Page 123 of Fire Fight

In another situation, I’d point out the multitude of cameras in the house could prove my innocence. They only need to askArnold or request the footage from the security company, and it will be plain as day.

Ten minutes of perusing a screen and they’d have to release me.

Except I’m not stupid enough to believe that’s what the internal cameras would show. Not when my vehicle should be at the panel beaters to repair the damage to the front fender.

My head gives a warning thump and my left eye waters. Twelve forty-five and even if the mechanics wanted to take the vehicle for a joyride, there’s no reason they’d be in the pharmacy's vicinity.

The whole idea is a non-starter.

Especially when the footage shows my car still has the damage from game night. It hasn’t been sitting in a garage this week, undergoing repairs.

“Please answer the question.”

The detective’s voice grows an edge, and I keep my eyes focused on the middle distance, a faint smirk the only expression on my face. “No comment.”

“Your lawyer may have advised you not to speak to us, but the sooner we know if you’re involved, the sooner you’ll be able to leave the station.”

Except judging from the screen, someone’s worked very hard to make sure I won’t ever be able to leave the station.

Why else would the driver park my car in full view of a camera yet be careful to keep himself away from the lens?

The shadowy figure of the driver never walks past the camera lens. There isn’t enough footage to show it’s not me.

At this rate, I won’t be leaving custody for a few decades.

It’s hard to swallow. I unhook my thumbs and pick up the glass of water that’s sat untouched in front of me this entire interview, taking a mouthful, then struggling to get it down.

Unless Cadence woke one day with a sudden craving for vengeance, the only people who could have targeted the pharmacist are Arnold or Raelene.

Raelene has a motive. Her improved circumstances could disappear in an instant if the truth about her old prescription habits were revealed. The same threat I’d used on Cadence a few weeks ago.

But I doubt she has the motivation to plan such an attack, let alone the willpower to carry it through. She goes to bed early and is barely awake at the breakfast table.

The entire idea is laughable.

Which means the only credible suspect is Arnold. and why the fuck would he care enough to risk everything he owns to this pursuit?

I’m still thinking as the police pack me back to the cells where I lie on the moulded plastic bed, staring at the pockmarks of soundproofing on the ceiling.

Arnold might be butt hurt his new obsession used to suck off a fat man for drugs. Even being ninety-nine percent certain Cadence lied to me, I’d experienced the trauma of believing—just a little—that what she said might be true.

To know it for a fact would be unbearable.

If the man had forced Cadence to do that, I would have torched his shop, no question. At that time of night, I doubt it would occur to me someone might be working inside. Not unless the lights made that plain.

But if it was Arnold, the next question is why he used my car and the answer to that question isn’t good any way I slice it.

I turn onto my side, staring at the wall, wondering how long until they let me have a phone call.

The peephole slidesacross a few hours later and a disembodied eye peeks through the gap before opening the door. “Your transport’s here.”

I get onto a van set out with individual segments for remand prisoners. There’s not even a line of sight to the other men, though they make enough noise to let me know they’re there.

It’s a forty-minute drive to the men’s prison. Forty minutes until I’ll be booked in and able to phone.

Much as I’d love to hear Cadence’s voice, I’d prefer to see her.

We’re ten minutes into the journey when I poke my tongue into the pocket between gums and cheek, teasing out the paper clip I palmed earlier.

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