Torched Read online

  “What? No, it wasn’t like that. It just ... he had it coming.” To hell with rule number one; when it came to a framed arson charge, tattling was fair game. I explained about the egg, and accidentally making Paxton miss the calc quiz. It all sounded kind of silly, spoken out loud, but I soldiered on. “So he framed me for this. My practice shirt wasn’t in my bag on Friday, so he must have swiped it and planted it on the boat.” Now Mr. Prichard wore a sour-lemon look. “I’m not making this up.”

  “I’m just imagining my attempt to explain it to a jury.” He went back to typing. “Honestly, I don’t think they’ll buy it.”

  From his tone, he didn’t buy it either. “You’re not listening to me.”

  “I am listening. I’m also pointing out that from a judge or jury’s point of view, your accusation appears to be an attempt to shift blame.” He set aside the computer and laced his thin fingers together. “Look, Miss Whitfield, this is a clear-cut crime of passion. You have no previous record, and a wonderful list of accomplishments I can point to. No one was injured; the yacht suffered only cosmetic damage. Sentencing will be lenient, and if I can cut a deal with the Appletons’ lawyer it might even be settled out of court.”

  My own lawyer thought I was lying. How could I make him understand? “No matter what those pictures are about, I love Ryan. I wouldn’t hurt him even if he dug my heart out with a spork.” I wasn’t going to consider the possibility that the photos meant Ryan was cheating on me. That impending earthquake feeling hit again, but I shoved it away. There were plenty of possible explanations for the photos. I loved Ryan, and he loved me. Anything else could wait until I talked to him face to face.

  Mr. Prichard had that look adults always wore, like they didn’t think anyone under thirty knew what love was. It made me mad. I got even madder as I realized he thought that just the suspicion of my boyfriend cheating would make me fly off the handle without confronting Ryan first.

  “There is no way I’d do this. No way in the whole damn world. Why won’t you believe me?” Mr. Prichard winced at my volume. “Sorry,” I said, though I sounded more stubborn than contrite. “But I’m being framed.”

  After a long silence, Mr. Prichard sat back in his chair. “How about this: I’ll make some inquiries, and see if I can find out where the Callaway boy was last night. Will that make you happy?”

  A wave of relief swamped me. Mr. Prichard still didn’t look convinced, but at least he was willing to consider the idea that I wasn’t a match-happy girlfriend scorned. “Yes.”

  He closed his laptop. “I’ve arranged bail, but your father wants you to wait here until he can pick you up.”

  When a guard led me out of my cell an hour later, though, it wasn’t my dad waiting for me in the lobby. It was Paxton’s.

  “Rose, are you alright?” Mr. Callaway said. He hugged me, then held me at arm’s length. “It’s going to be okay.”

  I nodded, glad to see a familiar face--my dad and Mr. Callaway had been friends since their college days, and neighbors since I was five--but wishing it belonged to one of my parents. “Where’s my dad? I thought he wanted me to wait for him.”

  “He changed his mind once they got stuck in traffic. He didn’t want you to sit around here all day, so he asked me to get you. You ready to go home?”

  Should I allow the father of my framer to bail me out of jail? What would Mr. Prichard counsel? But I was beyond sick of being here, and I craved a shower and a comb like Alina’s pug Piper craved liver bits. “So ready.”

  In the parking lot, I headed for Mr. Callaway’s black BMW. The Callaways only drove Beemers, for some reason. My Cloudmonster was actually Mrs. Callaway’s old car; they’d let my dad buy it at a steal last summer when she wanted to upgrade.

  Once we were on the road, Mr. Callaway turned the radio on low, so I wouldn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to. He and his wife were like that, always knowing what to do to put you at ease. Despite Paxton’s hostility, I liked barbecues and dinners at the Callaways’ house, and not just because Mr. Callaway grilled literally the best burgers on the planet. Juliette was fun, and Mrs. Callaway, a biochemist, was probably the reason I did well in school. I can’t count the number of times my mother told me guys don’t like braniacs, but Mrs. Callaway says guys intimidated by smart girls aren’t worth the breath it takes to tell them to get lost. It took me a while--thankfully, C’s in eighth grade don’t affect high school GPA--but I realized Mrs. Callaway was right.

