Chapter 8 - The Thing Left Unsaid
Detective Briggs set two paper cups on the interview-room table. One held coffee. The other held water. She said Wren could take either, and Wren chose neither.
"Is this recorded?" Wren asked.
"Not yet. I'd like to record a statement if you decide to give one. First, let's talk about what you want to accomplish."
Wren looked at the closed door. "I want to know if I'm wanted for something."
Briggs stopped arranging her notes. "What makes you think you might be?"
"I remember people shouting after the fire. I remember somebody saying I shouldn't have touched it. I don't know what 'it' was."
"Was that in the building?"
"Maybe afterward. Sometimes it's the same voice as the man who told me to get in his car. I don't know if that's real."
Briggs took her hands away from the paper. "What I can tell you is that there's no warrant for Iris Vale in the old case file. The fire investigation didn't identify her as a suspect. You also haven't been identified as Iris yet. Those are separate facts."
Wren released her grip on the chair. She hadn't known she was holding it.
"Can I see the building?"
"The original building was demolished. There are photographs in the report."
The detective showed her a wide exterior picture of the old arts center: brick walls, a painted loading-bay door, and the courtyard where people had gathered after performances. Wren leaned closer. The angle brought no flood of memory. It did bring a sharp, dull feeling of having stood somewhere on the other side of that gate with a bag against her legs.
"The door at the back," she said. "Did it lock?"
Briggs turned a page. "The fire investigation found one rear exit difficult to open from inside. The hardware was damaged."
"Did someone lock it?"
"The report says it was obstructed and poorly maintained. It doesn't establish that somebody deliberately locked anyone in."
"And the fire?"
"The most likely cause was a fault in an electrical panel behind a rehearsal room. The building had a history of electrical complaints. The report did not identify an arsonist."
Wren looked at the tiny photograph again. "I remember a light going out."
"That could fit the report. It doesn't tell us everything about your memory."
Briggs gave her time. After several minutes Wren asked to speak about the alley where she'd found Adrian.
The detective switched on the recorder only when Wren agreed. Wren described the sleet, the footsteps, one man's voice, and the fact that she hadn't seen the men's faces. She said Adrian had been bleeding when she found him. She described covering him with her hair to keep them hidden. It sounded so strange when said plainly that she almost stopped.
"I believe that's what you did," Briggs said. "Whether it helps identify the attackers is a different question."
"He thinks I saved him."
"Did you?"
"I don't know. They might've left anyway."
"You didn't know that at the time."
Wren did not answer.
When the interview ended, Briggs gave her copies of the relevant public portions of the fire report and the number of a legal aid organization that could explain identification and civil records. She didn't promise an instant answer or a dramatic reunion.
In the corridor outside, Wren saw Adrian sitting across from a uniformed officer. He wasn't there for her. He was waiting for a separate interview. His left hand was on his side, not quite concealing the stiffness there.
"You look better," he said as she passed.
"I washed my face."
He gave a brief nod. "That's not what I meant, but okay."
For a moment she wanted to tell him that she had learned she wasn't a suspect in the fire. She wanted to tell him about the photo, the electrical panel, the way Briggs had spoken without pressing. Then a detective opened an interview-room door and called Adrian's name.
"I have to go," he said.
Wren stood aside. He did not ask her to wait.
His meeting lasted nearly two hours. He disclosed the threats from Voss, the location of the ambush, the weapon he'd carried, and the men who had been with him before he was wounded. Briggs made it clear she couldn't promise immunity from scrutiny into his business. Adrian understood. He continued anyway.
At the end of the interview a second investigator asked why Adrian had become involved with Wren.
"She hid me," he said. "I owe her my life."
"And the fire ten years ago?"
Adrian paused. "I knew Celia Vale."
"How well?"
"Well enough that she called me the week before she died. One of the rear doors at her center wasn't closing right. I told her I'd send someone to fix it."
"Did you?"
He looked at the recorder. "No."
"Why not?"
"I had another job that made me more money. I put it off."
Briggs let the silence hold.
"Was that the exit mentioned in the fire report?" she asked.
"I believe so. I never went back to check."
"You haven't told the family this?"
"No."
Outside, the sun was already low. Adrian found Wren standing beside a vending machine with a packet of crackers in her hand. The sight struck him as improbable and ordinary. He wished, absurdly, that they could talk about the crackers.
"They asked about the fire," he said.
"So did she, with me."
"I told them something I should've told you."
Wren took a slow breath. "Was it about the door?"
He stared at her. She saw the answer before he spoke.
"Celia asked me to have it repaired. I didn't."
"You knew it was broken."
"I knew it stuck. I thought it could wait until Monday."
"And she died Saturday."
Adrian lowered his eyes. "Yes."
Wren looked toward the station's glass doors. People were walking in carrying umbrellas and plastic bags, the small evidence of lives continuing.
"I thought I was the one who left her," Wren said.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I still might've," she added. "I can't remember. But you knew there was a way out that didn't work."
"Yes."
May you like
She put the untouched crackers into his hand. "I don't want to ride with you anymore."
Adrian held the packet, unable to decide what to do with it. Wren walked out past the security desk and didn't turn around.
