Page 33 of These Witches Don't Burn
“I didn’t.” The urge to elaborate, to share more of the truth, is gone. Veronica’s lingering magic in the crystals must be fading. I shift in the backseat, but it does nothing to alleviate the strain in my shoulders. At least he’s asking about how the firestartedrather than how it went out.
Detective Archer watches me in the mirror, so focused he nearly misses his turn. At the last second, his GPS reminds himto take the next left, and he jerks the steering wheel, slamming me into the door.
“Watch it,” I snap.
The detective has the audacity to look apologetic. “Sorry. I don’t know the town all that well yet.”
“Don’t you have to call my parents before you talk to me? I’m a minor.”
“Sixteen?” he asks.
“Seventeen.”
In the front seat, Detective Archer taps the steering wheel but doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t you have to read my Miranda Rights before you actually charge me with anything?” I might not be an expert in police procedure and legal protections, but my dadisthe ADA. Miranda Rights are kind of a big deal.
In response, the detective glares at me and flips on the radio, drowning out my thoughts with classic rock. But despite the noise, the shadowy figure consumes my mind.
The fire could have been an accident, someone dropping a cigarette on the floor or spilling their beer on an active outlet. In which case, the person I saw running away was probably lost inside, unable to find a way out because of the smoke. But what if it was intentional? Who was the target? Every teen in Salem was there, more or less. Maybe someone trapped Benton upstairs intentionally. Or maybe someone was pissed at Nolan and wanted revenge.
By the time Detective Archer swings his cruiser into a parking spot in front of the police station, I still haven’t come up with any answers. He helps me from the car, and fresh air assaults my nose. I cringe; my clothes reek of smoke. In the station, officersswivel to look at me as the detective leads me past. Their noses crinkle at the smell. Some narrow their eyes, a silent judgment for what they think I’ve done. But the ones who recognize me because of my dad? Their eyes go wide with shock.
Detective Archer deposits me in a small room. Stains cover the once-white walls, scuff marks and dark splotches that remind me of blood.
The thick metal table in front of me boasts dents and scratches from violent arrestees. My chair wobbles on uneven legs, and the light above sways as the bulb flickers and buzzes, struggling through the last days of its life. Panic curls in my gut like a sleeping lion trying to ignore the pesky fly that is mystay calmmantra.
As if this space didn’t screamInterrogation Roomenough, a dull mirror covers the upper half of the wall across from me. I wonder how many people stand on the other side, watching me, observing me, deciding my fate long before I have a chance to defend myself.
Who knows what kind of bullshit motives they’re concocting to explain why I torched a classmate’s house. They’ll probably cast me as some jealous wannabe lover. I smirk at the absurdity of the thought. Me and Nolan? Excuse me while I vomit. I glance at my reflection, and even I have to admit I look a little guilty with my hair a mess, skin covered in soot, and a self-satisfied smile plastered on my face.
The clock behind me ticks on and on. Minutes stretch into hours. I shift in the chair, my shoulders aching from the way my wrists are still pinned behind my back. I glare at the mirror where I imagine Detective Archer would stand, just to his right of center.
“Did you want to chat at some point today? I do have a curfew to keep,” I say, calling back to my excuse last week after the bonfire.
Silence is my only answer.
Okay then... “Has anyone called my parents? Or a lawyer? Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that.”
The door swings open, and Detective Archer finally walks in. He sets a folder on the table in front of him. “Why? Do you need a lawyer?”
I scowl. “I don’t know. Are you charging me with anything?” I try to lean back, but it hurts my arms too much. “Can we not with the cuffs? My shoulders are killing me.”
The detective sighs, like he’s already exhausted by me. As if I’m the one who wants to be here so late. He stands and unlocks the cuffs, but he relocks them in front of me.
“Really?” I wince as my muscles adjust to the new position. Every inch of me is sore from putting out the fire. “It’s not like I pose a physical threat.”
“Let’s talk about the fires,” Detective Archer says, ignoring me. He flips open his folder and spreads write-ups and pictures in front of him.
“Fires? Plural?” I glance at the upside-down pictures before me, and it’s almost like the detective is reading my tarot cards. Except instead of images like the Tower or the Fool, he’s reading my fate in the mangled remains of a raccoon.
The detective nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “Two fires so far. We found you tampering with evidence at the bonfire last week. Tonight, a fireman found you inside a previously burning building, completely unharmed.” He leans forward, eyes narrow. “Care to explain yourself?”
I search for a plausible lie, but putting out the fire has left my body exhausted and my brain foggy. “Explain what?” I ask, reaching for a suitable truth instead. “I wasn’t the only one at both parties.”Besides, Evan’s the one who killed that raccoon.But I don’t say anything. Evan has enough problems without the police showing up at his house.
Detective Archer slides four photos so they’re faceup in front of me. He taps one on the left. “Look at the damage your little prank has done to this family.”
Even though I didn’t start the fire, I can’t help but examine the image. It looks like it might be Nolan’s parents’ room. They’ve hung picture frames along the walls, all of which are broken and charred. Their bedframe has cracked in half, and the mattress and comforter are mostly ash. I swallow down the lump in my throat, waiting for the detective to ask a question I can’t answer, to ask how the fire wentoutinstead of how it started. “I feel bad for Nolan’s family, but I don’t get why you think I did this. I have an alibi.”