  So basically, the Callaways--with the glaring exception of Paxton--were great. Right now, though, I wished my mom were here. Despite her sometimes misguided advice, she had the ability to make everything seem perfect, because she wouldn’t allow it to be otherwise.

  “Thanks for coming to get me,” I finally said.

  “Happy to help.” Mr. Callaway glanced over. “I only found out what happened when your father called. You look like you haven’t slept at all.”

  “They think I set fire to Ryan’s family’s yacht. I didn’t,” I added quickly. “But it looks like I did.” It seemed rude to accuse Paxton right to his dad’s face.

  “Just hang tight, then. The truth will come out eventually.”

  The truth was on the tip of my tongue like a piece of garlic, but I couldn’t spit it out. The accusation would seem so random. Neither set of parents knew about our prank war, so to Mr. Callaway’s knowledge Paxton and I got along just fine. I’d wait until I had proof, I decided.

  “You’re a good girl, Rose,” Mr. Callaway continued. “And a strong one. Don’t let them bully you. Keep your head high, and hold the truth like a shield.” Mr. Callaway was sometimes a little over the top--he was a motivational speaker, after all--but I felt tears of gratitude well. I swallowed them down and yanked my composure back into place.

  “Not even my lawyer believes me.”

  “I believe you.”

  Would he still say that when I proved his son framed me? I didn’t know, but for now it meant a lot. Hold the truth like a shield. I sat up a little straighter for the rest of the ride home.

  I thought Mr. Callaway would just drop me off, but he parked in the driveway and said he’d wait downstairs until my parents arrived. As I headed upstairs for a shower, I wondered if he wasn’t supposed to leave me home alone. I was, after all, the prime suspect in a felony. Reminded of that fact, I felt like my empty stomach was eating me from inside.

  What was everyone at school going to think?

  Before heading for the bathroom, I called Alina. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. “I swear I have a good reason for missing the float build session. You will not believe what’s going on.” Felony went through my head again, and my free hand started to shake. I clenched it at my side to make it stop. “It’s ... freaking me out. Call me when you get this.”

  Sitting on my bed, I called Ryan next. He didn’t pick up either. I desperately wanted to know what the hell those pictures were about, but I didn’t want to get into it on voicemail, so I didn’t leave a message. The idea that he might think I was guilty sidled through my head, but I shoved it away. Of course he believed me. I believed him that there was nothing between him and Francesca, didn’t I?

  Although the police said he’d confirmed it. That they were, “Involved. Romantically.” No, wait--all he’d actually confirmed was that it was him in the picture. Right?

  This was all so absurd. Ryan had been angry about the poem, but he wouldn’t cheat on me. He wasn’t that type.

  Downstairs, I heard voices, and realized my parents were home. I’d been sitting and staring like a zombie for over half an hour. I grabbed a change of clothes, then slipped into the hallway. At the bathroom door, I paused.

  “What was she thinking?” my dad said downstairs, and my heart sank. What if my parents wouldn’t believe me? What if even Mr. Callaway had just been humoring me? I slipped into the
bathroom before I had to listen to any more.

  I turned on the shower spray, undressed, and stepped in. Maybe if the water was hot enough, it would scald away the last twelve hours like a bad dream.

  Chapter 4

  Forty minutes later, shower-induced amnesia had still not been achieved, so I lugged my prune-like fingers and toes out and dried off. Slipping back to my room, I dressed carefully in dark jeans and a cute sweater, then blow-dried my hair, did my makeup and touched up my nail polish. My mom always said looking perfect was half the battle. Before I went downstairs, I checked my phone. No messages, no missed calls. Not even a text. I opened my laptop and checked my inbox. The e-silence was deafening. I shot a message to Alina, again asking her to call me or even just come over.

  Then it was Ryan’s turn. I spent literally an hour typing and deleting, before finally going with short and devoid of reference to the incriminating photos I wanted to discuss in person:

  Ryan,

  You know I’d never hurt you or your family. Oak tree, remember? I didn’t do what they say I did. I know you believe me.

