Red Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,48

part. I was assuming I guess.” He’s jotting down notes, his free hand wrapped tightly around the back of his neck.

“Have you had any scuffles with anyone in the past month? Anyone you could have pissed off?” I tend to be the opposite of confrontational. I want to cry if I have to tell someone they hurt my feelings. It took me over a week to tell Aspen she was fired. I’ve always sort of been the sunshine and cupcakes type of girl. Until recently, that is.

“No. None.”

He writes that down, too. “What about Blake? Did he have any issues with anyone?” I want to say no, but would I really know? I mean, I work ten hour days, and most nights, I go home and go to bed. Blake and I hadn’t seen much of each other in the few weeks before the fire, regardless of the fact that we lived together. He wasn’t the type to have “issues” with people, though.

“I’d be surprised if he did, but I couldn’t say for sure.” He draws a question mark next to his name. A question mark, meaning Blake could be at fault for this?

“He didn’t do anything wrong, Hayes,” I say.

“Hey,” he places his hand over mine. “I’m not saying anyone did. I’m just trying to get all of the information down. It’s a habit. I just want to help.” He presses on. “What did you make for dinner that night?” I don’t want to answer all of these questions again. I just went through this.

I think the look on my face must reflect my thoughts. He sets his pen down and closes his notepad. “I’m sorry. We can talk about this later. I don’t want to stress you out before work.” My focus is locked on the white plate, the crumbs, the piece of lettuce, and the hazy reflection of my eyes in the glass. How did I get here? I feel like I was just catapulted into someone else’s life. “You’re going to be okay. They’ll figure out you had nothing to do with this.”

I look up at him, worried, “What if they don’t? Then what?”

“That’s not going to happen.” Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but he sounds a little less sure this time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was internally questioning me now too.

I’m not an arsonist. Or a murderer. I didn’t do anything wrong.

I didn’t.

I glance at my watch again, cursing silently. My shift starts in thirty minutes. “I have to get to work.”

“You might want to change into something more appropriate.” He swivels his neck to look down and around the table, his focus faltering to my shirt. His shirt. “Put some pants on at least.”

I throw my last chip at him.

He grabs my wrist mid-throw. “Look at me.” I do, melting a little, like I do every time I look at him. “I believe that you did nothing wrong. I will help you get through this. I promise.” He releases my hand and grabs our plates. “Maybe this is why we met. Life has a funny way of bringing people together. Like fate.”

Fate. Is that such a thing any more?

I pad across the cold hardwood floor to the bedroom, where I slip out of his shirt and into my own clothes, clutching my shoes under my arm. He pokes his head into the room. “Let me drive you to work.”

“Why? I have my car. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried. And it’s because I want to pick you up from work.”

From his lack of smile, I gather it isn’t because he just wants to see me. “Is it because—?”

“You’ve had an encounter with an arsonist? Yes.”

I follow him out to his car, debating if this is necessary. Am I in danger? I wonder. Have I been in danger this whole time? I climb into his truck, still trying to steady my thoughts. “Do you think someone is after me?” I ask. Not like he’d know. But I’m hoping he’ll say something along the lines of “no, but we’re taking precautions.”

He peers over at me and shrugs. “No clue, Blondie-locks.”

“Hayes,” I say, flatly.

He cups his hand around my chin. “Don’t worry. I’m not worried. Just taking precautions,” he says. It isn’t as comforting as I imagined it would be.

“I’m scared.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

* * *

“Felicity, I need a word with you.” Grant’s waiting at the door for me, and for a second I think