Finally, he turns. And though we are far away, I can still feel something. Can’t I? How much he cares about me. Or no, that’s not it. I can’t be sure of that. But I can feel how much I care. Jasper raises a hand in return, still looking in my direction, as the police officer pushes him ahead and out the door.

“I’m leaving,” I say to Rachel, taking a step forward.

“Nope.” The officer has taken his hands off me but now he steps in my path. “Afraid not.”

“Nope?” I snap at him. “We’re free to go. This was all a mistake. Didn’t you hear?”

It’s a test. I’m not even sure of whom.

“Not you,” he says.

I turn to Rachel, who is hovering closer now. “What is he talking about?”

“I am going to get you home as soon as I can, Wylie. That’s why I’m here. We will work this out.” Rachel takes a deep breath. “They haven’t gotten into details. But apparently they want to question you further. About the fire here. The best way to get you out of here is to cooperate.”

“All of this because of that fire?” I snap. “That was only a distraction, so we could get out. Like a trash can or something. Anyway, it wasn’t even me. That was Kelsey.”

Though I do have a bad feeling mentioning her name. I already know it isn’t Kelsey. Kind of hard to point your finger at somebody when you don’t know who they are.

“I know and I believe you.” Rachel frowns. “We just need to take a minute and be sure that they do, too.”

25

ON RACHEL’S INSTRUCTIONS, I DON’T ASK ANY MORE QUESTIONS. BECAUSE THAT might give up information I don’t intend to reveal. Actually, she suggests I don’t say another word to anyone until they’ve transported us down to the police station where they plan to interview me. Something she says again that I could refuse to do, but she suspects that could make things worse for me.

I ride once again in the back of a police car. I tell Rachel that she can leave, that I want her to. But she insists on coming down to the police station, driving in her own car close behind the police car. I should have a lawyer, she says, whether or not I want that person to be her.

When we get to a nearby Boston precinct—which is a lot grittier than the police station in Newton or Seneca—Rachel and I wait alone in a cold little room with a small table and four cramped chairs. It feels dirty and smells like sweat.