“How did your mother… die?” I lit a cigarette, but my hands were shaking badly.
Arson looked at me, a bit confused, as if he was trying to understand my question.
He was slow to respond and after a few seconds he whispered, “Mom… fell asleep. The police said Mom fell asleep while driving.”
A car accident.
I took a deep drag of my cigarette, but the harsh smoke made me cough.
Arson jumped at the sound, shrinking back.
The scared, startled look on his face stabbed my heart in a way I couldn’t explain.
“How old are you, kid?”
He thought for a moment. “Nine… almost ten.”
The timing matched.
My heart felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing it, making it hard to breathe.
“Where’s your dad? Why didn’t he come to pick you up?”
At the mention of his father, Arson’s eyes darkened and his head dropped even lower.
“Dad… is very busy.”
The same excuse.
Exactly like Harry ten years ago.
I put out my cigarette and walked back and forth in the studio, feeling irritated.
Something was wrong. Everything felt wrong.
If Arson was really the son of Emily and Harry, why didn’t Harry come to take him immediately after her death?
Why let him go alone, following Emily’s last wish to find me, his “enemy”?