“That’s two people who should be able to corroborate your story, Charlie,” Stamoran says. “What do you think they’ll say if we ask them?”
I take in the conference room for what seems like the first time: me, squashed into a corner, readily allowing what’s been said to be recorded, the two detectives hammering me with questions. I glance from Gilcrest to the laptop to the gray walls. At least there isn’t a two-way mirror for someone to observe through. “You’re interrogating me,” I say.
“We’re having a conversation,” Gilcrest says. “Nothing more. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls up something on his phone and reads for a moment. “The night before the fire, you and your mother were home at Idlewood alone. Just the two of you. She told you she was driving to Finstock.”
“For a site visit,” I say. “She mentioned a lease.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“Right before we went to bed.”
“Did anyone else hear her?”
“It was the two of us.”
Gilcrest taps a note into his phone.
“You live in Somerville,” Stamoran says. “My daughter lives there. You’re about the same age. I’ll connect the two of you after this is over. It’s expensive there.”
“It’s expensive everywhere,” I say, my eyes moving between the two detectives.
“It’s nice when you don’t have to think about money,” Stamoran says.
I start to speak but can’t find any words. I’ve seen enough TV cop shows to know this conversation has taken a turn, and I’m a person of interest, if not a suspect.
“That tightness in your stomach,” Stamoran says. “It’ll go away when you tell us what happened. You’ll feel better. It’s like magic.”
I haven’t had a stomachache, not until this very moment. “I didn’t start the fire,” I say.
“It’s not the fire that concerns us, Charlie,” Gilcrest says.
Stamoran smiles. “Listen, Podcast. If you cooperate, we can go easy on you.”
“Where’s my mother?” I ask, as a feeling of dread descends on me.
Gilcrest stands and leans over the table, his voice low. “You tell us,” he says.
“Charlie,” Stamoran says, “your brother gave us a list of his current contracts. There’s nothing in Finstock. No projects. No leases. Nothing.”
“I want a lawyer,” I say, right as a commotion begins in the lobby.
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” the secretary says, but the door to the conference room slams open.
Freya Faith appears wearing a fitted gray suit and flats, her auburn hair swirling around her face as if she brought along a portable wind machine. She lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head, and I can almost hear the credits forScene of the Crimebegin to roll.
Beside her, Ginger stands at attention.
“Get out of here, Freya,” Gilcrest says. “This isn’t a TV show.”
Ginger trots toward Gilcrest, tail wagging. “Heel,” Freya says, and the dog stops. “Is Charlie under arrest?”
Gilcrest glances at Stamoran, who barely shakes his head.
“Not yet,” Gilcrest says.
“Get up, Harold,” Freya says to me. “And keep your mouth shut.”
I do what she tells me, following as she backs out of the room. In the lobby, the secretary stands at her desk, eyes wide. Behind her, Seton stares at her computer monitor. We all freeze in place, as though we don’t know our next move.
