by Anne Valente
Dad would kill you if he knew, Simon said. He disappeared into the living room.
He knows I was out, Christina whispered, but he doesn’t know anything else.
My mom knows, Matt said. She was up when you left my room. She called my father and we need to take you to the station. You’re not in trouble. I promise. He just needs to hear what you saw.
I barely have anything to tell him.
You do. You have more to tell him than anyone else in town.
I’m scared.
I know. But my mom and I will be there with you, too.
Christina glanced back at Simon. Hey, I’m going out for a little while.
Can you bring food back? Maybe a pizza?
Make your own damn lunch.
I would but there’s nothing in the fridge.
Matt heard Christina’s voice soften. What kind do you want? I’ll be back in an hour. Two at most.
Papa John’s. Mushroom. Dad left us some money on the counter.
Christina pulled on a pair of sneakers. She headed into the kitchen and came back with a twenty that she slid into the pocket of her sweatpants.
Matt let Christina take the front seat and from the back saw his mother pat her on the knee. You’re not in trouble, she said. The police just need to know what you saw. They traveled toward the police station at the other end of the school district. No one spoke and Matt noticed the police cars and crime investigation units moving through the streets, their sirens quiet. Beyond them the porches of homes, steps dotted with pumpkins. Some of them carved with sharp faces and others untouched and Matt imagined the impossibility of Halloween, a once-deluge of parties and candy and costumes that felt as distant as the leaf-littered streets of his childhood.
At the police station, Christina followed him and his mother through the double doors and past the reception area to a series of small rooms without windows. Matt knew these rooms from the few times his father had let him tour the station. Offices. Meeting rooms. A break room filled with coffee and shrink-wrapped snacks. They stopped in front of a closed door marked jim howell, forensics specialist. Matt’s mother knocked and his father appeared, his gaze falling on Christina. He led her down the hallway to a type of room Matt remembered his father once showing him. A lone table. A camera. A microphone to take down testimony. Matt saw another officer waiting for Christina in the sliver of the doorway.
Who was that? Matt asked when his father returned to the office.
Witness services. I can’t interview her as a forensics specialist.
She’s scared to death, his mother said. Poor kid.
They’ll take good care of her, Matt’s father said. He sat down at his desk scattered with photographs and reports, not unlike his desk at home.
What’s all of this? Matt asked. What did you find?
I didn’t go to the Ndolo house. I’ve been in the office all morning.
Any news? Matt’s mother asked.
They’re still diagramming the house and its contents.
Benji had a brother. Matt remembered what Christina told him. A little brother. Was his brother in the house?
Matt’s father was silent.
Dad, was his brother in the house?
Matt’s father sighed. His brother. His father. His mother. No one survived.
Matt stood. This is fucked. Do you know how completely fucked this is?
Calm down, his mother said.
How can anyone calm down? What the fuck is happening here?
We’re trying to figure that out, his father said. Believe me.
I don’t know what to believe. Every day there’s something else, something new, another siren or police car blazing down our street.
Matt felt the room’s smallness and the air’s limits before he felt the shame of screaming at his mother and father.
If you’ll just sit down, his father said.
Tell me.
I can’t tell you everything. I’m bound by—
Confidentiality. Please. Just tell me something. Anything you know.
Matt’s father glanced at his mother. She looked away.
His father motioned to the papers beneath his hands. They’re still in progress, but these are some of the lab reports. From fire debris analysis.
From which fire?
The Trenway fire. It’s just too soon for today’s fire, but we’ve had time to cross-reference the other two. We’ve found no evidence of accelerants. In either house.
So this is all just a coincidence. Dad. You really believe this is random?
Honestly, we don’t know. We just know there’s no sign of foul play. Both of them came back completely clean. We’ll see what we find with the Ndolos’ house.
Matt looked at his father. Why was Benji’s mother standing in the yard?
That’s why Christina’s here, his father said. It might not matter at all.
His mother touched his knee. Please, Matt. Let’s just wait and see.
