Chapter 35
Olive
I must have fallen asleep eventually because, after a while, I wake up. I’m lying on my front and no longer in Colin’s arms. He’s propped himself on his elbows beside me and is doodling little patterns on my back. So gently that that can’t have been what woke me.
All the same, he stops when I move and lays his hand on my head. But I’m awake. Properly refreshed, even.
And so’s he—I can see that as I squint over to him.
“Good morning,” I whisper, my voice rough with sleep.
“Hello.” His smile is tense, which I can understand. He must have been thinking about what lies ahead of him.
“What’s the time?”
“Guess,” he says.
“Ten?”
Colin laughs quietly. “It’s four o’clock.”
I sit up. “In the afternoon?”
“No, four in the morning.”
“No way.” I feel wide awake and fully rested. It can’t be true, but Colin shrugs.
“You’ve got jet lag to thank for that one. Your head thinks it’s nine a.m.”
“How long have you been awake?” I ask.
“Dunno. Half an hour, maybe,” he mutters evasively. Definitely longer than that, then. So much for me being glad he was able to sleep.
“How are you doing?”
The question still stresses him, that’s no secret, but I won’t stop asking it. Especially not now that Colin’s genuinely trying to answer honestly.
“I’m scared.”
“That makes sense.”
Colin shuts his eyes. “I wish I could just go to the cops right now and get it over with.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“What?” He opens his eyes. “You mean . . . now?”
“Yeah.” It’s my turn to shrug. “If you wish you could get it done right now, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“There must be someone at the police station round the clock.”
I can feel that this is too much for Colin. But then he seems to consider it seriously. Maybe I’m rushing him, but this way, he doesn’t have to spend two whole days torturing himself and hiding his plan from his family.
Colin looks over to the window. I follow his gaze and see the lights of the skyscrapers against the night sky.
And then he nods.
Colin
We have to be quiet, but this isn’t the first time I’ve crept out at an ungodly hour without waking my parents. I’ve practiced this, even though the reason we’re now taking an Uber across the city is way less fun than when I snuck out in the past.
It’s shortly after five. The streets are pretty quiet, but One Police Plaza is not.
I feel like I might throw up as I go to the desk and ask for the officer whose name I saw in the news reports.
He’s not here at this time of day, but the receptionist promises to get someone to call him.
Olive lets go of my hand and gives me a kiss, then takes a seat in the waiting area while I explain that I’m here to make a statement about the Ainslee fire, after which I’m led to an interview room, which is every bit as bare and charmless as they look in the movies.
They take my details, don’t bat an eyelid as I say my name, and after a while Detective King walks into the room. And then I tell him everything. Mechanically, like a robot.
About Homecoming night, my lighter, the toilet paper in the gym bathroom, and the moment it caught fire.
“Why were you hanging around in a bathroom with a lighter?” the cop asks.
So I could have a smoke. It’s the answer I’ve given so often, so that nobody finds out what I’m really doing. But I’m through with that now.
“I was self-harming.” My voice sounds alien. “I was stressed out, had a bunch of issues, couldn’t deal with them anymore. I went into the bathroom to distract myself from the emotional pain.”
“Had you often done that?”
“Yes.”
He makes a note. “And then what happened?”
I take a deep breath. “I heard people coming and accidentally dropped the lighter. It landed on a couple squares of toilet paper that were on the floor, and they caught fire. I stomped the burning paper out right away. The floor was kind of damp, and I was certain the fire was out. Then I walked out of the stall and into the washroom where a few guys from my class were hanging around.”
“Can you give me their names?”
I pause, then just blurt them out. “Trent Barlow, Isaac Hawk, and Jeremy Westwood.”
“Are they your friends, Colin?”
“Not exactly. We had kind of a tense relationship.” I take a breath, then tell him about my mom spreading stories about Trent’s influencer sister.
That he’d sworn to get revenge and fucked with me any chance he got.
I tell him everything I know, and then I carry on with what happened when I was out in the schoolyard and saw the flames.
“You dialed nine-one-one but didn’t give your name?” the detective confirms. I nod, and he asks his next question. “And you left the site before the emergency services arrived?”
