At the station, Caleb sat across from me in a small interview room, wearing the same white shirt from prom, now wrinkled at the cuffs.
He looked nothing like the boy everyone admired.
He looked terrified.
When he saw me, his eyes filled.
“Avery,” he said.
“Don’t say my name like that,” I whispered.
He nodded quickly, staring at the table.
“I was nine too,” he said. “It was me, Ryan, and two older boys from the neighborhood. Ryan lit the firework. It went through the screen. We heard the smoke alarm, and everyone ran.”
My hands curled into fists.
“But you stayed?” I asked.
He looked up, tears slipping down his face.
“I came back.”
The room went still.
“My dad found me in my room that night, covered in soot. I told him I fell near the woods. But I had gone back. I tried to get to the door, but the smoke was too thick. I screamed for help, then ran to the neighbor’s house and told them to call 911.”
My mother turned toward him.
“You called it in?”
He nodded, crying now.
“But I didn’t tell them why. I was scared. The older boys said we’d go to jail. My parents believed me when I lied. Everyone believed the stove story. And then I saw you at school with bandages, and I knew.”
I felt sick.
“You knew all these years.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
His face crumpled. “Yes.”
