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.
“You should know we’ve put in a request for a search warrant for your home,” Larson says. “We should have it by tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll put the coffee on at seven,” Mom says. “Good night, officers.”
After another moment, both cops are on their feet. Huntington gives me a hard look.
“See you later, Gabe,” she says.
I don’t answer. I watch them go, watch as my mom moves to the door and shuts it firmly behind them.
She stands motionless for a moment before turning back around to look at me.
“Mom, seriously. I didn’t set that fire. I never threatened Catherine. This is all . . .”
“Gabe . . .” She sits down and rubs her temples. “What the hell is going on?”
I swallow. My lips feel cracked, my tongue swollen and sore. The idea of telling her everything is exhausting. I can feel the last of my energy spiraling down the drain.
“Sasha,” I finally say. “She’s been acting unhinged since we broke up. I think she started that fire.”
She looks skeptical. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I know.” I look her in the eyes. “But remember the day she took Vivi? I swear, Mom, I didn’t tell her she could. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. She’s . . . she’s trying to hurt the people I care about.”
It must be the pain, or the exhaustion, or the adrenaline wearing off, but I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes. I swipe them away quickly, but she sees. She squeezes my hand.
“I’m going to go find some coffee for me and some water for you. We’ll talk about all this after you’ve had a chance to rest.” She picks up her purse. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. And if anyone comes in here asking questions, you don’t talk to them, you understand? Not until we have a lawyer.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
She gives me one last inscrutable look, then slips through the door.
I close my eyes, my raw hands stinging as I clench them tight. There’s only one way to fix all of this. I’ve known it all along, but I’ve denied it, even to myself. But I know what I have to do.
I just hope it’s not too late.
THIRTY-SIX
Elyse
We go east. We follow the Columbia, the canyon walls cradling us as we go. At first I’m too excited to sleep. I sit up in the passenger seat, fidgeting with the radio, watching the sliver of road illuminated in his headlights. I go rigid with fear at one point when I see blue and red lights behind us, then relax when the cop car swerves around us and pulls over someone ahead. Then for a while we’re the only ones on the road.
I must fall asleep at some point, because when I wake up the sun is out. The river is gone; I don’t recognize our surroundings at all. The dash clock reads seven A.M.
“Morning,” Aiden says softly. “How you feeling?”
There’s a crick in my neck. “Hungry,” I say, stretching. “Where are we?”