Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

“But—”

  “I said go!”

  She backed away, feeling tears on her cheeks now. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please . . . just . . . we could help him . . .”

  Her father’s eyes flashed with anger. “He doesn’t deserve your help.”

  Simon scraped his chair back from the table to stand. “Yes,” he said emphatically. “He does.”

  Her father looked speechless with shock.

  “He’s my friend, too,” said Simon, anger almost making the words unintelligible. He signed while he spoke, but even his hands were tight with rage. “You would know that if you ever bothered to talk to me.”

  Their father looked almost bewildered. “Simon . . . you don’t—”

  “Shut up! You wanted me to talk, so listen.” Simon had to pause for an emotion-filled breath. “Gabriel Merrick deserves her help.” He glanced at Layne and touched the bruising around his eye. “He deserves mine, too.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Simon glanced at their father and scowled. “Are you sure you don’t have to check your e-mail?”

  “That’s not fair, Simon.” But her father put his phone in his pocket without even glancing at it.

  “No,” said Simon. “What’s not fair is you treating us like we left with Mom.”

  Now her father flinched.

  Layne caught Simon’s wrist to stop his verbal assault and signed. Please stop. He’s all we have left.

  “Wait a minute,” said her father. “What does that mean, I’m all you have left?”

  Layne snapped her head around. “You . . . you followed that?”

  “Of course I followed that. What does that mean?”

  “But . . . you never sign—”

  “Because I think Simon’s going to have a challenging enough life without being entirely dependent on sign language. Especially ,” he emphasized, giving Simon a look, “when you can speak perfectly well.”

  Now it was Simon’s turn to look shocked.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said their father, his voice just a touch softer. “You have my full attention now. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  They left Gabriel in an interrogation room.

  A relief, really, since he’d gotten a glimpse of the holding cell, somewhere between fingerprinting and mug shots. Fifteen other guys, some sitting, some standing. Most were twice his size. One guy slumped against the back wall, and he’d puked on himself at some point. More than once, from the stains on his clothes. He was the only one who didn’t look up when Gabriel walked past.

  The rest of them watched him. Especially a pale guy in his twenties with track marks down his forearms, who stared at Gabriel in a creepy, dreamy way.

  Gabriel avoided eye contact with everyone.

  He wished he could call Michael. He didn’t even know if his brothers knew what had happened.

  And he thought he’d been alone before.

  He’d been holding it together, though. He’d had a brief burst of panic in the school—which blew out the lights in the guidance office. Suddenly, he’d been on the ground, with a knee in his back.

  They had pinned him there until Vickers started babbling about recent electrical problems.

  And then they’d searched him.

  The cops had found the lighter in his pocket—and another one buried in his book bag. Had Layne turned him in for what had happened at the barn?

  It made him remember the way she’d looked at him in the classroom this morning, breathless and wide-eyed and barely able to speak. Or her scripty handwriting on that piece of notepaper, when he’d asked if she was afraid.

  A little.

  Like he could blame her.

  Just now, he could relate.

  The interrogation room was just like on TV shows, barely twelve feet square with a table and four chairs. White walls, steel door with a tiny window. He got to sit, but they left him cuffed. And they left him alone, with the assurance that someone would be in to talk to him in a minute.

  It was a long minute.

  His stomach assured him it had been many hours since he’d eaten, though really, Gabriel had no idea how much time had passed. His shoulders were starting to hurt from being cuffed so long, but he didn’t want to complain, because this was ten times better than that holding cell.

  He wished he knew how long they could keep him here. Wasn’t there something about seventy-two hours? Or was that just on cop shows?

  So he sat. Waiting. Long enough that anxiety started to feel like something alive, consuming him from the inside out.

  Maybe that was the whole point. A passive-aggressive mock-up of the clichéd good cop/bad cop routine. Maybe this could be called no cop.

  He was under eighteen. What was the worst that could happen? Juvie?

  He kept thinking of Michael’s comments in the car, about how trouble with the law could lead to trouble with custody. The overhead light buzzed, flaring with power. Gabriel took a deep breath. The electricity evened out.

  And then someone came in. No preamble, no knock. Just a twist of the doorknob, a slow entrance, a man with a stainless-steel mug and some papers. This was a new guy, in his late forties, though gray had just started to streak its way through his blond hair. He wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a sweater, though a badge clung to his belt. His eyes were narrow and blue and gave away absolutely nothing.

  This guy had some authority; Gabriel could tell just from the way he carried himself.

  “Gabriel Merrick?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just sat down across the table and dropped some folders and a notepad in front of him. “I’m Jack Faulkner. The county fire marshal.”

  Faulkner. Hannah’s father.

  Gabriel didn’t know what to say to him.

  Marshal Faulkner leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “Been waiting long?”

  The way he said it implied he knew exactly how long Gabriel had been waiting.

  Maybe this was why he’d been left in handcuffs. So when someone deliberately acted like a tool, he couldn’t punch the guy in the face.

