Page 32 of These Witches Don't Burn
Which means I am beyond screwed.
Before Benton can object, I set him on the bottom step and race down the wrecked hall. Movement flashes out of the corner of my eye. A shadow slips into the kitchen. A door slams. I have to know who it was, how much they saw. I pump my legs faster, flying around the corner into the kitchen.
It’s empty.
A string of curses spills from my lips. If they make it to the crowd of students out front, I may never figure out who they are.
As I grab the door, a shadow falls over me. Huge and looming. I reach for my magic, ready to attack, but it’s like stretching a pulled muscle. I hiss in a pained breath and tense as the shadow grabs me by the upper arm and drags me out of the house.
“Is anyone else in there?”
I look up and find a fireman attached to my arm, and I let out a relieved sigh. “Benton. He’s still inside. On the bottom step.” I force out the words, but the rest of my brain curses myself again. I shouldn’t have put out the flames completely. How will the fire department explain that?
The man beside me repeats Benton’s location into his radio and shoves me toward the front of the house. He deposits me in the back of an ambulance. “Stay here.”
I’m fine. But I can’t very well tell him that. The paramedics shove an oxygen mask on my face and shine a light in my eyes. They take my blood pressure and search my exposed limbs for burns. When they’re convinced I’m okay, they wrap a blanket around my shoulders and take the mask away.
“Miss Walsh,” a deep voice says. “Why am I not surprised?”
I look up. A man in a smart gray suit steps into view. “Detective Archer? What are you doing here?”
He ignores me and turns to the EMTs instead. “Is she all right?”
The paramedics nod. “Seems fine, sir,” the taller one says.
“Good.” Something flashes in the light of the ambulance. Cold metal encases my wrist. Clicks tight. “If you don’t mind, Miss Walsh, I need you to step out of the truck.” He helps me outof the ambulance and tugs my arms behind my back. The coldness encircles my other wrist.
And then my brain registers what’s happening.
Those are handcuffs.
Detective Archer puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me away from the ambulance. “Miss Walsh, you’re coming with me.”
“What?” I ask, heart hammering, mind racing. “Why?”
Detective Archer guides me forward. “Arson.”
•••
The crowd stares in silent judgment as Detective Archer leads me to his car in handcuffs. Flashing lights illuminate classmates whose expressions range from shocked disbelief to devastated rage. Nolan stands with his friends, leaning against his SUV. A murderous look shadows his face when he notices my arms cuffed behind my back.
I search the crowd for Gemma. For Morgan or even Evan. Anyone who will see me and know this fire was not my doing. Instead, I only find Veronica at the front of the crowd, standing beside Savannah and a few of their friends from cheerleading. Veronica’s eyes are wide, and her lips shape into an apology, but she doesn’t try to help.
If she had checked to make sure there weren’t any Regs upstairs before she used her magic to calm the flames, if she hadn’t tried to cover her tracks by restarting the fire, none of this would have happened. Benton’s lungs wouldn’t be filled with smoke. I wouldn’t be in handcuffs. She had better hope Savannah didn’t notice anything strange.
Like an entire house fire going out in a matter of seconds...
Shame and worry and not a small amount of panic fight for dominance in my head. How am I going to explain how the fire died? My grandmother will murder me if she finds out—she reminded me just last week not to interfere with Regs. While I can’t agree that I should have let Benton die in there, I understand more than ever why that’s always been her rule.
I should have done something withwater. Given the choice between literal magic and an unlikely but non-witchy explanation, Regs never jump to the mystical, not in any serious way. But I didn’t leave the firefighters any clues for a reasonable explanation.
My inner monologue continues in a stream of self-loathing curses as Detective Archer leads me to a dark sedan and helps me into the backseat. My arms protest, my shoulders straining from the awkward angle the cuffs have forced them into. There’s no way I’ll be able to put on my seat belt like this.
As if that matters right now. At all.
The detective closes my door and heads for the driver’s side. He’s so tall he practically has to fold himself in half to fit into the front seat. He watches me a moment in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the Abbotts’ driveway.
“Miss Walsh,” he says as houses zoom past the windows, “care to explain why you tried to burn down that house?”
