Page 116 of Fire Fight

“No, you won’t. I’m coming along to have a front-row seat to this bullshit.” And I leave the obvious unspoken.

Especially if it concerns firebombed cars or naked videos.

His fingers thread through mine as we walk and despite the drama besetting us for the past few weeks, I can’t remember ever feeling happier.

As a distraction from what might be waiting, I think of the tongue-tied girl who, for years, had been too shy to approach Drake and ask for what she wanted. A date to see if we were as compatible as our nervous sideways glances made me think.

She would be ecstatic for me. The rest of it is—as Drake so eloquently put it—bullshit.

And I shouldn’t pay attention to bullshit for more than it takes to wipe its odorous residue off my shoes.

We cross the quad to the admin building, its façade the grandest of the lot and the most intimidating.

But my eyes are fixed on the car parked right outside.

Not because it’s stolen the school secretary’s spot—though it has—but because of its bright yellow and blue paint job.

The police are here.

They’ve probably turned up for someone else.

A long shot but possible. Except the possibility shrinks to nothing as we push through the heavy kauri doors to find the headmaster deep in conversation with two uniformed officers and a larger man in a dark grey suit.

My stomach plunges. He’s a detective.

This isn’t some playground level reprimand. This is serious.

“Blaine,” the principal says, face thunderous. “Come into my office.”

“No,” the detective says, stepping forward with a pair of straight cuffs at the ready. “We can do it here. Blaine Drake Arlington?” At Drake’s nod he clamps the first cuff over his wrist.

Sweat beads on my upper lip and I lick it away. “This isn’t right. Drake had nothing to do with the car fire.”

My head swirls with panic. I can smell something burning even though I know it’s not real.

“Please. You have to listen.”

“You’re under arrest for arson and for the murder of Kelvin Edwin Harris.”

Drake’s face drains of colour. “Who?” He tries to snatch his hand back, but it’s too late, the cuffs hold tight as the detective grips his shoulder, turning him to face the car.

For a moment, I don’t think anyone will answer, then the detective looks him full in the face. “He’s the pharmacist who was in the back room when you set fire to his premises. He died because of your arson. That’s murder.”

I freeze. The information keeps going in while my brain refuses to comprehend.

Murder.

Then everything snaps into place.

The pharmacist.

Mum’spharmacist.

My mind is dizzy with the information. I step back, shivering with a bout of cold, hugging myself as the day drops ten degrees in ten seconds. My chaotic thoughts swirl, trying to find a way out from the horror.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

Except it is. A man is dead. His shop burned. And the firebug who once terrorised me stands a foot away.

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