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.”

“Your brothers told an officer that, too. You know who didn’t say that? Every single witness from the restaurant that I could question. They said you walked in and picked a fight with Tyler Morgan.”

Michael fought to keep his voice even. “I didn’t know Tyler would be there. The guy I was meeting never showed up. I thought—”

He stopped short. He’d almost said, I thought Tyler had set me up.

But that would lead to more questions.

“You thought what?”

Like that one. Michael shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I didn’t know he’d be there. I was supposed to meet someone else.”

“Okay, give me a name.”

Michael turned to stare at the ceiling again. “I don’t remember.”

The fire marshal pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and held it up. “Maybe you should check your text messages.”

Michael whipped his head around. His vision spun for a moment, and he had to blink.

His cell phone was hanging in a plastic baggie marked Evidence.

All he had to do was meet Marshal Falkner’s eyes to know that his text messages had already been reviewed.

Michael had no idea what to say.

“You know what we found, don’t you?” said the marshal.

The pictures. The texts. The threats. “Is that why I was chained to the bed? Because someone else was threatening me?”

“This is where the really honest part is going to be important, even though you haven’t kept up your end of the bargain.” The fire marshal paused. “I think this is bigger than just your neighborhood and that restaurant. Am I right?”

Michael had nothing to say. How could he explain? How could he even begin to wrap words around the scope of this?

Well. It began when I was a teenager, and my parents made this deal . . .

“This goes beyond the carnival, too, doesn’t it?”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“They’re talking about bringing in the FBI,” said the fire marshal. “You can talk to me or you can talk to them. I guarantee they’re not going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You know something. It’s obvious you know something. It’s all over your phone.”

Michael wished he’d run. This morning, when they’d made the decision to go to Adam’s. He should have just gotten on the highway and started driving.

They had no proof, right? All they had were text messages he’d received.

“You mention Calla,” said the fire marshal. “In one of your messages.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. Michael didn’t give him one, though the machine kept beeping out his heart rate, quicker than normal.