  Your Rose

  My stomach growled, and I realized yesterday’s burrito had been its last victim. I still hadn’t been summoned to the Parental Inquisition, but I went downstairs anyway. My dad was reading the Economist in the kitchen while my mom rummaged in the fridge. A pot on the stove smelled like tomato sauce, and I’d bet its covered twin held spaghetti.

  I stood in the doorway and crossed my arms.

  “Were you going to ignore me all day?” I said.

  My dad looked up. My mom jumped, nearly hitting her head on the freezer handle. She wore a blue dress and kitten heels and looked like she’d just come from the spa.

  “We thought you might need some time by yourself,” she said. Despite what I suspected was a freshly botoxed forehead, she seemed concerned.

  “I didn’t do it,” I blurted. My mom looked over at my dad as if for help.

  “You hungry, kiddo?” he asked. I stared at him.

  “Why are you calling me kiddo?” My dad never said stuff like that. “I was accused of a crime, not of regressing to elementary school.”

  “Young lady, now is not the time to cultivate an attitude.” That sounded more like him. My dad thought his Harvard degree required him to speak like an uptight politician. Oddly, it made me feel better.

  “Sorry. This smells great, Mom.” I moved to the stove and sniffed at the red sauce.

  “I picked the tomatoes myself,” she said with a smile. It was an inside joke, since she couldn’t cook anything that didn’t come in a box or jar. We all dished out spaghetti, then ate at the table in front of the bay windows.

  “How was Aspen?” I asked my mom, as if they hadn’t been dragged back after one night because of a severely erroneous felony charge.

  “Oh, dreadful,” she said. “The skies had the gall to rain, if you can believe it.” She was smiling, though; with my mom, even complaining was fun. She could charm the shell off a turtle, my dad always said.

  “Rain in Aspen.” I shook my head. “What is this world coming to?” And for a few minutes of banter, my mom kept real life at bay.

  Finally, I put my fork on my plate. My dad hadn’t said a word since we sat down.

  “I didn’t do it,” I told him again.

  My dad set his water glass on the table. The clink was loud in the sudden quiet. “Rose, the fastest way out of this is to apologize, promise it will never happen again, and beg for mercy.”

  The spaghetti in my stomach turned to stone, but I reached for my cheer composure and kept my voice even.

  “I can’t apologize for something that’s not my fault.”

  My dad’s mouth twisted. “I do it all the time.” He meant as manager of the club. He had to smooth over any rich and ruffled feathers, even if, like just last week, it wasn’t my dad’s fault that a client’s wife was denied pool privileges because the client let their membership lapse.

  “But this is different. I’m not a pyromaniac.” My dad studied me, and all of a sudden I lost it. Parents were supposed to have your back, and they were just sitting there. “You can’t not believe me.” I shoved back my chair and stood. “If you think I did this, you don’t even know your own daughter! Though maybe you don’t, it’s not like you ever watch me cheer or come to any of the fundraisers or--”

  “Rose, sit down,” my dad barked. I cut myself off. He tilted his head toward my seat, and after a moment I slid into it again. I took a monumental breath, then let it out.

  “I need you to believe me.”

  “Of course we believe you,” my mom said, but I was looking at my dad.

  “Do you?”

  He met my gaze. “I believe you.”

  I didn’t relax. “Like really believe me, or believe me the way you ‘believed’ Mr. Iones when he said he hadn’t felt up Cathy in the stairwell?” Cathy was one of the more attractive maids at the clubhouse hotel. Mr. Iones was an obscenely wealthy tech company owner. I’ll give you one guess as to who won that round of “he said, she said.” Cathy had been reprimanded, but if my dad really thought she were lying, he’d have fired her.

  My dad’s gray eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d crossed a line. “Go to your room,” he said. “Bring me your computer. Then go back to your room.”

