of color. “What are you talking about?” he asked uneasily.
“You didn’t know?” said another neighbor.
“I … no, the realtor never said anything.”
“He should have disclosed that little detail,” said a third neighbor, who was himself a realtor. “A man went crazy and shot his wife because he thought she was having an affair. That was quite a number of years ago, but still …”
“It was pretty gruesome,” interjected the first neighbor. “Blood everywhere and the guy attempted to escape to Mexico but there was a big police chase and they caught him. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”
Lars’ head sank between his shoulders. He bit at his lip and tried to keep his limbs still and his body from trembling. The news upset him more than he could have imagined, and he wanted the neighbors to leave immediately so he could process the ghastly information. He told them he had some work to do and when they were gone went and sat in his little study. Through the window he could see the front garden with its towering oak tree and palmettos and bright flowers. This was Rachel’s fault, he told himself; she should have done her homework and researched every detail about the house, which he now knew he couldn’t live in. A murder here in his own home! He imagined the dark splatter of blood on the walls and the gathering pool of blood where the murdered woman lay, eyes open and glazed with fury and terror.
He could picture the husband pulling a gun and shooting her point blank, too deranged to worry about what would happen next. Had he perhaps caught her red handed, in his own bed, and then plotted the exact moment to kill her? How he must have hated his wife to do such a thing. And what if she’d been murdered in the same room where he and Rachel switched off the lights and made passionate love and then lay in the dark talking to one another in soft whispers? He couldn’t stand the thought of that, and suddenly felt so sick he leaned over and retched in his wastebasket.
Afterwards, he sat quietly for a while, too stunned to think. The one thing he knew was that he could no longer live in this house which he now absolutely believed was cursed. No wonder the place had been so cheap! What kind of person was the realtor, Adlan Naser, to not apprise them of the house’s sordid past? A person who wanted to make a quick buck, that was who. Lars’ hands tightened into fists. He wanted to rush out and accost Naser in his office, yell at the man that he wanted his money back. That would never happen, of course – the man was a sleaze, Lars had thought that the moment he met him, an Arab guy in wingtips and a fancy suit, hair oiled to lay down flat on his head and a wily smirk on his face.
By now Lars was in such a fury that he leapt from his desk, grabbed his car keys and ran from the house. Rachel wasn’t there to stop him. In the car he rehearsed what he was going to say, feeling more and more indignant and self righteous the closer he got to Naser’s office. When he was there, he jumped from the car without locking it and rushed through the handsome door of the Naser Group headquarters where Adlan Naser sat smiling behind his desk. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he yelled at the realtor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You sold us a house where a murder took place!”
“Yes. So what? The house is in perfect condition. You can’t be that superstitious.”
“Superstitious my ass! You should have told us. We bought the house in good faith and now we learn why it was so fucking cheap.”
“”Perhaps you should have done a little research,” Naser said smugly.
“And perhaps you should have been upfront!” spat Lars. “I want my money back.”
“Not possible,” said Naser. “There are no rules about selling a house with a difficult past.”
Lars’ blue eyes narrowed to slits. He grabbed his car keys from his pocket and threw them at the realtor’s head where they hit their mark, bouncing off Naser’s forehead, leaving a small gash.
Naser rose slowly from his desk, placing well-manicured fingers over the cut and feeling for blood. When he saw a tiny red streak, he dramatically pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and gingerly dabbed at the wound. “You need to leave,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice. “Right now, or I’ll call the police.”
“For what?” Lars said, sneering. “I’m the one who should call the police. You knowingly sold us a lemon.”
“That’s your problem,” said Naser. “Now get the hell out of here or I’ll charge you for assault.”
Lars knew there was nothing to be gained by staying at the realtor’s office, but he shouted: “I’ll make sure a lot of people hear about this!” as he stormed out the door.
At home, he confronted Rachel who’d driven out to the wedding venue in Dripping Springs to go over some details with the manager. “Did you know there was a murder in this house?” he asked sharply.
“Well, yes, but that was a long time ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lars shouted. By now he was really angry, his face an ugly mottled pink. “You should have told me! If I’d known, I’d never have agreed to buy this place.”
“Maybe that was why,” Rachel said in a small voice.
Lars’ face tightened with rage. “Oh, so you’ve been lying this whole time! What a great way to start a marriage. Well, you’d better listen to me because I definitely can’t live in this place. You can stay here by yourself, but I’m leaving!”
Rachel stared at him aghast. “You really mean that?” she stammered.
“Yes, I do. This place is cursed. I can’t unsee what happened in our bedroom. Even if we took the room apart and rebuilt it, I wouldn’t be able to get the image of that murdered woman out of my head.”
Now Rachel was angry. She reached up to grab Lars’ shoulders and brought her face close to his. “What are you, some kind of coward?” she hissed. “I had to deal with the horror of a girl – Jewish, like me – set on fire. That never got out of my mind and I had to learn to live with it. There are certain things we can’t control and this is one of them.”
“I’m leaving. That’s something I can control!”
“You mean you don’t want to get married anymore?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” Then he raced from the room, white-faced and shaking his head. Five minutes later, he was out the door with a small overnight bag. Rachel didn’t try to stop him. His parting words were, “I just can’t believe how you, whom I trusted, hid the truth from me.”
The next few days were a nightmare. Rachel couldn’t stop weeping. She tried, many times, to reach Lars, but he didn’t answer calls or emails. She felt like a broken person, a tragic and pathetic figure in a sloppy melodrama. Where should she go? What should she do? In the end, she decided to remain where she was until she’d regained some kind of composure.
Lars returned to pick up his things. He was decent enough to leave a lot of the furniture, but they didn’t have much to say to one another. Rachel’s immediate plan was to put the house on the market. Then she thought, Why should I?
She could pay the bills on her own, perhaps with a little help from her parents. She quickly canceled all the wedding plans, which was painful, but also a relief. She saged every corner of the house and bought a new bed. Went jogging every day, acquired a cute Bernedoodle puppy, cooked whatever she liked, and made lifelong friends with a woman who sat next to her at Starbucks. In time, she realized her sorrow had completely disappeared and she was now, thankfully, enthusiastic and happy. If Lars left her because of a dispute over a house, he had no place in her life. At a wedding that fall, she met another man, Simon Rosenthal, owner of a chain of shoe stores who was worth a lot of money. They could have moved into a mansion, but he loved the house as much as she did and that was where they settled. Eventually, they had a little boy whose favorite pastime was to soar back and forth on the swing they’d installed on one of the branches of the big old oak tree in the front yard. His small, buoyant face lifted Rachel’s heart till she felt a joy she could barely tolerate.