Matt wanted to scream. Of course it mattered. He wanted to punch the walls.
NICK WAS IN the living room with his brother when the telephone rang. Jeff splayed on the carpet watching cartoons, their father preparing them a late lunch in the kitchen. His father had at last gotten out of surgery, a scheduled C-section, and had met them straight-faced in the waiting room though Nick could see they’d surprised him. We didn’t know where else to go, was all Nick said. And though his father was never demonstrative he drew both of them into an embrace, patients waiting around them, the television buzzing through the waiting room the news that all of them already knew. He pulled them against his lab coat, his name stitched into the breast pocket scratching Nick’s cheek. From the living room, Nick heard his father at the stove. The sizzle of a frying pan. The sharp scent of hot sauce fanning in from the kitchen. The midafternoon sun pierced the windows and warmed the room when the telephone split through the din of cartoons.
Nick answered the phone and heard Matt’s voice.
I already know, Nick said. I saw the news this morning.
That’s not why I’m calling. Nick glanced at his brother and carried the phone into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
Then what? Nick asked. His bedroom blinds were closed, the air full of visible dust. He opened the blinds and then the window, a crack of cold air blasting in.
I just got back from the police station. We took Christina there to talk to an officer. She saw Benji’s mother outside her house last night just before it burst into flames.
Nick’s eyes fell to the manila folder on his bed, spread open, the morning’s Post-Dispatch article on top with its blaring headline.
Why was Christina there?
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the fire analysis has been done.
On Benji’s house?
Not yet, but on the other two homes. They’re still investigating, so you can’t tell anyone what I’m telling you.
What? What did your dad find out?
No accelerants were involved. Nothing. Not anything that indicates arson.
That’s bullshit, Nick said. You and I both know that’s bullshit.
I know. I said the same thing to my dad.
Nick exhaled on his bed. Brisk air leaked in through the open window, a crack currenting through the room. He glossed his hands across the rough print of the news article. PANDEMONIUM. The headline screamed at him, an admission of madness.
What did Christina see? How’s she doing?
She saw the house burn. But she’s okay. Nick heard Matt hesitate. She and Ryan broke up. That’s why she was there. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind that I told you.
Is she doing okay?
Probably not. But she was mostly shaken up by what she saw at Benji’s house.
What did the police ask her?
We just took her home. She seems fine, but she wouldn’t say what they asked. My guess is not much, at least nothing beyond what she told me. She saw what she saw, but the police don’t know what it me
ans. My dad said it might not matter at all.
What do you want me to do?
Matt sighed. None of this can go into a yearbook. But you can look into it. Would you? You know where to search. What a fire investigation analysis means. What kinds of accelerants they look for. I don’t know. None of this makes any goddamn sense.
This isn’t our job, Matt. We’re not going to find anything the police can’t find.
Would you rather just sit here? Under curfew? Waiting for class to start?
Nick looked around his room. The bed unmade. An entire folder of articles and photographs overwhelming his sheets.
I’ll look into it, he said. What are you doing today?
Nothing. My dad’s still at the office. My mom’s out running errands.
And Tyler? Nick hesitated to ask.
I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in two days.
Everything okay?
Fine, I guess. How’s Sarah?
She’s fine. Nick imagined Sarah’s living room, the sun pressing in, her legs straddling his lap and the weight of her pushing against him. She’s finally getting out of bed and feeling better, Nick said. An evasion he was certain Matt heard.
Tell her hello, Matt said. Christina wrote a profile of Benji last night. He’s not a junior so we can’t use it. But I’ll see what I can write today.
You can take it easy if you need to.
I should go, Matt said. Let me know if you find anything.
Nick hung up as his father called his name and the smell of cooked eggs reached his bedroom, the open window’s breeze whipping the aroma through the room.
THE DAY’S LIGHT had just started to disappear when Matt’s father came home from the police station, a half-eaten tray of lasagna on the table between Matt and his mother. Matt’s father stepped into the kitchen and slid out of his shoes, the overhead light catching the circles beneath his eyes. Matt glanced away, speared the last of his lasagna. His father had aged rapidly in the short span of a week.
