“No.”

Layne flinched. “No?”

“This arson case has been all over the news. Unless you can provide an alibi for all the fires ” His eyes narrowed. “You can’t, can you?”

She shook her head quickly.

“It won’t matter. And I’m not dragging you into some investigation just because you had a fling with the local bad boy.”

“It’s not like that! He’s my friend ”

“Sure he is. Go to your room, Layne.”

“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.

“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.