These Witches Don't Burn Page 10

  Like an entire house fire going out in a matter of seconds . . .

  Shame and worry and not a small amount of panic fight for dominance in my head. How am I going to explain how the fire died? My grandmother will murder me if she finds out—she reminded me just last week not to interfere with Regs. While I can’t agree that I should have let Benton die in there, I understand more than ever why that’s always been her rule.

  I should have done something with water. Given the choice between literal magic and an unlikely but non-witchy explanation, Regs never jump to the mystical, not in any serious way. But I didn’t leave the firefighters any clues for a reasonable explanation.

  My inner monologue continues in a stream of self-loathing curses as Detective Archer leads me to a dark sedan and helps me into the backseat. My arms protest, my shoulders straining from the awkward angle the cuffs have forced them into. There’s no way I’ll be able to put on my seat belt like this.

  As if that matters right now. At all.

  The detective closes my door and heads for the driver’s side. He’s so tall he practically has to fold himself in half to fit into the front seat. He watches me a moment in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the Abbotts’ driveway.

  “Miss Walsh,” he says as houses zoom past the windows, “care to explain why you tried to burn down that house?”

  “I didn’t.” The urge to elaborate, to share more of the truth, is gone. Veronica’s lingering magic in the crystals must be fading. I shift in the backseat, but it does nothing to alleviate the strain in my shoulders. At least he’s asking about how the fire started rather than how it went out.

  Detective Archer watches me in the mirror, so focused he nearly misses his turn. At the last second, his GPS reminds him to take the next left, and he jerks the steering wheel, slamming me into the door.

  “Watch it,” I snap.

  The detective has the audacity to look apologetic. “Sorry. I don’t know the town all that well yet.”

  “Don’t you have to call my parents before you talk to me? I’m a minor.”

  “Sixteen?” he asks.

  “Seventeen.”

  In the front seat, Detective Archer taps the steering wheel but doesn’t say anything.

  “Don’t you have to read my Miranda Rights before you actually charge me with anything?” I might not be an expert in police procedure and legal protections, but my dad is the ADA. Miranda Rights are kind of a big deal.

  In response, the detective glares at me and flips on the radio, drowning out my thoughts with classic rock. But despite the noise, the shadowy figure consumes my mind.

  The fire could have been an accident, someone dropping a cigarette on the floor or spilling their beer on an active outlet. In which case, the person I saw running away was probably lost inside, unable to find a way out because of the smoke. But what if it was intentional? Who was the target? Every teen in Salem was there, more or less. Maybe someone trapped Benton upstairs intentionally. Or maybe someone was pissed at Nolan and wanted revenge.

  By the time Detective Archer swings his cruiser into a parking spot in front of the police station, I still haven’t come up with any answers. He helps me from the car, and fresh air assaults my nose. I cringe; my clothes reek of smoke. In the station, officers swivel to look at me as the detective leads me past. Their noses crinkle at the smell. Some narrow their eyes, a silent judgment for what they think I’ve done. But the ones who recognize me because of my dad? Their eyes go wide with shock.

  Detective Archer deposits me in a small room. Stains cover the once-white walls, scuff marks and dark splotches that remind me of blood.

  The thick metal table in front of me boasts dents and scratches from violent arrestees. My chair wobbles on uneven legs, and the light above sways as the bulb flickers and buzzes, struggling through the last days of its life. Panic curls in my gut like a sleeping lion trying to ignore the pesky fly that is my stay calm mantra.

  As if this space didn’t scream Interrogation Room enough, a dull mirror covers the upper half of the wall across from me. I wonder how many people stand on the other side, watching me, observing me, deciding my fate long before I have a chance to defend myself.

  Who knows what kind of bullshit motives they’re concocting to explain why I torched a classmate’s house. They’ll probably cast me as some jealous wannabe lover. I smirk at the absurdity of the thought. Me and Nolan? Excuse me while I vomit. I glance at my reflection, and even I have to admit I look a little guilty with my hair a mess, skin covered in soot, and a self-satisfied smile plastered on my face.

  The clock behind me ticks on and on. Minutes stretch into hours. I shift in the chair, my shoulders aching from the way my wrists are still pinned behind my back. I glare at the mirror where I imagine Detective Archer would stand, just to his right of center.

  “Did you want to chat at some point today? I do have a curfew to keep,” I say, calling back to my excuse last week after the bonfire.

  Silence is my only answer.

  Okay then . . . “Has anyone called my parents? Or a lawyer? Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that.”

  The door swings open, and Detective Archer finally walks in. He sets a folder on the table in front of him. “Why? Do you need a lawyer?”

  I scowl. “I don’t know. Are you charging me with anything?” I try to lean back, but it hurts my arms too much. “Can we not with the cuffs? My shoulders are killing me.”

  The detective sighs, like he’s already exhausted by me. As if I’m the one who wants to be here so late. He stands and unlocks the cuffs, but he relocks them in front of me.

  “Really?” I wince as my muscles adjust to the new position. Every inch of me is sore from putting out the fire. “It’s not like I pose a physical threat.”

  “Let’s talk about the fires,” Detective Archer says, ignoring me. He flips open his folder and spreads write-ups and pictures in front of him.

