Lies You Never Told Me(62)

“Are you comfortable?” my mom asks, leaning down to fluff the pillow behind my head.

It’s almost two in the morning, and we’re still stuck at the E.R. They’ve got me lying on a wobbly hospital bed, a pulse oximeter attached to my finger, waiting to be formally admitted for the night.

I lick my lips. They’re dry and cracked from the heat of the flames. My skin tingles; there are splinters of glass embedded in my face and hands from the broken window. I hadn’t noticed at first; the adrenaline had been too strong. But now everything has started to throb and ache ominously. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt my shoulder again, using it as a battering ram the way I did.

“Yeah, Mom, thanks.” I close my eyes.

Beyond the confines of the little room I can still hear the noise: patients being admitted, being treated, deep into the night. I know Catherine’s not out there; the nurse who took my vitals told me that the “other people” from the fire had been taken to a different hospital. “It’s a busy night,” she’d said. “The EMTs are trying to spread the love.”

I can picture Catherine, on a hospital bed just like mine, the smell of smoke and gas in her nostrils. Will she be in the same room as her dad? Will he be watching her? Waiting for the two of them to be alone so he can touch her again? My skin crawls, imagining it.

I hear a soft knock. The door to my room swings open, and two cops in uniform come in. It’s Huntington and Larson—the same duo who came around when Vivi went “missing.” I look up, surprised.

“Hey there, Gabe,” says Larson. He smiles at my mom. “Mrs. Jiménez.”

Mom gives a little frown, then stands up to shake Larson’s hand. “Officer. What’s the problem? My son’s very tired . . .”

“I’m sure he is,” Larson says sympathetically. “Crazy night, huh, Gabe?”

I rub my knees through the thin fabric of my gown. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Huntington sits down on the doctor’s stool, wheeling it closer to my bedside. “You want to talk to us about what you were doing at Catherine Barstow’s house tonight?” she says. Her voice is clipped and businesslike.

I rub at my eyes, running through all the things I could say, wondering if any of them make things worse or better for Catherine. The idea of saying it aloud—the kiss I saw through the window—makes me queasy, as if the words themselves are dirty. But maybe they could help her. Maybe they could get her away from him. It’d be worth it, even if I lost her in the process.

Then I think about how she’d reacted outside the house when I hinted at what I’d seen. Not just angry. Panicked. Almost blind with it. And suddenly I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it’s my call, to tell the cops about her dad. I don’t want to drag her into something she’s not ready for.

“I went to try to talk to her,” I say finally. “But the house was on fire when I got there. So I called nine-one-one, but I knew they couldn’t get there fast enough. That’s when I broke a window and climbed in to help.”

Huntington’s lips tighten slightly, but she doesn’t answer. Larson has a notebook in hand and is scrawling something down.

Mom purses her lips. “What’s this about, officers?”

“We’ll get to the point,” Larson says. He turns to me. “We talked to the Barstows a little while ago.”

“You did?” I sit up in bed. “Is Catherine okay?”

Larson doesn’t answer the question. He looks down at his notepad and seems to read off it. “According to Mark Barstow, you started pounding on his window screaming for his daughter at about eight fifteen. A few minutes later the whole place was on fire. The exit routes were more or less blocked off. Now we’re still waiting on the forensics, but it’s pretty obvious it was arson. There were about a dozen empty gasoline canisters thrown all over the backyard.”

My eyes widen. I remember the smell of gas lingering around the gate. Remember thinking about Mr. Barstow’s lawn mower. Before I can process the information, Huntington starts to talk.

“Plus, we’ve got two different neighbors saying they saw you skulking around the side of the house about ten minutes before you called in that fire.” She leans forward slightly, as if smelling blood. “Why were you sneaking around their yard? Why didn’t you just knock on the door? Or better yet, call her?”

“Wait, are you saying . . . are you saying I started that fire?” I try to draw in my breath, but my lungs seize up. I look from Huntington to Larson and back again. “That’s crazy. I would never . . .”

“Miss Barstow says you two broke up earlier this week,” Larson cuts in. His voice is gentle but deliberate. “Is that true?”

“Yeah. We did.” My fingers curl up in frustration. “I just wanted to talk to her.”

“Like you just wanted to talk to Sasha Daley last Friday night?” Huntington says.

The silence stretches out for a long moment. On the other side of the door I can hear some other patient’s racking cough, a gurney being wheeled down the hall. They’re all staring at me—Larson, Huntington. My mom. I look away from her quickly, back at the cops.

“Yeah, I talked to Sasha last Friday,” I say. “So what?”

“Ms. Daley’s parents brought her into the station yesterday afternoon,” says Huntington. “Apparently she told them that you’d been acting . . . erratically lately. They took her in to make a statement.”