Spark
Page 90
They had pinned him there until Vickers started babbling about recent electrical problems.
And then they’d searched him.
The cops had found the lighter in his pocket and another one buried in his book bag. Had Layne turned him in for what had happened at the barn?
It made him remember the way she’d looked at him in the classroom this morning, breathless and wide-eyed and barely able to speak. Or her scripty handwriting on that piece of notepaper, when he’d asked if she was afraid.
A little.
Like he could blame her.
Just now, he could relate.
The interrogation room was just like on TV shows, barely twelve feet square with a table and four chairs. White walls, steel door with a tiny window. He got to sit, but they left him cuffed. And they left him alone, with the assurance that someone would be in to talk to him in a minute.
It was a long minute.
His stomach assured him it had been many hours since he’d eaten, though really, Gabriel had no idea how much time had passed. His shoulders were starting to hurt from being cuffed so long, but he didn’t want to complain, because this was ten times better than that holding cell.
He wished he knew how long they could keep him here.
Wasn’t there something about seventy-two hours? Or was that just on cop shows?
So he sat. Waiting. Long enough that anxiety started to feel like something alive, consuming him from the inside out.
Maybe that was the whole point. A passive-aggressive mock-up of the clichéd good cop/bad cop routine. Maybe this could be called no cop.
He was under eighteen. What was the worst that could happen? Juvie?
He kept thinking of Michael’s comments in the car, about how trouble with the law could lead to trouble with custody.
The overhead light buzzed, flaring with power. Gabriel took a deep breath. The electricity evened out.
And then someone came in. No preamble, no knock. Just a twist of the doorknob, a slow entrance, a man with a stainless-steel mug and some papers. This was a new guy, in his late forties, though gray had just started to streak its way through his blond hair. He wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a sweater, though a badge clung to his belt. His eyes were narrow and blue and gave away absolutely nothing.
This guy had some authority; Gabriel could tell just from the way he carried himself.
“Gabriel Merrick?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just sat down across the table and dropped some folders and a notepad in front of him. “I’m Jack Faulkner. The county fire marshal.”
Faulkner. Hannah’s father.
Gabriel didn’t know what to say to him.
Marshal Faulkner leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “Been waiting long?”
The way he said it implied he knew exactly how long Gabriel had been waiting.
Maybe this was why he’d been left in handcuffs. So when someone deliberately acted like a tool, he couldn’t punch the guy in the face.
“Is my brother coming?” he asked. His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded rough.
“Your brother?”
“You can’t question me without a legal guardian or something, right?”
Marshal Faulkner leaned forward and lifted the cover of a manila folder. “You’re seventeen?”
“Yeah.”
The cover fell closed. “You’re charged with first-degree arson.
Right now, it’s one count, but it’ll likely be more, given the events of the past week. That’s a felony, which means you’re automatically charged as an adult. That’s why you’re here and not at the juvenile facility.”
Gabriel couldn’t move. The room suddenly felt smaller.
“You’re allowed to have an attorney present.” Marshal Faulkner clicked his pen. “Do you have an attorney?”
Gabriel shook his head. One of those other cops had read him his rights, something about an attorney being provided, but he had no idea how that worked. If he asked for a lawyer, that sounded like he was guilty.
“I didn’t start those fires,” he said.
Raised eyebrows. “You want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t start them.”
Except maybe that one. The one in the woods. But if he admitted he’d lied about that, it would make everything else sound like a lie. Gabriel looked away.
After a moment of silence, the marshal leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like me to remove the handcuffs?”
Gabriel’s eyes flicked up. “Yes.”
When he unlocked them, Gabriel rolled his shoulders to get the stiffness out, then wiped his palms on his jeans.
He hated that he felt like he owed this guy a thank-you or something.
Especially when Marshal Faulkner hesitated before sitting down and said, “How about some food?”
Gabriel would kill for some food, but he shook his head.
“You sure? If you’re stuck here overnight, we have to feed you. Might as well be in here, where no one’s going to take it away from you.”
There were too many shocks in that sentence to process them all. Overnight. Gabriel thought of that pale freak in the holding cell and completely lost any appetite he might have had.
He shook his head again. “What time is it?”
“Just after six.”
Six! Somehow it felt both earlier and later than he’d thought.
Gabriel heard his breath hitch before he could stop it. His brothers would definitely know he was missing.
Marshal Faulkner reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He held them out. “Smoke? No offense, kid, but you look like you need it.”
