There was no way Delilah’s parents would let him anywhere near her, and so he’d snuck into the backyard, hoping the screams of the siren and all the busybody neighbors would distract House long enough for him to hide in the cement outbuilding.
When he’d left school and walked to Delilah’s—intent on telling her Hinkle thought Gavin would be able to get in nearly anywhere Delilah had already applied, only maybe a year after her—he could smell the fire long before he could see the damage. But once he was closer, he saw where pristine white siding met charred wood and the precise distinction between what had been damaged and what hadn’t.
His knees felt weak when he glanced at the intact power lines overhead and back to the tape that had been strung through the Blues’ once-immaculate backyard, cordoning it off to anyone trying to get a better look. From the mumbled conversations he’d listened to since sunset, the firemen blamed fallen power lines, an electrical short, or some freak accident, but Gavin knew better. House had done this, and the key hidden in his pocket suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. House had set a fire. This wasn’t like a parent getting angry and locking him in. This wasn’t the same as taking his keys or hiding his cell phone or his shoes. This wasn’t the same as it trying to scare Delilah off. House wanted Delilah to know it could get to her at any time.
It knew what time school ended, and if Gavin was right, then Delilah had been in the music room when the fire started, because she’d stayed later than normal to be with him. If she’d gone home when she usually did. . .
He couldn’t even think about that.
He held his breath, quietly placing one foot in front of the other as he slipped out of his hiding spot and crept into the yard.
It was easier than Gavin imagined to move around without being seen. Delilah’s house couldn’t feel his footsteps in the wet grass, or hear the squelch of his sneakers as he moved to the back door. It couldn’t feel his fingers as he searched for a spare key along the top of the doorframe, or his hands as he skimmed the side of the house, where he found a single window that had been left unlocked.
It took some work to get the window to move—the frame was clean but kept getting stuck on the track from lack of use—but it finally gave, sliding open just enough to let him slip inside.
Delilah’s house was eerily quiet, and without a single window cracked or the fan blowing, it felt stuffy to the point of suffocation and smelled of cleaning solvents and artificial flowers.
It was all wrong. Delilah smelled like apples, and whenever they were together—and close—he had to resist the urge to rest his head in the crook of her neck and breathe her in. This place didn’t smell like Delilah at all.
She was right where he thought she’d be: on the couch, blanket wrapped so high around her head there was barely a tuft of tangled honey hair visible at the top. Gavin took a seat on the coffee table next to her and leaned over, pulling the duvet down just enough to see her face.
He was struck again by the realization that Delilah could have died. And even in this house, there was no one here watching over her, no one worrying about the toxic fumes in the room or the heat pressing down from the ceiling.
“Lilah,” he whispered into her ear, so quiet he was sure only she could hear.
He pulled back just in time to see the flutter of her lashes, and the moment she woke and realized he was there.
“Ga—” she started, but he pressed a gentle finger to her mouth and shook his head. Delilah blinked, sitting up carefully and searching the room with wide eyes, almost as if she expected to find someone standing nearby.