  “Is my brother coming?” he asked. His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded rough.

  “Your brother?”

  “You can’t question me without a legal guardian or something, right?”

  Marshal Faulkner leaned forward and lifted the cover of a manila folder. “You’re seventeen?”

  “Yeah.”

  The cover fell closed. “You’re charged with first-degree arson. Right now, it’s one count, but it’ll likely be more, given the events of the past week. That’s a felony, which means you’re automatically charged as an adult. That’s why you’re here and not at the juvenile facility.”

  Gabriel couldn’t move. The room suddenly felt smaller.

  “You’re allowed to have an attorney present.” Marshal Faulkner clicked his pen. “Do you have an attorney?”

  Gabriel shook his head. One of those other cops had read him his rights, something about an attorney being provided, but he had no idea how that worked. If he asked for a lawyer, that sounded like he was guilty.

  “I didn’t start those fires,” he said.

  Raised eyebrows. “You want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t start them.”

  Except maybe that one. The one in the woods. But if he admitted he’d lied about that, it would make everything else sound like a lie. Gabriel looked away.

  After a moment of silence, the marshal leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like me to remove the handcuffs?”

  Gabriel’s eyes flicked up. “Yes.”

  When he unlocked them, Gabriel rolled his shoulders to get the stiffness out, then wiped his palms on his jeans.

  He hated that he felt like he owed this guy a thank-you or something.

  Especially when Marshal Faulkner hesitated before sitting down and said, “How about some food?”

  Gabriel would kill for some food, but he shook his head.

&n
bsp; “You sure? If you’re stuck here overnight, we have to feed you. Might as well be in here, where no one’s going to take it away from you.”

  There were too many shocks in that sentence to process them all. Overnight. Gabriel thought of that pale freak in the holding cell and completely lost any appetite he might have had.

  He shook his head again. “What time is it?”

  “Just after six.”

  Six! Somehow it felt both earlier and later than he’d thought. Gabriel heard his breath hitch before he could stop it. His brothers would definitely know he was missing.

  Marshal Faulkner reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He held them out. “Smoke? No offense, kid, but you look like you need it.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  The marshal dropped the pack on the table and picked up his pen again. “Then why’d you have two lighters at school?”

  Oh.

  Gabriel scowled.

  “And,” said the marshal, “I understand there are a lot more at your house. Want to tell me about that?”

  Gabriel froze. “At my house?”

  “Officers are executing a search warrant right now.”

  At least it answered the question about whether Michael knew what was going on.

  Thank god Hunter had the fireman’s coat and helmet.

  “I didn’t start those fires,” he said again.

  “Is someone else in on it?”

  A new note had entered the marshal’s voice. Did they know about Hunter? Gabriel was wary after getting trapped by the lighter question.

  He looked at the table, running his finger along the plastic stripping on the edge. “I don’t know anything about it.” His voice was nonchalant, but he felt in danger of choking on his heartbeat.

  “You sure?”

  Gabriel looked up, meeting the marshal’s gaze evenly. “Pretty sure.”

  “Let me explain something.” Marshal Faulkner dropped the pen on his folder and leaned forward. His voice gained an edge. “You can jerk me around all night, but you’re not doing yourself any favors. One count of first-degree arson carries a penalty of thirty years. That’s one. We’ve got at least four. No matter what you tell me, we’ve got enough to keep you in the county detention center for a while.”

  Gabriel swallowed. His hands were sweating again. “I didn’t start those fires.”

  “You know about the one on Linden Park Lane?”

  The first one. Alan Hulster’s house. The piercing fire alarms, the dead cat. The little girl. The anguished scream from the front lawn, the relieved, sobbing mother.

  He gave half a shrug, feeling sweat under the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Really?” Marshal Faulkner sat back. “You don’t think if we asked Marybeth Hulster to come in here, she might not recognize you?” He paused. “She said she hugged the ‘fireman’ who saved her little girl.”

  Gabriel froze.

  It had been dark. Soot had blackened his face.

  But she’d stared straight into his eyes when she’d thanked him.

  Would she recognize him? He had no idea.

  He’d saved her child. Yes. She would recognize him.

  Marshal Faulkner had that pen in his hand again. “I think maybe you know a little something.”

  Gabriel didn’t say anything.

  A pause, a glance in the folder. “Alan Hulster says you had an altercation in class that day.”

  Gabriel came halfway out of his chair. “He was being a dick! I didn’t burn down his house!”

  “Sit down.”

  “Damn it!” Gabriel’s hands braced against the table. It took everything he had not to shove it across the room. “I didn’t start those fires!”

  “Sit. Now.” The marshal hadn’t moved. “Or the cuffs go back on.”

  Gabriel sat.

  “I didn’t start them,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “Don’t take this all on yourself, kid. Who else is in on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “I don’t know who’s starting them.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing!”

  “What are your brothers going to tell me?”

  Gabriel felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room. “They don’t know anything, either.”

