Grilling the Subject by Daryl Wood Gerber

father—”
    â€œCary killed my Sylvia.”
    I stared daggers at Ronald. “He. Did. Not. Do. This.”
    Cinnamon touched my shoulder. “Jenna, calm down.”
    â€œI will not calm down.” I wriggled away. “You know my father.”
    â€œRonald saw him.”
    â€œWhere?” I flailed a hand. “When?”
    â€œRunning away from the blaze.”
    â€œNot possible. No way.” My heart was chugging so fast I could barely breathe.
    â€œYou said you called your father.”
    â€œYes. I didn’t reach him.”
    â€œText him.”
    â€œIf you’re so eager to find him, why don’t you text him?”
    â€œJenna.”
    â€œFine,” I snapped like a disgruntled teenager. Raw emotions were hard to curb, even at the ripe age of thirty. I pulled out my cell phone and typed a text to Dad: Where R U? He didn’t respond. I showed the screen of my cell phone to Cinnamon and said, “While we wait, tell me everything, from the beginning.”
    She blinked back tears, and suddenly I realized how hard she was taking this. She adored my father. He had been her mentor. At my mother’s insistence, he had rescued Cinnamon when she, speaking of bad teenage habits, was heading down a path toward juvie. “Around six A.M. , Mr. Gump—”
    â€œRonald—”
    â€œWakened to the smell of smoke. He hobbled to the window and saw the blaze. He called the fire department, too.”
    â€œToo?”
    â€œA team had already been dispatched.”
    â€œWho called it in first?”
    â€œI told you. An anonymous caller.”
    â€œLet’s hear it for good citizens.”
    Cinnamon’s mouth quirked up, but there was no humor in the smile. “Mr. Gump . . . Ronald . . . saw your father fleeing in a red plaid jacket.”
    â€œDid he actually see Dad? Did he make out his features at that hour of the morning? Lots of people own red plaid jackets.”
    Cinnamon’s nose narrowed as she drew in a breath and let it out. “Jenna, I’m on your side. I’m on your father’s side, too.”
    â€œGood to know.” I worked my jaw back and forth.
    â€œWhoever was in the jacket fled over the crest, right near your father’s house.”
    My insides drew into a knot.
    â€œThe crew arrived,” Cinnamon continued, “and they went to work to put out the blaze. By that time, my team and I had arrived. Once the fire was out, we saw the charred remains of Sylvia.” She sighed. “Ronald told the crew your father and Sylvia argued on the telephone Sunday night. Ronald said Cary—your father—told Sylvia to
burn in hell
.”
    I flapped a hand. “Sylvia said it first.”
    â€œSo you heard this exchange?”
    I blanched. Open mouth, insert foot. Dang.
    â€œJenna?”
    â€œIt was during our regular Sunday night dinner,” I said. Cinnamon had joined us a few times for our weekly meal. She was considered family. “Sylvia was throwing a loud party. Dad phoned her. She screamed at him. He was simply echoing what she said.”
    â€œRonald mentioned that.”
    â€œSylvia is . . .
was
trying to usurp this property.” I pointed at the charred area. “Lots of people in the neighborhood had a beef with her about it. In fact, all of them got together to discuss what to do about it.”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œI don’t know. Ask Ava.” I gulped. The musty smell of damp smoldering hillside made me want to heave. I pressed down the impulse.
    â€œI heard your father took Sylvia on at the gas station, too.”
    â€œSays who?”
    â€œBucky.” Cinnamon’s boyfriend, the hunky fireman. “I believe Sylvia retorted: ‘Over my dead body.’”
    I moaned. “She was buying fuel, like for a barbecue. Dad warned her not to put on another party, and she—” I glanced at the scorched area and wild,