“Questions?”
“Yes. No cause for alarm, but as I am sure you are aware, the fire has been found to be a case of arson. As part of our investigation, I’d like to meet with you and try to piece together what happened. It could go a long way toward catching the perpetrator.”
“Arson?”
“That’s what I said. I understand you are in the city through the weekend. Stop by first thing Monday morning. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Monday morning?”
There’s a long pause, then the detective hangs up.
“Everything okay?” Joy asks.
“Dad, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’re white as bird shit,” Aza says with a lopsided grin.
Joy eyes her severely, but turns back to me. She grabs my hand and intertwines our fingers. “Whatever is going on, we’ll be all right. This is a new start, we can expect a few bumps.”
I don’t know where Joy’s newfound optimism has come from. But it restores an iota of hope within me. I cast aside her momentary outburst and revel in our newly knit family. I squeeze her hand and try to shake off a dangerous realization.
They know.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I stand in the middle of the police precinct, staring at police officers, criminals, civilians, and a particularly grotesque grandfather clock. It matches the ancient building that was once a church of some sort a hundred years ago. It was left just for me.
“Yes?” the officer at the front desk asks.
Tick. Tick.
I’m not looking at the officer. The grandfather clock in the foyer has my full attention. “Can you turn that thing off?” I ask.
“Sir, can I help you?” the officer asks, louder than before, but not loud enough to muffle the clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Sir?”
Someone sneezes and it’s enough to break my trance. Before the clock can capture my senses again, I spin toward the front desk and step up to it, adding a few feet between the clock and I. Not that there’s any distance great enough to silence it.
The officer eyes me like a stern teacher sizing up a petulant child.
“I don’t know how I got here,” I blurt out, meaning only to think it.
“Excuse me?”
I try to piece together the last few days, but I can’t recall a single moment between sitting in an alley in New York City and standing here. I think Joy slipped me something on the way home. She must have. It’s hazy, but I remember resisting on some level. No, that’s not right. Joy drugging me? I shake my head and lean against the counter.
“Sir? If you cannot form a coherent sentence and tell me why you are here, I’ll have you escorted out. If you resist, you’ll find a cell.”
The word cell hits me like a brick.
“I can’t be locked up,” I say.
The officer stands up and crosses his arms.
I glance down at the handcuffs hanging from his belt and then back at his impervious expression. I still don’t know how I got here, but I remember the why of it. I know what I have to do.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, just a bit nervous. I’ve never had to come here before. I was called by a detective—can’t recall his name—to discuss the recent fire at my home. Seems it was arson and the detective and I are destined to get to the bottom of it.”
The officer stares back, unblinking. “And you are?”
“I—”
“I got this, Donnelly,” a gruff voice answers for me. I recognize it immediately as the detective that called me.
A hand taps the back of my elbow and a bearded man walks past, looking back at me. “This way, I have a room set up for us.”
I hurry to follow, knowing I can’t falter here. My entrance has been bad enough. I eye the grandfather clock as the detective leads me down a long hallway. I curse the contraption for weakening my resolve, if only for a moment. Whatever this detective thinks he knows, I will dissuade him from looking at me any further. I will not let anyone take my family away from me.
Bing.
The man eyes me over his shoulder as I check the text message from Joy.
I still think I should have gone with you. If not as a lawyer, then as a wife. Let me know what’s going on. I love you.
I move to send a reply, but can’t get my fingers to stop shaking. Eyes down, I notice the door the bearded man has opened too late. It swings back and knocks the phone out of my hand. I hastily pick it up and slide it back into my pocket. I can’t get distracted. Not now.
“Forgive me,” I say as I step into a sterile and nearly empty room. “But I didn’t catch your name when you called. Bad connection.”
“Take a seat,” the detective says, motioning to one of two chairs at a metal table.
I sit down.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Anderson.” He grabs the back of the other chair and leans forward, looking down at me. Obviously, he thinks he can intimidate me.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say with a polite nod.
DS Anderson bears down on the chair, but says nothing, and sits after a moment. There’s a folder on the table in front of him. I hadn’t noticed it when I first came in, but it has my attention now. Whatever it contains is a lie. It has to be.
“First off, I’d like to extend my condolences on your loss. I’m told it was a beautiful home.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But it was just a building. My wife and daughter are safe. That’s all that matters.”
“Of course. Now, you told the responding officer that you arrived home that morning at approximately five a.m.”
“That’s right.”
“As you exited your car and approached your house, you stated that you saw smoke exiting one of the first-floor windows.”
I shake my head. “First, I saw what I thought were lights on downstairs, which is odd, because Joy always makes sure everything is off before going to bed. We try to conserve energy. As I walked toward the front door, I noticed smoke, as well as the fire itself, through the front picture window.”
“I see,” he says. “We’ll get the full story as to the fire itself, but first, let’s back up a bit. You are currently unemployed, yes?”
I set my jaw and nod.