  Confiscating my laptop was worse than taking away TV privileges. I turned to my mom, but she smiled fixedly out the bay window. I sat like a mule for fifteen eons-long seconds, then got up and stalked away. When I returned, laptop in hand, my mom had taken refuge elsewhere. She hated scenes, and yelling. I felt like she’d abandoned me.

  I set the laptop in front of my dad.

  “So you don’t believe me.” I needed to hear him say it, so I could be mad, or deny it, so I could ... I don’t know. It’s not like his belief in me would fix anything. And it’s not like we were super-close, like Alina and her parents. But he was my dad.

  “The boat of one of the most important men in town is damaged.” He looked up at me. “The evidence points to you. Even if you didn’t set the fire, Rose--and for the record, I do believe you about that--don’t tell me this isn’t your fault.”

  “But I didn’t--”

  “If someone is framing you, what did you do to them to make them so angry?”

  That was so unfair I couldn’t even speak. So this was my fault for pissing Paxton off? I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d cry, so I fled to my room. Refusing to give my dad the satisfaction of me moping about his punishment, I dove furiously into my calculus homework.

  Later, my mom came in and shut the door behind her. She’d changed into a wrap dress, something she could lounge about in and still look perfect. Which she did. Even after my makeover, I always felt washed out next to my mom. She used to have light red hair, but ever since she’d found a single gray strand she colored it darker, a rich auburn. I don’t think I’d ever caught her without mascara, though she swore she didn’t wear it to bed.

  I put my book away as my mom sat next to me on the cherry-colored comforter.

  “Has dad released my laptop from jail yet?” I asked. “Maybe we should charge it with arson, just to mess with its head.”

  My mom looked at me, then folded her hands in her lap.

  “I want to tell you a story,” she said. I crossed my arms.

  “Unless it involves space mermaids, I’m not interested.” I didn’t want to hear some lame parable mom lifted from a How To Talk To Your Teen website.

  “When I was in college, there was this girl who ... well, I’ll spare you the sordid details. Basically, she stole my fiancé.”

  “Wait, you were engaged, before dad?” Now I was fascinated. “Why skip the sordid details? You know, if she was your best friend and stole him in a hot tub, this is TV movie stuff. You coul
d sell the rights.”

  “She wasn’t a friend. But there was a hot tub involved.” My mom’s smile took on an edge. “The night my fiancé broke up with me, I snuck into the tramp’s room while she was out and cut all of her dresses to ribbons.”

  “Whoa. That’s kind of psycho, mom.” And kind of awesome. “I bet she thought twice about messing with you again.”

  “All I’m saying,” my mom said, laying a hand on my shoulder, “is that I understand.”

  Oh. Oh. I pulled away, disappointment crashing into me like a linebacker. “I promise you, you don’t.”

  “Of course,” my mom said dryly. “No one could possibly understand, right? Rose, you’re not the first to have her heart broken, and you won’t be the last.” Her blue eyes, so like mine, were uncharacteristically serious. “But you don’t want to compound it by getting sent to jail.”

  “I didn’t do it!” And my heart wasn’t broken. And it wouldn’t be, not unless ... but no, I wasn’t thinking about the pictures until I talked to Ryan. Why hadn’t he called me back?

  “Well, if you didn’t do it,” my mom said, “someone sure spent a lot of effort making it look like you did.”

  “Exactly!”

  My mom sighed, kissed the top of my head and left.

  ~ ~ ~

  “So?” I crossed my arms on the kitchen table and looked expectantly at Mr. Prichard. It was Sunday afternoon. My parents waited in the living room, but my lawyer and I were talking privately first. “Let me guess--his alibi sucks as much as mine does?”

  “Paxton Callaway was injured at football practice Friday afternoon,” Mr. Prichard told me. “A friend drove him to the doctor’s office, and Paxton spent the night being checked on by his younger sister and his parents.”

  I frowned. “What kind of injury? He must be faking it.”

  My lawyer shook his head. “It’s an ankle sprain. Mild, his father told me, but he might not be able to play at the Homecoming game next Friday.” His thin mouth pursed. “Let’s hope he heals up fast, or we’ll lose to the Bulldogs.”