Page 34 of These Witches Don't Burn
“An alibi. From another teen who was drinking underage?” The detective raises a brow. “I’m sure you can understand my skepticism about the reliability of your friends.” He sighs and picks up a pen, holding it over a yellow legal pad. “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Walsh.”
“First of all, I haven’t been drinking. You can test that however you want.” I shouldn’t snap at him, but his dismissive attitude is getting on my nerves. “I was in the kitchen when the fire started, talking with Morgan.” I try to remember her last name. Haggerty? Huewe? “Hughes. Morgan Hughes.”
Detective Archer’s eyes go wide. After a pause, he jots down her name and writespossible alibinext to it, as if he’s not convincedmy story is true. “If you were in the kitchen with Miss Hughes when the fire started,” he says, his voice catching on her name, “then why did a firefighter find you inside the house? There’s an exit through the kitchen.” He pulls out another photo, this one of said kitchen layout, and sets it next to the rest.
Before I can respond, there’s a knock on the door.
“What is it?”
A young officer cracks open the door and sticks his head through. He glances at me before settling his attention on the detective. “We have a Mr. and Mrs. Walsh here to collect their daughter.”
Mom... Dad...
“We’ll be done in a moment,” Detective Archer says in a tone clearly meant to dismiss the officer.
But the young man doesn’t budge. “Mr. Walsh... He’s... uh... He’s the assistant district attorney. He’s really insistent, sir. And since you haven’t entered any charges...”
What? I stand and lean my bound hands against the cold metal table. “I’m not under arrest?”
Detective Archer glares at the officer, but the way his face pales makes me think having an ADA for a father is handier than I knew. “Not yet, no. I just need you to answer a few more questions.”
“Why? So you can trick me into admitting to something I didn’t do? Don’t think so.” I thrust my hands toward the detective. “Take these off. Now.”
We stand there, locked in a stalemate. The only sound is the buzzing of the swinging light above us.
The young officer fidgets by the door. “Detective?”
And with that, the spell is broken. Detective Archer reachesfor his key and shoves it in the lock of the handcuffs. When they click free, the skin is red and painful underneath. “Don’t leave town, Miss Walsh. And stay out of trouble.” He turns to the officer in the doorway. “Take her to her parents.”
“This way, Miss Walsh,” the young officer says, opening the door wide and gesturing down the hall.
I spare one final look at the detective, take a deep breath, and head toward my executioners.
10
THE RIDE HOME IS SILENT.
Dad drives, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He’s still dressed for work—an office day if his brightly patterned tie is any indication. Mom stares straight ahead into the dark night; she clutches her purse so tight I worry she might fuse it to her hands.
In their silence, toxic worries slither back into my chest. I was in a police station, being interrogated by a full-fledged detective. Never in my wildest nightmares did I think that was a possibility. Let alone the horror of my parents finding out about it.
I let out a shaky breath and wonder if Benton’s okay. If his parents know what happened to him. Part of me wants to text him and make sure he’s all right, make sure he doesn’t realizehowI saved him, but I can’t risk Mom seeing the light of my phone and deciding to confiscate it.
The turnoff for Nolan’s house is a block ahead, but Dad shows no signs of slowing. We pass the turn, and I twist in my seat to watch the road shrink in the distance. “What about my car?”
The air cools until I can see my breath, a sure sign Mom is pissed. But at least now I know my parents can even hear me. That I’m not a ghost haunting their car. They haven’t acknowledged my presence, or spoken, since the passive-aggressivethank youMomhurled at the young officer back at the police station. Their quiet is more unnerving than if they were yelling. I expected lectures and raised voices. Not this weird you’re-dead-to-us silence.
Dad pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. I’m prepared for fireworks, but I get nothing. We sit as still as statues, each second dragging longer than the last, until Mom cracks the plaster. She unbuckles her seat belt and leaves.
The car light dims, then goes dark. “Dad...”
“Talk to your mother.” He sighs and hurries after said maternal figure.
I groan and lean my head against the back of the seat. The storm is coming. I have no doubt about that. Historically, it’s been better to hit Hurricane Mom head-on, so I undo my seat belt and follow my parents into the house. The trail of lights leads me to the kitchen, where Mom is filling an exceptionally large glass with wine.
“Will somebodypleasesay something?” I lean against the doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room. “I am sorry...”
Mom chugs her wine and wipes her lips on the back of her hand. Finally, she turns and settles her attention on me. Fury lines her face, deep grooves that map my every disappointment. “Sorry forwhatexactly? For starting the fire? For wandering around inside a burning house, no doubt using magic so you didn’t pass out from smoke inhalation? For agreeing totalk to a detectivewithout bothering to call your parents?” She takes another huge gulp of wine. “What the hell were you thinking?”
