He felt a tear creep to his eye, but he used his old tactic of thinking of random items in his room. He couldn’t swipe at the tear, and he didn’t think his sore jaw could handle her forceful grasp. He willed the tear away, bottled it in. He had much practice.
“The only person you can depend on is your fucking self. You better learn that real quick, Boy, or it’s going to be a long road for you.”
They sat in silence a little while, and then she left him in the confines of the bed to think about his aching body, his stupid stunt, and the veracity in her words.
He hated how his Mama always seemed to be right.
He hated everything and everyone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jameson
The news coverage was more impressive than I could’ve hoped for. Talk of the burned down trailer, the narrow escape of the neighbors, the potential for a copycat spread widely in our town and the next. It doesn’t feel great to have my work labeled as a copy, a curse word in the art world. But it’s okay. I’m a copy of the master, which is a true compliment in some ways.
People discuss my work at the supermarket, at school. It must be what it would feel like to be the real Santa in plain sight—everyone talking about you, wondering about your plans, but never catching a glimpse of you. It’s like the best sort of fame with all the glory and none of the pressures.
I am hooked.
I’d imagined the night of the crime to be overflowing with pride, energy, and sheer elation. Instead, the first night after the fire riddled me with fears of getting caught as crazy scenarios played out in my head. I convinced myself I had fucked up badly. The dog walker would turn me in, and I’d be in jail by the next day. Every noise, every rustle threatened to launch me over the edge of sanity. I spent the night in a cold sweat imagining the inside of a jail cell.
Time assuaged my worries. The police were still investigating. I’d been smart. I’d followed my father’s advice. Of course I wouldn’t get caught.
At the breakfast table before school, I study Mom as she gets ready for the bank. She plods through her routine of coffee and toast, checking her phone and scrolling through social media. Her movements are slightly disjointed today, jerky. A creeping feeling surges in my veins. Mother’s intuition is strong, they say. Does she know deep down what her son has done?
“Morning,” I murmur to test the waters.
“Morning,” she replies, her voice flat and lifeless. Maybe she’s just tired. I’m sensitive to everything going on because of the newness of it all. I’m overanalyzing. I head to school, but my mind, as usual, is somewhere else.
I’m plotting. I know I need to take my time. You can’t rush a fire. That’s how mistakes happen. Still, I’m starving to feel the excitement again. To watch it all simmer.
As the health teacher yammers about healthy eating, I consider how even if worse comes to worst and this doesn’t reconnect me with my father, I’ll be forever grateful to him. Because of him, I’ve unlocked my true passion in life. How many people can say that?
Rule 6: Collateral damage happens sometimes.
I don’t always mean to hurt people, not directly. My focus has always been on the desecration of material items. My sanctimonious display centers around the building or a structure. I do my best to ensure no one will be home. I’m not a serial killer, after all. I ruin lives through the destruction of material items, not through the flesh.
Most of the time.
Even with the best intentions, sometimes collateral damage can’t be avoided, even when you do all the prep work. Sometimes fate steals the reins from your grasping fingers.
I was eighteen the first time someone died in one of my fires. It was on the outskirts of town at a tiny house that was more shack than a residence. The peeling paint, the broken windows—it was a sad excuse for a house. I decided to make it more noteworthy by doing us all a favor and burning it down. It happened during my Robinhood face I mentioned before. The owner, a squat little old woman who liked to harass every cashier at the local businesses, radiated ugliness on the inside. She’d often swatted at the children in the neighborhood who got too close to her lawn. She shot at local cats if they wandered onto her property. And, additionally, she’d called my mother a whore at the bank when we cut in front of her to cash a check.
I had plenty of checkboxes on my list.
Even so, I didn’t plan on killing her that night. I thought I’d show her what suffering looked like. I’d make the blackness of the ashes a reflection of the blackness of her soul. I’d put her in her place. I studied and watched for weeks. Tuesdays were Bingo night when she went to the local fire hall to try to win cash while berating everyone in town if the gossip was to be believed. I made my plan, mapped out my escape routes. I waited for the moment anxiously, the date marked on my calendar.
I didn’t find out until the next day that old widow Tilson hadn’t made it to Bingo that night. Caught up with a cold, she’d stayed in. The investigator hadn’t found proof of foul play—Dad taught me so well. Thus, they ruled it an accident, tracing it back to a faulty cook stove she must’ve left on. The town pretended to mourn for the loss of its gloomiest resident. The lot stood empty. Everyone moved on.
I didn’t, though. There’s something about the first casualty that sits differently in your memory bank. I knew I should feel guilty. I’d killed someone. My flick of a wrist had led to her hideous death. I should’ve been drowning in remorse, choking and sputtering in a sea of moroseness.
Somehow, though, I couldn’t work up any feelings other than exhilaration over getting away with it and awe at the amount of press coverage I drummed up. I didn’t feel an ache in my heart. I didn’t struggle to fall asleep at night. I envisioned Mrs. Tilson’s decrepit body fighting to survive the flames, the smoke—and apathy washed over me.
