“They left a notice on the door,” I said.

“I didn’t see it,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

“You weren’t even here,” she said.

“Mom, I have to work.”

“All night?” she said.

“Sometimes I go out.”

“With who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“It sure as hell does matter.”

“This has to stop, Mom,” I said. “You can’t keep us both here. You can’t patrol who I’m allowed to see or be friends with.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked me.

“I’m just trying to live my own life,” I said. “And not pay for your fucking mistakes.”

“You know,” she started. She had a look of confidence. It was the calm face she gave me when she knew she didn’t have to yell to make a point—when she didn’t swear, just spoke the truth. Her eyes were soft, her cheeks settled, her mouth relaxed. “You know that you are just as guilty as I am.”

I gritted my teeth.

“It can’t go on like this,” I said.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know, Mom. It wasn’t my decision. She’s not my kid. We’re your kids.” I felt like I was breaking into pieces. I was afraid I was going to cry, but I was damned if I would do it in front of her.

“Doesn’t matter,” my mother said. “Your life was set into motion as soon as that fire hit your skin.”

“Mom,” I said, pleading.

“You feel that?” she asked. “That gnawing inside you that says you want to be free, that you want to live your own life? That’s the fire. It’s trying to burn its way out.”

ELEVEN: KATERI

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 18

Shannon asks her if he’s under arrest. He has his head down, his hoodie pulled tight around his neck like a cowl. He looks at his feet like a kid who has always been in trouble. Not a kid who’s nervous. A kid who’s been here before.

“Am I under arrest?” he says.

“No,” Kateri says.

“Can I come tomorrow? After work?” he asks.

She hems. He gave her the DNA sample and showed up when she asked him to.

“I will,” he says. “I just …” He breathes out hard, blowing through his nose.

“It’s a lot,” Kateri says. “I’m sorry.”

“I need to … I don’t know,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Kateri says. “You need to process. You need to grieve, and that’s going to take longer than any interrogation or arrest.”

His eyes dart to the side, wet, and he looks off in the distance, behind the station, to the tall trees that have recently gone bright crimson red.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Kateri asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“You can’t go back to the house on Hidden Drive,” she says. “It’s a crime scene.”

He swallows and then rubs his jaw. “Okay,” he says.

“You also can’t leave the county. Or the state.”

He huffs, annoyed.

“How long do you work?”