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Michael turned his head to glare. He tried to force as much fury into his voice as possible—because that was infinitely better than breaking down sobbing. “I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I didn’t do anything.” His breath caught and he winced.
“Take it easy,” said the nurse. She glanced at the fire marshal and gave him a stern look. “Not too much questioning. He just woke up.”
Michael expected him to say something to put her in her place, but the marshal just nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she was gone, wheeling the little cart beside her.
Michael stared at the ceiling. His throat felt tight. Maybe it was the fire marshal sitting here waiting to question him, or maybe it was the fact that Jack Faulkner was Hannah’s father, but there was something extra-humiliating about being chained to a hospital bed, waiting for his fate.
He remembered the weeks after his parents were gone, how it had seemed he couldn’t get through forty-eight hours without a social worker or a police officer or an attorney at his front door. He hadn’t trusted any of them then, and he didn’t trust Marshal Faulkner now. Then, he would have given anything for one of them to step in and tell him everything would be okay, that he could handle it if he’d just be patient with himself and let the right answers come to him.
Now, he knew it was up to him alone. He could get out of this if he kept the upper hand, if he didn’t let emotion overrun his actions.
When he was sure his voice wouldn’t crack and his eyes would stay dry, Michael said, “So I’m under arrest?”
The fire marshal sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Maybe, Mike. I don’t know.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Michael turned his head. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll uncuff you, but I need you to be really honest with me.”
“Fine.”
The marshal unlocked the handcuffs first, and Michael felt his tension drop a few notches, just knowing he wasn’t chained to this bed. The ankle chains were next. Everything rattled against the tile floor where the marshal dropped them.
Then the man straightened. “Did you start the fire at your house?”
“No.”
“Did any of your brothers?”
“No.”
“Did you plant a bomb at the Roadhouse?”
“No.”
“Do you know who shot you?”
“No.” He remembered the flash of the phone’s camera, seeing the edge of a face and some sandy-colored hair. It wasn’t even his own phone, so he’d never be able to go back to it. A Guide? A cop? He had no idea. Still, it was something to offer.
“Someone was in the wreckage. He was looking down at me. As soon as I saw him, he was shooting.”
The fire marshal looked interested at that. “Could you give me a description?”
“I only saw him for a second. Less than a second.”
“But it was definitely a man?” Jack pulled out a notepad and a pen.
Michael thought. He’d assumed man, but really, his memories weren’t even clear enough to confirm that much. “Maybe. I’m not one hundred percent sure.”
“Race? Hair color? Height? Anything?”
Michael closed his eyes and tried to remember. All his thoughts would supply was a flash of movement, and then the sound of the gun firing. “Sandy hair. I don’t know.” He opened his eyes. “I don’t know what happened to the second phone I used, but I might have caught him—or her—in one of the pictures.”
Another quick note on the pad. “Why were you at the restaurant at all?”
Michael froze. His brain wasn’t organized enough to lie, but he could go with the same story he’d given everyone else. “I was meeting someone about a job.”