“Can you tell me where you were prior to arriving home at approximately five a.m.?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to the fire.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” DS Anderson says. He leans back in his chair and produces a small notepad. He readies his pen for whatever secrets he expects me to spill. I’d sooner spill my blood. And much rather spill his. A pen wouldn’t be ideal, but I could make do.
“I was out with a friend. We went to a bar, then hung out at his place.”
“Your friend’s name?”
I nearly give Ty’s name. I can’t help but want to jump at the idea of giving his name to DS Anderson. But it’s not Ty the detective is after, and if he brings Ty in, while it will be enjoyable to think of his pressed khakis seated in the same steel chair beneath me, he wouldn’t be able to corroborate my story. Or alibi, as this seems to be what the detective is looking for.
“His name?”
“No,” I say flatly.
DS Anderson sits forward, resting his forearms on the table. It’s hard to read his expression. His eyes are dark and cold, unyielding to interpretation. “Her name, then.”
Uhh. Mmm.
My leg twitches involuntarily and smacks the underside of the table.
DS Anderson smiles. “Tell me about your relationship with your wife, Joy.”
“That’s personal. What goes on between a man and his wife is none of your concern.”
“Does she know where you were that night? Does she know who you were with?”
I wrap my fingers around the edge of the table and squeeze. It’s all that is saving me from lunging across the table. I know what he’s insinuating, and it’s vile. And ironic. But I can’t tell him the truth, obviously not about the fire, b
ut not about Joy and Ty, either. Even if it means letting him think I was being unfaithful to Joy that night. He’s digging for a motive. DS Anderson wants to know if I had reason to burn my house down with Joy inside.
“I have never cheated on Joy,” I say, deciding I’m unwilling to compromise.
“Hey, it happens,” he says. “I’m not here to judge. I just want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I know what you’re doing and I know what you think.”
DS Anderson raises an eyebrow.
“You think I’m having an affair and burned my own house down, with my wife and only daughter still inside.”
“Well, did you?”
“Fuck, no!” I shout, pounding both fists on the table.
DS Anderson’s reaction tells me I’ve made a mistake. I’ve let my emotions take over. An innocent man wouldn’t behave like this. Or would he? I don’t know what it feels like to be innocent.
I force my hands back to the edge of the table, where they become vises. “I mean, no, just no. I love my family. They are all I have. I just don’t get the point of accusing me, when you should be, as you said, looking for the truth. I know the husband is always the first suspect, but this isn’t fair. Are you trying to settle some vendetta against me?”
DS Anderson smiles and rests his hands atop the folder. “I hold no grudges and favor none.”
“You rehearse that in front of your mirror this morning?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer except to open the folder. Inside is a stack of documents and color photos. DS Anderson slides one toward me. It shows the burned-out husk of my home. Nothing is left but ash and ruin. My stomach clenches. I never saw the aftermath. I haven’t dared go back.
I grab the picture and hold it close, looking for something that survived amid the destruction. DS Anderson slides another photo at me, showing much of the same, from a different angle. I don’t have time to examine it before a dozen more photos of the same scene land before me.
“One hell of a blaze,” DS Anderson says. “Investigators say an accelerant was used. Plain old gasoline, and a shit ton of it. Whoever burned your home down wanted to be damn sure nothing would be left. It really is a miracle you arrived when you did. Just a minute later would have been too late for your wife and daughter. Seems to me you foiled the arsonist. To use that much gas… From where I’m sitting, murder was the goal. Arson was just the weapon.”
I scoop up the photos and toss them back at DS Anderson. “Looking at pictures isn’t going to find the lunatic that did it. What do you want from me?”
DS Anderson sorts the photos and neatly tucks them back into the folder. He flips through the rest of the contents for a moment before drawing out another photo. This one he sets softly in the middle of the table, facing me.
Tick.
I shudder and look away.
“Do you recognize that?” DS Anderson asks.
I look up enough to see he’s wearing a garish watch on his left wrist. I curse myself for not noticing before. It was only a matter of time before the second hand spoke up. You can’t trust timepieces, marking the passage of something that doesn’t exist. Furthering an illusion. Telling me I’ve run out of something I never had. Sand through my fingers.
DS Anderson snaps his fingers and gestures at the photo.
I fight to sit up straight and look at it without flinching. It’s a red metal gas can, rusted with age, and dented from use.
“It’s our gas can,” I say. They must have tested it for fingerprints. I can’t deny its existence. “I use it for my mower.”
Tick. Tick.
I try to remember what I did with it. I thought I’d left it in the house, on the kitchen table. I’d meant to. But there it is, lying on the grass of what likely makes up the front lawn. Some things are so difficult to let go of.
“That was rhetorical,” DS Anderson says, taking the photo back. “Now, with how much gas the fire marshal is guessing was used, I’d say the arsonist would have had to refill that can several times. Maybe they siphoned it from your wife’s car or your lawn mower. Maybe even their own vehicle. That’s not terribly important. What is interesting, however, is that it means whoever burned your house down spent a fair amount of time in it before the fire, dousing a majority of the first floor with gas. That’s the action of someone who wanted to make sure the job was done. Overkill, really.”