  “Fires? Plural?” I glance at the upside-down pictures before me, and it’s almost like the detective is reading my tarot cards. Except instead of images like the Tower or the Fool, he’s reading my fate in the mangled remains of a raccoon.

  The detective nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “Two fires so far. We found you tampering with evidence at the bonfire last week. Tonight, a fireman found you inside a previously burning building, completely unharmed.” He leans forward, eyes narrow. “Care to explain yourself?”

  I search for a plausible lie, but putting out the fire has left my body exhausted and my brain foggy. “Explain what?” I ask, reaching for a suitable truth instead. “I wasn’t the only one at both parties.” Besides, Evan’s the one who killed that raccoon. But I don’t say anything. Evan has enough problems without the police showing up at his house.

  Detective Archer slides four photos so they’re faceup in front of me. He taps one on the left. “Look at the damage your little prank has done to this family.”

  Even though I didn’t start the fire, I can’t help but examine the image. It looks like it might be Nolan’s parents’ room. They’ve hung picture frames along the walls, all of which are broken and charred. Their bedframe has cracked in half, and the mattress and comforter are mostly ash. I swallow down the lump in my throat, waiting for the detective to ask a question I can’t answer, to ask how the fire went out instead of how it started. “I feel bad for Nolan’s family, but I don’t get why you think I did this. I have an alibi.”

  “An alibi. From another teen who was drinking underage?” The detective raises a brow. “I’m sure you can understand my skepticism about the reliability of your friends.” He sighs and picks up a pen, holding it over a yellow legal pad. “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Walsh.”

  “First of all, I haven’t been drinking. You can test that however you want.” I shouldn’t snap at him, but his dismissive attitude is getting on my nerves. “
I was in the kitchen when the fire started, talking with Morgan.” I try to remember her last name. Haggerty? Huewe? “Hughes. Morgan Hughes.”

  Detective Archer’s eyes go wide. After a pause, he jots down her name and writes possible alibi next to it, as if he’s not convinced my story is true. “If you were in the kitchen with Miss Hughes when the fire started,” he says, his voice catching on her name, “then why did a firefighter find you inside the house? There’s an exit through the kitchen.” He pulls out another photo, this one of said kitchen layout, and sets it next to the rest.

  Before I can respond, there’s a knock on the door.

  “What is it?”

  A young officer cracks open the door and sticks his head through. He glances at me before settling his attention on the detective. “We have a Mr. and Mrs. Walsh here to collect their daughter.”

  Mom . . . Dad . . .

  “We’ll be done in a moment,” Detective Archer says in a tone clearly meant to dismiss the officer.

  But the young man doesn’t budge. “Mr. Walsh . . . He’s . . . uh . . . He’s the assistant district attorney. He’s really insistent, sir. And since you haven’t entered any charges . . .”

  What? I stand and lean my bound hands against the cold metal table. “I’m not under arrest?”

  Detective Archer glares at the officer, but the way his face pales makes me think having an ADA for a father is handier than I knew. “Not yet, no. I just need you to answer a few more questions.”

  “Why? So you can trick me into admitting to something I didn’t do? Don’t think so.” I thrust my hands toward the detective. “Take these off. Now.”

  We stand there, locked in a stalemate. The only sound is the buzzing of the swinging light above us.

  The young officer fidgets by the door. “Detective?”

  And with that, the spell is broken. Detective Archer reaches for his key and shoves it in the lock of the handcuffs. When they click free, the skin is red and painful underneath. “Don’t leave town, Miss Walsh. And stay out of trouble.” He turns to the officer in the doorway. “Take her to her parents.”

  “This way, Miss Walsh,” the young officer says, opening the door wide and gesturing down the hall.

  I spare one final look at the detective, take a deep breath, and head toward my executioners.

  10

  THE RIDE HOME IS SILENT.

  Dad drives, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He’s still dressed for work—an office day if his brightly patterned tie is any indication. Mom stares straight ahead into the dark night; she clutches her purse so tight I worry she might fuse it to her hands.

  In their silence, toxic worries slither back into my chest. I was in a police station, being interrogated by a full-fledged detective. Never in my wildest nightmares did I think that was a possibility. Let alone the horror of my parents finding out about it.

  I let out a shaky breath and wonder if Benton’s okay. If his parents know what happened to him. Part of me wants to text him and make sure he’s all right, make sure he doesn’t realize how I saved him, but I can’t risk Mom seeing the light of my phone and deciding to confiscate it.

  The turnoff for Nolan’s house is a block ahead, but Dad shows no signs of slowing. We pass the turn, and I twist in my seat to watch the road shrink in the distance. “What about my car?”

  The air cools until I can see my breath, a sure sign Mom is pissed. But at least now I know my parents can even hear me. That I’m not a ghost haunting their car. They haven’t acknowledged my presence, or spoken, since the passive-aggressive thank you Mom hurled at the young officer back at the police station. Their quiet is more unnerving than if they were yelling. I expected lectures and raised voices. Not this weird you’re-dead-to-us silence.

