Lies You Never Told Me(63)

Her hawklike face is thin, her eyes sharp; her features all seem pointed toward me in accusation.

I can see it all with perfect clarity. Sasha almost shyly telling her mom that I have been acting “weird” lately. Mrs. Daley pressing her for details. Sasha hesitating, holding back, acting as if she doesn’t want to get me in trouble. And then Mr. Daley would be involved, furious at the idea of someone besides him controlling his little girl. They’d sit on either side of her at the station, neither holding her hand, but both staring across the table at the officer—had it been Huntington?—with an expression that demanded that the police do what they’re actually paid to do: protect people like them.

“She seemed really scared,” Larson says. “She says you’ve been following her around, begging her to take you back, telling her no one else can have her.”

“That’s not true!” The words burst out of me, hot and fast. “She’s been stalking me. She’s the one who took my little sister, for Christ’s sake.”

And all at once, I know who started that fire.

“You should check those gas cans for Sasha’s prints,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

Mom gives a little gasp, but I hold Huntington’s gaze.

Huntington raises her eyebrows. “Do you have some reason to believe Sasha would attack the Barstows?”

I give a hard chuckle that hurts my lungs. “Yeah. She’s been harassing me for weeks. She’s been sending threatening messages.”

“She’s been messaging you? Do you have any of those messages saved?” Larson asks.

“They were Snaps. They disappear as soon as you look at them.” I run my hands over my face, suddenly exhausted. “But she’s been threatening my family, and Catherine.”

“That’s interesting,” Huntington says coldly. “Because she showed us this.”

She holds up her phone. I lean forward, trying to make out what’s on there. The picture is small and grainy. But then the audio starts up, and I know exactly what we’re looking at.

“I don’t care. I’ll go psycho on you, bitch.”

It’s my voice—but I never said that. Or I didn’t say it like that. Did I?

The video is taken from the eaves of the pool house in her yard. One of her parents’ security cameras.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sounds tearful, earnest. “Please, I didn’t mean to make you angry.” The angle of the camera catches the tops of our heads; you can’t see our mouths moving in the grainy image. It’d be all too easy to dub herself in any way she wanted.

“If you come near us again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

The fury in my voice startles even me. I don’t recognize myself. It’s the snarl of an animal backed into a corner, ugly and inhuman. I try to remember exactly what I said, exactly what she said, but when I think about that night it’s only a white-hot blur of anger.

“Ow!” The Sasha on the screen seems to recoil from something as if I hurt her. But I didn’t. All I did was grab her hand, pull it away from my face. “You’re scaring me, Gabe.”

“I don’t care, bitch.”

Huntington smirks a little at my expression.

I shake my head. “I never said that. And I didn’t hurt her. She’s edited the video. I went over that night to confront her because she left a camera in my bedroom. She was spying on me.”

“Did you keep this camera?” Huntington raises an eyebrow. My heart plummets.

“No. No, I . . . I confronted her with it.” Why? Why didn’t I keep it? Why did I need to throw it at her? The cops could have checked it for prints, or maybe checked its frequency to prove it was Sasha’s.

“Not to mention this,” Huntington goes on. She holds up her phone to show more grainy footage of me, grabbing Catherine by the wrist in the hall at school. I remember all those kids filming, enjoying the drama.

I shake my head weakly. “This is crazy. I haven’t done anything wrong.” But after hearing myself on the recording, my protests sound feeble, even to me. “That’s not . . . we were just talking. I got upset because she wouldn’t listen. But I’d never hurt Catherine. Why would I set that fire and then try to rescue her from it?”

“To get her attention, maybe. To play the hero.” Huntington shrugs. “Or maybe you had second thoughts when you saw how quickly the house caught fire.”

Finally, my mom speaks up.

“I think this conversation is over for now, officers.” Her mouth is a trembling, pale line, but she sounds steady and firm. “I have a feeling we need a lawyer present.”

“We’re just trying to get Gabe’s side of the story, Mrs. Jiménez,” Larson protests. But my mom shakes her head.

“And he’ll be happy to give it to you, after he’s had a chance to rest,” she says. She stands up from her chair and steps a little closer to me. “But it’s late, and he’s in shock, and we will not be answering any more questions until we have legal counsel.”

The officers exchange glances. I feel a sudden surge of gratitude toward my mom. I’ve seen this expression only a few times—when she had to fight the insurance company to get Vivi’s therapies covered; when she protested a developer who bulldozed a bunch of Mexican-owned businesses in Austin. It’s fierce and determined and uncompromising.