I muster a shrug, but I can’t loosen my jaw. My eyes keep darting to the detective’s watch, though I am fighting like hell not to look. To acknowledge it gives it power.
“Let’s play a little game, all right?” DS Anderson asks. He’s leaning back in his chair again, arms folded, watch staring right at me. “Let’s pretend for a moment that it was you that wanted to kill your wife and daughter by turning your house into the pit of hell. How would you do it?”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I pound the table and jump out of my chair. My body isn’t listening to my mind any longer. I’m standing on the edge of a precipice with a strong inclination to jump.
“How would you burn your family to death? Hypothetically, of course.”
TICK. TICK. TICK.
His watch sounds like a gong. Each beat of the tiny second hand sends a wave of pressure through my body, threatening to crush me. Pain sparks to life in my back and I bend over double, leaning on my knees, fighting for air.
“Was it something I said?” DS Anderson asks.
He knows I did it. I haven’t been arrested, so he can’t prove it yet, but he knows. This arrogant prick with the watch the size of a satellite dish knows what I did. And if he knows what I did, it’s only a matter of time before he takes my life away.
From the ashes, I was born, and to the ashes I will return.
Click.
I straighten up and stare straight at DS Anderson. For the first time, his stony expression cracks. “You have no fucking clue what you’re doing. No earthly idea what I am or what I’ve done. You’re grasping at straws, you poor bastard. This entire thing is a charade of self-indulgent bullshit, but it’s over. You like games? You want to know what I’d do? If I had set that fire to kill my wife and daughter, I’d have made damn sure they didn’t escape. I’d have saved some of that gas for them. Bathed them in it, made them drink it. Lashed their hands together tightly enough to break bone. Trust me when I say, if I had wanted them dead, they’d be so.”
With this, I turn and leave the interrogation room. I shut the door behind me without a sound, hoping the calmness of the gesture will shake the detective further.
I barely make it back to my car in the parking garage before I collapse. Weakness and despair drag me to the concrete as I reach for the driver’s door and miss. My head snaps off it and I end up sitting against the front tire. My vision blurs, then dims completely.
Click.
The sound of a long-necked lighter explodes in my ears. It only sounds once. It only took one pull of the plastic trigger. Just one. Such a simple thing.
The lighter.
I bear down and force myself into my car. It’s still difficult to see, but a desperate thought forces adrenaline throughout my body. I paw through the contents of my car like an animal. I left the gas can where it could be found, but what happened to the lighter?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I notice a dark sedan with tinted windows following me as soon as I leave the parking garage. It pulls out of a parking spot along the street and slides into traffic two cars back. I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, but I know it’s not DS Anderson. It’s likely some young cop made to do the detective sergeant’s dirty work. Poor bastard.
The police precinct is downtown, about an hour from my in-laws’ place. Plenty of time to lose the tail. What are they expecting to accomplish by following me? Do they think I’m going to stop by someone’s house on the way, and burn it to the ground? Do they think I’ll lead them to a storage locker where I have a collection of lighters and hundreds of journals detailing the entire eve
nt? As sure as DS Anderson is, he needs proof, but following me won’t grant him that.
“What about the lighter?” I ask the empty car.
No, if DS Anderson has the lighter, he’d have shown it to me, just like the gas can. He wouldn’t have been able to resist. But all they have is a gas can. It might be enough by itself, especially if I can’t satisfactorily explain my movements prior to the fire. I still need to find the lighter, on the off chance it wasn’t destroyed.
I glance in the rearview mirror and spot the dark sedan. It’s a little further back, but as I change to the left lane, so does the car. I leisurely switch back to the right lane. After a moment, the car follows suit. Definitely following.
Even though I know they’ll learn nothing from tailing me, I won’t let them have the satisfaction. I take an abrupt right and accelerate. Traffic is still dense, but I maneuver as best as I can to put some distance between the sedan and me. A quick look back confirms they followed the same turn.
I take another right and then an immediate left. The tires squeal and I fight back the urge to slam the accelerator to the floor. I have to escape them, but not at the risk of drawing attention from any other law enforcement in the area. I fight to keep my breath even and controlled. Once I get out of the city, I’ll have more freedom.
Tick.
I flinch and clip a street sign.
In the mirror, the sedan has closed the gap, now just a single car behind. The silhouette of the driver is visible now, but nothing more. The mystery lends to my rising need to escape.
There’s a crowded intersection up ahead. The light’s green. I slow down. The light changes to yellow. I pump the brakes. The cars ahead of me speed up and clear the intersection. I’m nearing it now, still slowing down. When the light turns red, I punch the accelerator and scream through the intersection, just ahead of the traffic moving across. Horns blare.
Tick. Tick.
“Fuck you!” I scream at the sound.
Another horn sounds and draws my attention to the mirrors. I swerve into oncoming traffic and narrowly avoid a head-on collision. There’s a flash of dark metal and I think it’s the sedan, but they pull over and park.
House of Sand: A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 11