I nodded.

“Why Chattanooga?” he asked, frowning in confusion.

“Elise’s dad lives there,” I said. “They moved from Chattanooga last year when Elise’s grandmother passed away and left her the Pink Mansion. They came down to sell it and deal with legal stuff but then her dad met someone and they stayed.” My voice was dull, lifeless with exhaustion. I’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours.

“I don’t understand,” Jack said. “What did you do once you got there?”

“We were only supposed to set off fireworks outside his house and wake him up. She just wanted him to have one bad night, you know?” Lola came up to me, sat by my feet, and rested her head on my knee. “We’ve done it before. Set up firecrackers outside a bedroom window, set off some fireworks. Nothing went wrong when we did it before,” I said, growing distressed. Everything had gone fine the first time.

“What happened?” he asked with growing horror. “What did she do?”

“There was an accident. I wasn’t there. Elise wanted to do this whole thing by herself. And—and—”

“What?” Jack said, pulling back in shock.

“One of the roman candles or something must’ve gone off wrong.” I couldn’t say it, what I feared.

“Oh my God,” Jack said, eyes wide with realization. “Don’t tell me you guys set the house on fire.”

My silence was answer enough.

He remained quiet for a long time, then scooped Lola up and placed her on the bed with us, rubbing her head absentmindedly. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay, I wanted him to make everything okay.

“If you weren’t there, how do you know it was an accident?” he finally asked.

“What are you saying? That Elise set her dad’s house on fire on purpose?” I didn’t even want to think of that possibility, but Jack was only voicing my deepest fear.

“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you what Elise is capable of. Only you can answer that.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exhausted and confused. “She probably just set it up a little too close to the house, or the firecrackers hit some dry wood,” I said, but I wasn’t really trying to convince him, only myself.

“I’m not disputing that,” he said. “What I’m asking is if she did it on purpose. If she knowingly set it up a little too close to the house. If she strung up the firecrackers where they could spark a fire. Or even angled a roman candle right at the house.”

I remembered the sound of shattering glass.

“It would look like an accident, but hasn’t she done this before? Set off fireworks?” he asked, and I nodded. “So she knows how to do it.”

“Oh God,” I said. “But—”

Yes, it was possible that it’d all been an accident. But I knew it wasn’t likely.

“We have to tell someone,” he said. “What she did is arson, and who’s to say she won’t do something like that again?”