Were the streets deserted for curfew? Matt’s mother asked. You should be careful coming home after dark.
No one’s out, his father said. Only necessary vehicles. Only police.
There’s no way everyone in Midvale County will obey that rule, Matt said.
I don’t want you out, Matt’s mother said. Don’t even think about it.
Matt wanted to protest, just for the sake. He thought to raise his voice but found no will. There was nowhere to go.
We could watch a movie here, he conceded.
What movie do you want to watch?
Halloween’s in two weeks. Something scary is probably on.
Matt’s mother looked across the table at his father, who ladled a square of lasagna onto his plate. A small crack of worry fault-lined her brow.
We could watch a movie, she said. Though nothing too scary.
After Matt washed the dishes, his mother checked the television listings while his father swirled kernels in a pan and waited for the corn to pop. Matt leaned against the counter beside him. The piano trill of Halloween’s opening credits floated into the kitchen.
I found it! Matt’s mother shouted from the living room.
Popcorn will be ready in five minutes, Matt’s father called back.
Can I ask you a question? Matt asked.
Matt’s father didn’t shake his head no.
What’s next for the police? Where’s the investigation going?
Give yourself a break, son. Don’t worry about it for tonight.
I’m not worrying. I just want to know.
We’re working with the FBI and national agents, he said. Fire analysts and specialists. We’re still pushing our way through so much debris.
Did Christina tell that officer anything?
She just said what she saw. It helps us gain an idea of what might be happening at these homes when a fire starts.
Would you tell me if it was arson? Is that why they instated the curfew?
Matt’s father didn’t look at him. It just keeps everyone safe. Makes things easier. All of this has happened at night. It clears the streets in case anything happens.
What’s the next step?
The first kernels began to burst. We’re still looking at Lewis and Clark, he said. Still retracing the kid’s path through the school.
I don’t see why that matters. Not now.
It’s our only lead. Whatever’s causing the fires, it’s clear now that they’re connected to the people and the kids in the school.
What about advanced arson techniques? Like ways to disguise the accelerant, to make it look like an accident?
Matt’s father sighed. Why don’t you go join your mother? Popcorn’s almost done.
The kernels multiplied in the pan, bursting into tufts. Matt pushed himself into the living room and sat on the couch beside his mother, the lights dim. The wind threw itself against the windowpanes outside and Matt sank deeper into the cushions. The smell of melted butter filtered in from the kitchen. On-screen, an establishing shot showed a quiet neighborhood street in Illinois, the wind spilling leaves down its spine. Matt’s father came into the room, a large bowl in his hands. The movie’s heroine walked down the wind-whipped street with her friends as trick-or-treaters began to dot the sidewalk. A masked man waited in the bushes. Hulked behind clotheslines. Matt took a handful of popcorn and let himself be submerged between his parents and tried not to think of Christina standing at the edge of a burning house, of Nick at home in his bedroom trying to figure out what it all meant. Of an arsonist prowling through the dark, the same as a killer on-screen stalking a neighborhood’s streets.
ZOLA PUSHED A wet dish towel across the Local Beanery’s counter, closing up the shop before curfew when Christina walked in. Her hair pulled into a ponytail, her body obscured by baggy sweats. Zola looked around: no patrons left. No one in the bathroom, no one near the far windows. The sun dropping, a splinter of light. Nearing six o’clock, the shop’s closing time and the stated hour everyone needed to be inside. Zola knew the shop would be dead throughout the afternoon. She knew she had to get out of the house, her mother at work, a long night stretching ahead of them once they both got home. She also knew Christina might come as she sometimes did, so many after-school visits for free muffins that would go stale by morning if no one ate them. She saw Christina’s eyes, the whites faintly bloodshot, and knew she wasn’t here for free food. Zola felt a flood of shame for the way she’d spoken to her at the bookstore.
