Chapter 3: The Night of the Circus Fire

Even as a detective, that night more than twenty years ago became a nightmare I could never shake.

I’ve woken up sweating more nights than I care to admit, the echoes of that night flickering across my mind like an old movie I can’t turn off.

That day, a friend had gotten two tickets, saying a circus was performing in town, and invited me to go with him that night.

I remember hesitating. I hadn’t seen a circus since I was a kid, but the lure of nostalgia won out. Besides, how could I say no to a friend?

That evening, my friend and I arrived at the town square on time.

The place buzzed with excitement—families eating funnel cakes, kids running wild, the lights of the Ferris wheel blinking against the twilight. I could smell popcorn and sawdust in the air.

After a few acts, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, accompanied by gentle piano music, was hoisted up by wires and slowly rose into the air.

She looked impossibly light, her dress swirling as she spun, eyes fixed on a point above our heads as if she was dancing for something only she could see.

She wore a white dress, elegant and graceful, spinning and dancing above the audience.

There was a hush over the crowd—a rare kind of silence that falls when something beautiful is happening.

Just as everyone was entranced by her beauty—

Time seemed to slow. I could see her arms outstretched, her toes pointed, the glint of sweat on her brow under the harsh circus lights.

A spark suddenly flashed on her body, and in an instant, she was engulfed in flames.

It was like a nightmare come alive—a bright, roaring fireball in midair. People gasped, frozen in place. The smell of burning fabric and hair was sharp and awful—something you never forget.

That ball of fire plummeted to the ground, crashing heavily and continuing to burn.

The impact was sickening. I can still hear the crack of her body hitting the dirt, the fire licking at her hair and dress.

Immediately, the audience erupted in screams.

A child began sobbing in the row behind me; someone else shouted for help, their voice cracking with panic.

I forced my way through the crowd, rushing to try to save her.

The crowd was a wall of bodies, but I shoved my way through, my heart hammering in my ears. For a split second, I thought maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance.

But it was already too late.

The fire had done its work. The paramedics arrived, but there was nothing left to save.

She was burned beyond recognition; only later did I learn she had doused herself, inside and out, with gasoline.

The coroner would later confirm what I already knew. That scene haunted me for years.

The next morning, every mailbox in town had a copy of the local paper—front page, nothing but fire and tragedy.