The moment he saw me, his face went pale. “Cindy…” I folded my arms tightly. “You were there the night of the fire?” “Yeah,” he admitted.
He explained: “When I was nine, I saw Mason sneak out of our house late at night. I followed him on my bike. Eventually, I spotted him climbing out of a window at your house. Then, a few minutes later, I noticed smoke coming from the kitchen. I got scared and rode home.”
He confessed he had carried guilt for years. “I didn’t ask you to dance because I felt sorry for you. I did it because I was tired of pretending I didn’t care about you.”
Then he said, “Maybe it’s time we asked Mason ourselves.”
For illustrative purposes only
Facing Mason
At the correctional facility, Mason confessed.
“It wasn’t intentional. When I was 14, I used to sneak around neighborhoods at night doing stupid things. That night, I saw the garden gnome outside your house and walked over to look at it. Then I noticed the kitchen window was cracked open. I climbed inside because I thought maybe I could take something small without anyone noticing. While I was in the kitchen, I lit a cigarette. After a few minutes, I left it on the counter while I looked through the living room. Then I heard movement and panicked. I climbed back out the window and ran.”
Caleb stared at him in disbelief. “You never meant to start the fire?” Mason looked genuinely confused. “I didn’t even realize there was a fire until the next morning.”
He looked at me, shame written all over him. “I’m sorry, Cindy. About everything. If you want to report it now, I understand.”
I told the police everything Mason admitted. When they asked whether I wanted to move forward with charges, I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “I don’t, and I’m sure my mother won’t, either.”
Because nothing was going to erase my scars. But for the first time in years, I realized they didn’t control my life anymore.
And somehow, neither did the fire.