  “I have a report from a few weeks ago. You were caught with a few bags of fertilizer. Played it off as a prank, right? Was that supposed to be the first one?”

  It was a prank. Tyler and Seth had beaten the crap out of Chris, so they were just going to screw with them. “What? No!”

  “Your brother Christopher was with you. Is he the one starting the fires?”

  “No.”

  “Did he help you?”

  “No!” It was taking everything Gabriel had to stay in his chair.

  “He’s sixteen. We pull him in, he’ll be treated as a minor. He’ll be held in juvenile detention until we get around to questioning him. What’s he going to tell—”

  “You leave Chris alone! He had nothing to do with this!”

  The lights blazed white hot and almost exploded, power pulsing in the air.

  Gabriel reined it in, gasping from the effort.

  The fire marshal had shoved back his chair, and he glanced between Gabriel and the lights overhead, which were settling back into a normal luminescence.

  Gabriel swallowed. “Leave him alone,” he ground out. “Chris doesn’t know anything.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know who’s starting them.”

  “Come on, kid—”

  “I don’t.” Gabriel couldn’t look at him. He was dangerously afraid he might cry if this guy kept pushing.

  “We know you used lighter fluid to start them. How much of that are we going to find around your house?”

  “None. I don’t know.” They might have some in the garage. Would that make him look guilty?

  A pause, a tap of the pen against the folder. “Why don’t you tell me about the pentagrams?”

  Gabriel lifted his head. “The what?”

  “Is it a cult thing? Some kind of initiation?”

  Now a chill had hold of his heart. “What pentagrams?”

  “Don’t play stupid, kid. The pentagrams drawn in lighter fluid.”

  The door cracked open, and a uniformed officer stuck his head in. “Jack. Can you step out a sec?”

  Gabriel glanced between them. “What pentagrams?”

  The marshal was picking up his folder and his coffee mug.

  “What pentagrams?” cried Gabriel.

  But Marshal Faulkner was already stepping through the door, leaving Gabriel with all the questions.

  CHAPTER 36

  Gabriel wanted to pound on the door and demand answers. Unfortunately, that uniformed officer was standing there, obviously guarding him until the fire marshal returned.

  Funny how being under guard made him feel more dangerous instead of less.

  Gabriel chewed at his lip and stared at the floor, trying to reason it out. Pentagrams usually meant someone had called the Guides, had reported that Elementals were living in a specific house. Pentagrams were a target and a warning. Had there been pentagrams painted on the doors of the burned houses? He’d never gone in the front, so he had no idea. He and his brothers were the only full Elementals in town—well, until Hunter and Becca had shown up.

  Right?

  No, they had to be. Becca’s father would have known about others.

  Hell, Seth and Tyler would have known about others.

  But why else would there be pentagrams?

  The door opened, and he jerked his head up. Marshal Faulkner was in the doorway. He didn’t look happy. “Someone is here to see you.”

  Gabriel straightened. Relief almost knocked him out of the chair. Michael had come. He’d figure out what to do.

  He cleared his throat. “My brother?”r />
  “I wish I were that lucky, kid.”

  “What does that mean?”

  But the marshal was ignoring him, gesturing to the officer on guard. “Come on, Joe. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Then they were filing through the narrow doorway, the steel door falling closed behind them.

  Only to be caught by a strong hand.

  Belonging to Layne’s father.

  Gabriel stared up at him as he came through the doorway. The man had to be coming from work—or maybe he just wore a suit all the time. Even though it was after six on a Friday, his shirt looked pressed, his tie straight and tightly knotted.

  His expression was all business. Gabriel had no idea how to take that.

  He also had no idea what he was doing here.

  Mr. Forrest set a briefcase on the table and unlocked the clasps. “You know,” he said by way of greeting, “the night I caught you with Layne, I called you a future felon. I didn’t realize you’d make good on that prediction so quickly.”

  “The night you dragged Layne out of my driveway, I called you an asshole. Guess we were both right.”

  A smile, but it looked a little vicious. “Normally I’d tell you to call me David, but given the circumstances, I think we can stick with Mr. Forrest.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re the lawyer for the other side.”

  “That’s not quite how this works.”

  Then Gabriel remembered her father’s original threat from that first night, and realized this guy might be here to add more fuel to the fire. He shoved out of his chair. “Hey, I never did anything to Layne! If you told them I—”

  “I’m glad to hear it. That’s not why I’m here.” Mr. Forrest eased into the opposite chair and pulled a legal pad out of his briefcase.

  Gabriel watched him, perplexed. “Then what are you doing?”

  A silver-plated pen came out of the briefcase next. “What have you told them so far? Please tell me you haven’t signed anything.”

  “Wait.” After the news about the pentagrams, Gabriel’s brain couldn’t wrap itself around this. “What?”

  An eyebrow rose. “What. Have. You. Told. Them—”

  “Shut up. What are you really doing here?” Gabriel hesitated. “Did my brother hire you?”

  “No. He didn’t. He and I have spoken, however.”