Wicked Love | √

Twenty Seven

P R E S T O N
seven years ago

BLACK smoke floods the morning air hanging around long after the fire is put out.

But there is no sun to shine. No brightness.

Only darkness.

Sirens nonstop fill the air for hours as we all nervously hide out in the large tunnel in the forest behind my house to get our stories straight, and anxiously wait for the other shoe to drop. I'm barely holding it together. No matter how many times we review and repeat our lies the tension in me continues to build and tighten like a rubberband about to snap until I'm pulled apart piece by piece. My heart won't stop racing and my skin is constantly covered in goosebumps as chills run down my spine every minute of every hour that passes.

And then Nathaniel is brought in for questioning.

We quickly find out through some family friends in the police force that a few cameras in the neighborhood caught him scoping out Lucas's house a few times leading up to the fire.

None of the security cameras caught us or Lawrence's car on the actual night, but they had Nathaniel. They also had footage of him buying the large jugs of gasoline from the local station.

They had their evidence. They even had texts between him and Lucas with Nathaniel threatening to hurt him. They had their motive. We've even had a past with fire before, though Nathaniel's judge father and Everett's lawyer dad were able to sweep it under the rug.

But this one couldn't be swept away, because Lucas didn't survive the lethal flames. He died, and his father was seriously injured and barely hanging on in the burn unit.

All because of what my friends and I did. Because of the fire we started.

The day after Nathaniel is brought in, so are we. Because he's never been one to go down alone. If any ship is sinking he's going to make sure everyone around him is not only going to sink, but drown alongside him.

In the seventy-two hours that have followed the fire our lives are turned completely upside down. Someone leaked our names to the press and since then we've been the talk of news nationwide. Reporters have been on the scene since the first 911 call came through, and outside our houses as well. So it's not surprising that they are also outside the police station as we are brought in from questioning.

Cameras and microphones are shoved into my face as people yell questions at me.

"Did you start the fire?"

"What's your connection to Nathaniel Gregory?"

"Mr. Rothwell, do you think this will affect Rothwell Motors stock?"

The questions continue to be shouted at my father and I, but I train my face to remain expressionless and my eyes focused on the ground.

We enter the station and my father remains by my side as we are escorted to a waiting room. We are all underage, which means an adult has to accompany us for our questioning.

I know my father is beyond furious at me. He has been since we got the call to be brought in. But he doesn't say anything. His face is practically stone with how lifeless and cold it is. But I see it in his brown eyes that mirror my own. The fiery anger. The utter disappointment.

From a young age my father put a lot of pressure on me to perform and succeed and be better than everyone else. To assess the people around me and always be a step ahead. A level above. Surprisingly he never had an issue with our pranks. They were trivial and small, and even if we did get caught and in trouble he would always bail us out.