  Dad pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. I’m prepared for fireworks, but I get nothing. We sit as still as statues, each second dragging longer than the last, until Mom cracks the plaster. She unbuckles her seat belt and leaves.

  The car light dims, then goes dark. “Dad . . .”

  “Talk to your mother.” He sighs and hurries after said maternal figure.

  I groan and lean my head against the back of the seat. The storm is coming. I have no doubt about that. Historically, it’s been better to hit Hurricane Mom head-on, so I undo my seat belt and follow my parents into the house. The trail of lights leads me to the kitchen, where Mom is filling an exceptionally large glass with wine.

  “Will somebody please say something?” I lean against the doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room. “I am sorry . . .”

  Mom chugs her wine and wipes her lips on the back of her hand. Finally, she turns and settles her attention on me. Fury lines her face, deep grooves that map my every disappointment. “Sorry for what exactly? For starting the fire? For wandering around inside a burning house, no doubt using magic so you didn’t pass out from smoke inhalation? For agreeing to talk to a detective without bothering to call your parents?” She takes another huge gulp of wine. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “To be fair, I have witnesses that can prove I did not start that fire. And I’m fairly certain I told the detective we should wait for you.”

  Dad crosses his arms, scowling. “That is not the point.”

  “The point,” Mom cuts in, “is that we explicitly told you to stay out of trouble. Lady Ariana warned you not to use your powers in public, but given the ‘unusual’ way the fire burned itself out before the fire trucks arrived, you clearly did not listen.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Let the house burn to the ground?”

  “Yes,” Mom says at the same time Dad says, “No,” which earns him one of Mom’s signature glares.

  He deflates and leans against the counter. “We know you’re not a bad kid. So level with us, Hannah. What happened tonight?”

  “I don’t even know where to start.” I glance at Mom, but she just tips back her glass and reaches for the bottle. “Gem invited me to the party, and I thought it’d be a good distraction. So I went.” To investigate Evan. Thankfully, I keep that truth locked inside. “I was talking to this new girl when the fire started. I got her out, then went back in.”

  Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why would you possibly do that?”

  “Benton was trapped inside on the second floor. I couldn’t leave him there.”

  “Hannah.” Dad sounds exhausted. But what is he going to do? Yell at me for not letting someone burn to death? “You don’t have to be a superhero.”

  “I wasn’t trying to! I just didn’t want him to die.”

  Mom scrutinizes me, her eyes narrowing as her gaze sweeps across my throat. Her lips press into a thin line. “What is that?”

  “What’s what?” But my traitorous hands reach for the stones hanging around my neck.

  “Hannah Marie Walsh, if those are spelled stones, so help me . . .” Mom steps forward and holds out her hand, snatching the stones away the second I place them in her palm. She winds the metal chain around her hand, and the stones begin to glow. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Why did you go to the party tonight?”

  Heat pours into my chest, stronger and more demanding than the secondhand effects I felt at the party, and I’m delighted to answer. “To question Evan.” The serene feeling evaporates the second the words leave my lips. Cold sweat prickles across my skin.

  What did I do?

  If Veronica’s magic was even a fraction as strong as Mom’s, Evan must have felt so violated. And Morgan . . . God, I’m a bigger creep than Nolan, messing with her emotions like that. She probably has no real interest in me at all. Even if she had a tiny crush when we first met, the stones probably forced it into something more.

  I feel sick.

  Mom squeezes the stones in her hand. “And why, exactly, did you use magic to question a Reg?”


  Some small part of my brain protests, but the urge to tell my mom everything is too strong to ignore. I tell her all about Evan visiting the shop, both before the bonfire and the day I found the bloody runes. I tell her about scrying for a Blood Witch with Veronica. About how we thought it might be Evan.

  Then the rambling really begins. I tell my parents about Veronica spelling the stones for me, about Evan’s family troubles, and even the kiss with Morgan. I’m completely mortified as I listen to myself worry about how the stones violated Morgan’s trust and how can I possibly hope to date her without apologizing but how can I apologize when she doesn’t know magic is real. And then I finally get to the smoke and the rushing, the moment I realized the fire couldn’t be the work of a Blood Witch. My justification for diving back into the house to save my friend.

  “I swear I don’t have a hero complex, but I couldn’t let Benton get hurt.”

  There’s silence in our kitchen after that. Mom’s second glass of wine stands forgotten on the counter.

  Dad reaches for Mom’s hand, takes the stones away, and sets them beside the bottle of wine. “Do we have to be worried about the detective? Does he know anything that puts the coven in danger?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. He acted like he thought I did it, but he never filed charges.” A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “He doesn’t have any idea what’s really going on.”

  Dad is less amused. “What did he ask about specifically?”

  “He thought I was responsible for the animal sacrifice last week.” I close my eyes and try to remember if there’s anything else, anything that would give our coven away. “He was more concerned with who set the fire, not how it went out so quickly. I think we’re safe.”

  My parents share a look, but it’s guarded enough that I can’t read its meaning.

  “Are you going to tell Lady Ariana?” She’s the real executioner, after all. If she deemed it necessary, she could petition the Council to strip me of my powers, and with them, everything that makes me an Elemental. Everything that makes me who I am.