I nod again. My throat tightens more with every answer, but I force myself to keep talking.
“I panicked and was afraid of getting caught. So I ran away. At that moment, I didn’t see any other way out, but .
. . I regret that. Running away was the wrong thing to do—I should have gone to the police.
I was in shock. And I kept asking myself how the fire could have started.
I was sure the toilet paper was out, you know?
I would never have started a fire intentionally, but I was afraid Trent and the others would figure out what I was doing in the bathroom.
That stressed me out, and I worried that maybe I’d been careless, that I hadn’t extinguished the paper after all.
I don’t remember exactly anymore.” My voice is shaking, but I try to hold my nerve.
“I’d never have believed the fire could spread like that or that a firefighter could die.
It’s no excuse, but I’m truly remorseful.
I’d do everything differently if I could.
I didn’t mean any of it to happen, least of all for someone to die. ”
I don’t know when exactly I start crying again. The detective’s face shows no emotion. He just pushes a box of tissues across the table to me. They’re next to the voice recorder that’s taking down my statement.
“Why didn’t you come here right away?”
“I went to my mother. I was afraid and thought she’d help me.
She convinced me not to say anything. I thought she meant just until she’d arranged for lawyers to advise me, but then my parents sent me to boarding school in Scotland.
It all happened so fast, I was overwhelmed and didn’t know what was happening to me.
And then I was on another continent, and I . . . didn’t do a thing.”
“So how come you’re here now?”
I swallow. And I think of Olive. “I can’t live with the guilt. I lied to everyone who matters to me. I couldn’t go on like that. And I’m still scared, but I have to tell the truth.”
The detective makes more notes. “That’s a wise decision,” he says, after a while. “Thank you for your testimony, Colin.”
I wait for the door to open and his fellow cops to come in, cuff me, and take me away.
“That will be a great deal of help in our investigations. The names you gave me are particularly interesting.”
I immediately start to feel guilty. Should I have kept quiet about who exactly I saw in the bathroom? However much I hate Trent and his buddies, I don’t want to get them into trouble.
“You did the right thing, Colin,” Detective King says, like he’s reading my mind. “It’s always right to tell the truth; don’t forget that.”
I gulp, then nod.
“Is there anything you want to add to your statement?”
I think for a minute, then shake my head. “No, that’s all, sir.”
“Good, well, you’re free to go. We’ll get back to you if we have any more questions.”
“What?” I hesitate. “I don’t have to . . . stay here?”
The detective eyes me. “No, no. You’ve given us your contact info, and you’ve made a statement. That’s all we need right now.”
Is this a trap? I’m not sure of anything. “Do I have to stay in the US? I mean . . . I’m supposed to fly back to Scotland at the end of the week.”
“We’ll be able to contact you there. You can travel as planned.”
“Good, then . . .” I glance at the door. “Thank you?”
“Thank you, Colin. Have a nice day.”
“You too,” I reply as I stand up. All through the long corridors back to the waiting area, I’m expecting the other shoe to drop. Cops, armed to the teeth, to pop around the corner, wrestle me to the ground, and lead me off in cuffs. But nobody pays me any attention.
I don’t know if I’m innocent. I only know that the detective didn’t consider it necessary to arrest me. And that’s . . . a good sign? I can’t think straight.
Olive jumps up from her chair in the waiting room as soon as she sees me. The concern in her face makes me go weak in the knees. I haven’t eaten. I really need to do something about that, but I can’t.
“So?” she asks, walking toward me.
“I told them. They’re still investigating, and . . . they’ll be in touch.”
“OK. And how do we feel?”
We. Don’t ask me why, but that tiny word makes me want to cry. She doesn’t have to be, but she’s with me. Even though I lied to her and hurt her. She’s still with me.
“I don’t know,” I manage. “Overwhelmed. Empty.”
“But a wee bit relieved?”
That’s it. I feel it the second she says the words. The pressure in my chest has eased and so has the buzzing in my head. “Yeah, that too.”
Olive’s eyes rest on me. She’s seen all of me. Every single version. Furious, unfair, broken, desperate. And now she’s seeing one that I could almost call brave, and that’s not something I ever expected to think about myself.