I knew it was my fault. I made the choice. And even though I hadn’t planned on killing her, my deliberate decision led to her last breath. I suppose, though, I felt like it wasn’t completely my fault. I set the fire, but the fire chose its victim. It spread and destroyed. It murdered, not me. I fanned the initial flame and let it go where it would. The wild peace rippled through the house, quieting the scene. I was the artist who made the first brushstroke.
Inevitably in this work, there will be collateral damage. Your fire will eventually slaughter someone. A living being will die at your hands, even if it is indirectly. If you don’t murder someone, you will be responsible for the death of all sorts of things—relationships, businesses, dreams, and the human spirit. You will be the reaper even when you aren’t carrying the scythe, even when it’s by default.
We pay this price to do our work. This is the sacrifice made for the sake of the art. It’s not unlike any other profession, though. Because at the end of the day, no one is completely in control. Our choices lead us down paths we think are solid and steadfast. However, the road is always moving and jarring us in a different direction than we expected. We can set the first foot on the pavement, but that doesn’t guarantee the other will land precisely where we intend.
The flames control the outcome. We might feel like a powerful god when we light a match, but the flame is wily and unpredictable. It makes its own decisions. We just get the opportunity to be an instigator, an inciter, a co-participant.
But do not fret—because those roles are all beautiful ones filled with passion and possibility.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pete
Borrowed time. A borrowed time wearing thin.
That was what the arsonist was living on, as far as Pete was concerned. The chill of the night air bit through his coat, but he didn’t dare move a muscle or call attention to his spot. Dressed in black, he hoped he blended in with the forest so no one would spot him. They hadn’t in the day since he’d staked himself out there, watching the spot that used to be the trailer and waiting for his return. He had a backpack with him stuffed with useful items, he perched himself on the forest floor. A viewpoi
nt through two trees gave him the line of sight he needed.
He would come back. The bastards always came back. That’s what Pete’s research showed. He had to be persistent.
The officers weren’t patient. That was the main problem, he’d decided. They swore up and down they were doing their best, but two days after the arson at the old lady’s trailer, and their presence was spotty at best. They were off to the next disaster, a break-in on the Northshore. The rest of them were off to their favorite thing—sitting at their desks. It didn’t matter to them. It hadn’t happened to them. Their son hadn’t been murdered. They weren’t invested. Not like Pete.
So as their presence waned, his picked up where they left off. He’d been in this spot for about sixteen hours now. He left during the day to get a few hours of sleep. The guy always seemed to work at night. It made sense he’d return then, too. At least Pete had to hope. If only he had a partner who could keep watch, he could be better at his task.
There was no one, though, to keep him company. No one to trust. In another lifetime, he would’ve said he trusted Anna with everything. She’d be the one by his side, always. Those were different days, though. He was a different man, in reality and her eyes.
He leaned against the tree and fought against hunger, exhaustion, and boredom. His eyes kept vigil on the spot where the arsonist had been a few nights ago. Where the bastard who’d murdered Tanner had stood, lighting another one up like he had nothing to lose.
The darkness and the loneliness plagued him with stories of a past life, with movie-like memories of who he once was. He’d built the life he had promised his younger self. It vanished, though. Someone had to pay for that. He had to make him pay.
His fingers restlessly stroked the straps of the backpack. He thought of the tools he’d brought, how foreign they’d felt in his fingers. He couldn’t wait to use them. He imagined the faceless bastard’s cries as he used them in all sorts of sick and twisted ways he’d been fantasizing about. His fingers ached to hold the knife, to feel it ripping through flesh centimeter by centimeter. He longed to make him cry out as his son had—
He stopped, inhaling and taking his mind to random places. Insignificant words. Anything to push down the tears. He wouldn’t cry again. He owed Tanner the strength he had left. He leaned against the tree, losing faith in his plan when all of a sudden, his heart leaped.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Borrowed time was about to be returned.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jameson
Turn back. Don’t be an idiot. It isn’t brave to look at the scene. It’s naïve and foolish.
I don’t remember what his voice sounds like, but I hear it plain as day with every single step I take closer to the scene of my work.
It’s been three days. My confidence grows with every hour I elude the police, the town. They aren’t going to figure it out. I’m getting away with it. With this assurance, though, another feeling has emerged.
A need to see it again.
I’ve read my father’s handbook. I know the rules, the advice. I know I should listen to it. But dammit, I need to see it again. Maybe it’s because it’s my first real one. The shed hardly counted. This one has police on the case hunting for the perpetrator. And the hunted villain is me. It makes my whole body tingle with electrifying energy at the thought. I’ve fought against it, told myself I wouldn’t go back.
Still, they would never suspect me. How easy would it be to slip back the way I came, to get a look at the scene?
I’ve had this wild idea, another calling card of my own so to speak. I want to start sketching all of the scenes of my fires. From memory of course. I will make a book of the before and after pics, the beautiful wreckage after days of normalcy. It will be for my eyes only, my way to commemorate my work. A family scrapbook of sorts. And although I could use the photos in the newspaper, my memories, it seems lackluster. I feel like my first one needs to be a true piece of artwork.