Hey girl, Zola said quietly when Christina approached the counter.
Christina’s eyes welled and Zola set down the dish towel. She forgot her shame and reached across the counter for Christina’s hands.
Chris, what?
I don’t even know where to begin.
Just tell me. Was it Ryan?
I was at the police station today.
Zola moved to the front door and flipped the business sign to closed. She set a blueberry muffin on a plate for Christina and poured both of them the last of the decaf. Lowered the shop’s music. Brought the mugs and plate to a table near the far windows where Christina sat watching the sun slip down the horizon.
Tell me what happened, Zola said.
Matt brought me to the police station. As a witness.
As witness to what?
Christina glanced up. Her face hard, her eyes the only softness. She told Zola about Ryan’s visit, what he’d said. How she’d pedaled across town through the trails with the wind tearing at her face and how she’d thrown a rock and smashed his window, her rage the shape of a stone. How she’d fled on Simon’s bike back to the edge of the sidewalk where she’d watched Benji’s house ignite.
What did the police say?
They took me into a room. I told them everything. I told them everything I just told you, and they told me nothing.
Well, you’re the one who saw it.
I don’t know what I think. I don’t know what I even saw.
Zola touched
Christina’s hand. No one should talk to you like that.
I know.
I don’t mean the police, Zola said. I mean Ryan. Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to say it like that. But he’s been talking to you that way since you met.
Christina picked at the blueberry muffin.
Chris, I mean it. No one should ever talk to you like that again.
Christina didn’t meet her eyes and Zola knew, finally and with certainty, that it wasn’t the first time Ryan had called her something awful. How Christina always spoke carefully as if protecting him, a deep cistern of hurt she hid like a well.
What happened at that party? Zola asked. That one at the end of the school year.
I don’t know what you mean.
Come on. The one that made you stop drinking all summer.
Christina looked up. I didn’t think you’d noticed.
Of course I noticed. I also noticed how tipsy that whiskey made you the other night. That’s what happens when you don’t drink for four months.
Christina smiled faintly. Trying to get me back in the drinking game?
No, I’ve just been worried. Tell me. Tell me what the hell happened.
Christina said nothing but Zola saw her lower lip begin to quiver.
You don’t have to hold it in, Zola said. Just let it out.
The school, Christina said. All those homes. There’s nothing I can be sorry for, nothing to be sad about.
Let it out, Zola said. It’s okay, just let it go.
So Christina did. She told Zola everything. Picture frame. A broken window. The ruby lace of lingerie he’d never touched. The way the surface of water looked from beneath it, her lungs breaking inside a swimming pool. Get in the car, you fucking bitch and how she’d kept walking, how she’d walked for over a mile, how her slip-on sneakers had blistered her skin and even still she hadn’t stopped until she reached home.
Zola listened until Christina fell silent. Kept her face impassive, rage she’d already unleashed across a bookstore and didn’t want to let loose again. She knew they should get home, the sun gone, the horizon purpled beyond the coffee shop’s windows. She kept her hand on Christina’s hand. The store’s piped-in music the only sound. Let it go, Zola said again and Christina began to cry.
BENEATH A SINGLE weak lamp, Nick sat at his bedroom computer, minding the curfew. He scanned every website, every article. Every shred of information he could find on chemical accelerants. Gasoline. Turpentine. Diesel fuel. A lighter’s butane. The day had been a blur beyond lunch. He’d watched E.T. with his family once his mother returned home from work, a distraction with levity. A movie he was sure he’d seen at least a hundred times in his childhood, scenes he knew by rote memory but even still when the ship came at the end and E.T. touched his finger to Elliott’s chest, I’ll be right here, something wide and faint spread through Nick’s veins, a dull but persistent ache. He’d made himself a sandwich for dinner despite his mother’s protests, a lack of appetite after the lateness of lunch. He’d spoken to Sarah on the phone, her voice brighter but subdued, a conversation curled behind the closed door of his bedroom in case his parents overheard him asking Sarah if she still felt okay about what they’d done.