“And you’re free to go?”
“So Detective King said.”
“OK.” She takes my hand. “Then let’s go.”
Dawn is breaking between the skyscrapers. It’s rush-hour traffic now, so we don’t call an Uber. We walk back.
The air is fresh and clear, and it helps me get my head together. Once we’re finally in the elevator, heading up to our apartment, I suddenly feel a total exhaustion. It’s not physical tiredness; it’s more emotional. Because I’ve done all I can. It’s out of my hands now.
“Where have you two been?” asks Mom as we run into her in the living room. Seems like she’s already been out jogging—an early morning run in Central Park is a fixed part of Ava Fantino’s day. She sticks fast to her morning routine, regardless of weather or the day of the week.
The newspaper and empty espresso cup on the breakfast bar show that Dad’s already left for work.
“To the police station,” I say, watching calmly as my mother’s face changes. She hesitates, as though she thinks she’s misheard, and then it slowly seems to dawn on her what it might mean. I help her out anyway, though. “I made a statement.”
The mask slips. “You did what?”
“Made a statement,” I repeat, as if she were hard of hearing. “To the police.”
“Colin Fantino, you cannot be serious?”
Olive gives me a tiny glance but stands, arms folded, by the breakfast bar as I take a step toward Mom.
“I am. Deadly serious.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“What I was doing in the bathroom.” I feel my throat constrict. “I wasn’t smoking—that part was a lie. I was burning myself with a lighter.”
“What the hell?” Mom’s voice gets shrill. “Why in God’s name would you . . . ?”
“I’ve been doing it for a couple years,” I say. My voice trembles, but I carry on. “It was the only way I could deal with my emotions.”
“Colin.” I’ve shocked her; there’s no mistaking that.
“I’m not doing it anymore,” I say, although that’s not entirely true. It will be soon. “I’ve been seeing Ms. Vail for the last few weeks—the school psychologist, you remember?”
Mom’s gone pale. “Is that helping?”
“Yeah” is all I say.
“OK.” She holds a hand to her forehead. “Good, that . . . I can’t believe you did that, Colin.” I don’t reply, so she continues. “But it was still a mistake, right?”
“In the school bathroom?” I ask. “Yeah. I was careless. A piece of toilet paper caught fire, but I thought I’d stomped it out when I left.”
“So why go to the police, for God’s sake?”
“To tell the truth, Mom!” I’m raising my voice, but it’s no good.
She doesn’t get it. Not even now. I told her the one thing I never wanted to admit, and she hasn’t followed up.
She now knows I’m speaking to a therapist, so as far as she’s concerned, that box has been checked.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hurts.
She keeps looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I’m expecting her to start shouting too. But she doesn’t. Not in front of Olive. She gives me a death stare, then picks up her phone.
“You must be insane. I’ll let your father know—he might be able to intervene and keep your statement off the files.”
“He can try, but if he does, I’ll testify again.”
That’s the moment my mom seems to grasp that we’re not on the same page anymore. If we ever had been.
“Colin, are you out of your mind? Do you know what this means? For you and for our family? For your sister?”
I’m about to answer when I hear a little voice. “What about me?”
Cleo’s standing in the doorway in her favorite purple pajamas, staring at us. I don’t know how much she’s heard, but it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a bone to pick with her too.
“Yeah, what about you, Cleo?” I turn toward her. “I’ve been asking myself that since you sent Olive those screenshots of the headlines.”
The color drains from my kid sister’s face, and I hate having to do this. But I can’t keep acting like it never happened.
She looks at me in shock, and before I can say another word, her eyes well up.
“Maybe you should ask your daughter what it means for her and this family if she goes behind my back to send my boarding-school friends news about the fire.”
“You did what?” Mom turns on Cleo, who bursts into tears.
This is painful, but I’m not going to take it anymore. I turn to Olive, who looks stressed but composed, and point toward the elevator. She nods. We don’t need words. Looks are enough. One look.
Let’s get out of here.
As the doors close behind us, I exhale—I hadn’t known I’d been holding my breath.