I need to see it again. To feel it again in my blood. I need to experience it completely before I can sketch it properly.
So I’m plodding down the street, on foot this time. It’s going to be a long walk, but the chilly air cleanses my lungs as I push on. I like the quietude of nighttime when all is settled in. I like being alone in the darkness, enveloped by its melancholy tone. I push on, feet quietly padding on the pavement as I take the route I took not so long ago. Déjà vu kicks in, and I think about how much I’ve changed in just a couple of weeks. A couple of nights. I am new.
As I trudge onward through the darkness and approach the lane from the edge of the forest, footsteps echo behind me. I pause. They continue. My heart beats crazily. I should’ve listened to him. This was a terrible idea. I am naïve and foolish, like he warned against and—
“Jameson?” a voice echoes. “What are you doing?”
And my heart flutters again, confusion overtaking me as I turn to face my follower.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jameson
“What are you doing out here?” I ask as I study the familiar red pigtails with confusion.
She shrugs. “I live on Martin Street. I was sitting on my porch doing some thinking when you walked by. At least I thought it was you. I figured I’d catch you. It sort of looked like you were on a mission.”
I study her warily. The magnetic pull of the scene of the crime yanks on me, beckoning me to leave her. But I also feel the power of those blue eyes sucking me in. I wonder if this is how my father felt with Mom, always between two worlds. I wonder if that’s why he left.
“So anyway, what the hell are you doing out here?”
I shrug. “Just taking a walk. Thinking.”
“You know that arson that happened is like right down this lane, don’t you?” She raises a suspicious eyebrow. I stare back steadily, willing myself to appear nonchalant. I add a shrug for good measure.
“Is it? I didn’t know.”
“It’s kind of far from your house, to be wandering out here.” She adds this pointedly.
“How do you know where I live?”
She shrugs. “I keep an eye on the people I like.”
I blink, taken aback by her bluntness.
“So, anyway. If you’re about done wandering the world, I was wondering if you want to come hang out with me.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Why not? I’m alone and bored.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at the lane. I still want to go and take a look. But Ashley’s eyes seem sultry in a way I’ve never seen. And, in reality, she pulls me in, too. I am stuck at a crossroads. Which way will pull me in more?
I think about my father’s advice. You never go back. Maybe this is the universe’s way of stepping in.
“Oh, you’ll see. I’ve got all sorts of fun things we can do.”
I’m not sure if this is seduction or not, but I feel myself grit my teeth and suck in the air. I shove my hands in my pockets, glance behind me once more, and make my decision.
“Let’s go,” I murmur.
As we’re walking toward her house, a car drives past us.
A police car.
Coming from the direction of the fire.
My heart races at the close call. Ashley saved me. It has to be a sign.
We go back to her place, and she pulls out her stash. I spend the evening getting high, making out, and realizing my father’s advice must always be heeded.
Next time, I’ll be so much more careful.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Pete
He turned to put a face to the footsteps, his right hand reaching for his backpack as his heart beat crazily.
“Mr. Andrews, what the hell are you doing here?” Officer Bartley asked, his hand on his hip where his gun perched.
It wasn’t the face Pete planned to see. His heart sank. He didn’t move, didn’t mutter a word. Officer Bartley foiled his plan just like he was s
crewing up the whole investigation.
“Mr. Andrews?” Officer Bartley stepped closer. Pete leaned on the tree.
“You know why I’m here,” he uttered into the chilly night.
The uniformed man eyed Pete’s backpack as if considering whether or not he should search it. Instead, the stoic man exhaled, his breath an icy puffed cloud spreading between them.
“We had some reports from one of the residents of the trailer court. She said she thought she saw someone lurking in the woods. She thought the arsonist had returned.”
Pete gritted his teeth. “And if he did come back? Would you have caught him?”
“We’re on it, Pete. Let us do our job.” Officer Bartley only used his first name when he was very obviously trying to connect with him. Pete didn’t like it. They weren’t friends.
“I haven’t seen any of you accomplish shit. You do know they usually return, right? To the scene? I saw all of you unfocused, so I decided to keep watch.”
“And what were you planning if you caught him? Should I ask?” Officer Bartley shifted his weight as if relaxing, but he didn’t move his hand from his gun.
Pete Andrews didn’t respond. He was reckless. He wasn’t very good at sneaking around apparently. But he wasn’t an idiot.
“Look, Mr. Andrews. I know what it’s like.”
“Do you? Do you fucking really?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I fucking do,” Officer Bartley yelled more harshly than usual. The emotion caught Pete by surprise. Usually, the man wore no palpable feelings on his poker face. Now, though, Pete studied him and saw an uncharacteristic sadness.
“I fucking know exactly what it’s like.” He reached into his front pocket now, and Pete flinched, wondering what the hell was going on. Even in the darkness, Pete could see a flash of a square emerging. Officer Bartley held it up in front of him, and Pete squinted to see. He detected the rough shape of a little boy, a bowl cut and a cheesy, toothy grin.
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