And then they’d searched him.
The cops had found the lighter in his pocket and another one buried in his book bag. Had Layne turned him in for what had happened at the barn?
It made him remember the way she’d looked at him in the classroom this morning, breathless and wide-eyed and barely able to speak. Or her scripty handwriting on that piece of notepaper, when he’d asked if she was afraid.
A little.
Like he could blame her.
Just now, he could relate.
The interrogation room was just like on TV shows, barely twelve feet square with a table and four chairs. White walls, steel door with a tiny window. He got to sit, but they left him cuffed. And they left him alone, with the assurance that someone would be in to talk to him in a minute.
It was a long minute.
His stomach assured him it had been many hours since he’d eaten, though really, Gabriel had no idea how much time had passed. His shoulders were starting to hurt from being cuffed so long, but he didn’t want to complain, because this was ten times better than that holding cell.
He wished he knew how long they could keep him here.
Wasn’t there something about seventy-two hours? Or was that just on cop shows?
So he sat. Waiting. Long enough that anxiety started to feel like something alive, consuming him from the inside out.
Maybe that was the whole point. A passive-aggressive mock-up of the clichéd good cop/bad cop routine. Maybe this could be called no cop.
He was under eighteen. What was the worst that could happen? Juvie?
He kept thinking of Michael’s comments in the car, about how trouble with the law could lead to trouble with custody.
The overhead light buzzed, flaring with power. Gabriel took a deep breath. The electricity evened out.
And then someone came in. No preamble, no knock. Just a twist of the doorknob, a slow entrance, a man with a stainless-steel mug and some papers. This was a new guy, in his late forties, though gray had just started to streak its way through his blond hair. He wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a sweater, though a badge clung to his belt. His eyes were narrow and blue and gave away absolutely nothing.
This guy had some authority; Gabriel could tell just from the way he carried himself.
“Gabriel Merrick?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just sat down across the table and dropped some folders and a notepad in front of him. “I’m Jack Faulkner. The county fire marshal.”
Faulkner. Hannah’s father.
Gabriel didn’t know what to say to him.
Marshal Faulkner leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “Been waiting long?”
The way he said it implied he knew exactly how long Gabriel had been waiting.
Maybe this was why he’d been left in handcuffs. So when someone deliberately acted like a tool, he couldn’t punch the guy in the face.
“Is my brother coming?” he asked. His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded rough.
“Your brother?”
“You can’t question me without a legal guardian or something, right?”
Marshal Faulkner leaned forward and lifted the cover of a manila folder. “You’re seventeen?”
“Yeah.”
The cover fell closed. “You’re charged with first-degree arson.
Right now, it’s one count, but it’ll likely be more, given the events of the past week. That’s a felony, which means you’re automatically charged as an adult. That’s why you’re here and not at the juvenile facility.”
Gabriel couldn’t move. The room suddenly felt smaller.
“You’re allowed to have an attorney present.” Marshal Faulkner clicked his pen. “Do you have an attorney?”
Gabriel shook his head. One of those other cops had read him his rights, something about an attorney being provided, but he had no idea how that worked. If he asked for a lawyer, that sounded like he was guilty.
“I didn’t start those fires,” he said.
Raised eyebrows. “You want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t start them.”
Except maybe that one. The one in the woods. But if he admitted he’d lied about that, it would make everything else sound like a lie. Gabriel looked away.
After a moment of silence, the marshal leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like me to remove the handcuffs?”
Gabriel’s eyes flicked up. “Yes.”
When he unlocked them, Gabriel rolled his shoulders to get the stiffness out, then wiped his palms on his jeans.
He hated that he felt like he owed this guy a thank-you or something.
Especially when Marshal Faulkner hesitated before sitting down and said, “How about some food?”
Gabriel would kill for some food, but he shook his head.
“You sure? If you’re stuck here overnight, we have to feed you. Might as well be in here, where no one’s going to take it away from you.”
There were too many shocks in that sentence to process them all. Overnight. Gabriel thought of that pale freak in the holding cell and completely lost any appetite he might have had.
He shook his head again. “What time is it?”
“Just after six.”
Six! Somehow it felt both earlier and later than he’d thought.
Gabriel heard his breath hitch before he could stop it. His brothers would definitely know he was missing.
Marshal Faulkner reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He held them out. “Smoke? No offense, kid, but you look like you need it.”
