Page 210 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“So, Henry.” I moved deeper into the room, my eyes scanning the counters, the cabinets, the corners where a life was lived in small, solitary pieces. “You were with the kitchen staff, correct? How long had you been working there?”

He stammered. “Not long, I was—”

“Two weeks.” I smiled. “We have to keep this fast, remember?”

He swallowed.

I turned to face him fully. “You know, Henry, there were a lot of cameras that night. Not the restaurant’s—those were off, we checked. But influencers, journalists, guests. Everyone documenting everything. We watched every video, every photo, every frame. It took days.”

I stepped closer. His breathing had changed. Faster. Shallow.

“And in one of those videos, we found something interesting.” I let the silence stretch. “You. Walking up to the fryer. Leaning in. Adjusting something on the controls. Looking around. Walking away.”

His face drained of color.

“The timing matched the fire report. Grease doesn’t overheat on its own that fast. Suppression systems don’t fail that conveniently.” I tilted my head. “Someone made sure that oil got hot enough, fast enough. Someone who knew exactly where to stand to stay out of most sightlines. Someone who’d only been there two weeks. Someone nobody would remember.”

His hands were shaking.

“It’s so funny,” I said, stepping closer, “that a kitchen staff was found conscious near the back of the restaurant. Almost like he was running away before anyone found him.”

I was close enough to see the tremor in his hands. He started breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked bursts.

“You’re nineteen, aren’t you?”

He nodded fast, his eyes already filling. “I didn’t want to do it.” His voice cracked. “I just needed some money. I swear. He told me to do it, said nobody would get hurt. I did it, and I was going to run away, but I panicked. I went the wrong direction first, and then the smoke was everywhere, and I tried to run, and I fainted.” He was crying now, the words spilling out. “I heard someone else got hurt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want it to happen. I’m so sorry.”

My jaw ground together. He was just a kid. A kid who needed money and got caught up in something he didn’t understand.

“Who’s he?”

I knew the answer. But I needed to hear it from him.

He took a shaky breath, still crying. “Michael Hartley.”

“He came to you himself?”

He nodded. “I thought it was weird. Why would someone like that come to someone like me? But he said he handled things personally. Didn’t trust anyone else.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I really didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I’m sorry.”

My chest burned. Fucking Michael.

I reached out and patted his shoulder. He flinched, then stilled. “It’s okay. Stop crying. She’s fine. She’s recovering. Like you are.”

He looked up at me, eyes red, breath still hitching. “She’s okay?”

I nodded.

He exhaled, long and slow, the tension in his shoulders releasing all at once. He pressed his palms to his face, rubbed hard, and when he pulled them away, he looked young again. Almost like a kid who had been carrying something too heavy and finally, finally put it down.

My eyes held his. “You have a whole life ahead of you, Henry. I haven’t passed the video to the detectives yet. But I will. And if you take the blame alone, you’ll go to prison.”

His face crumpled. “No. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for this to happen—” The tears were back, spilling over, his voice cracking on every word.

I caught his shoulders, steadying him. “I know, Henry. There’s a way you won’t have to go to prison.”

His eyes snapped to mine, desperate hope cutting through the fear. “There is?”

I softened my voice. “You confess. You tell the detectives everything Michael said to you. Everything he told you to do. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”