ONE
Jamie
The fire startedin the kitchen.
Just like the last one.
The flames licked up the drapes, each faded flower vanishing in white sparks. I stood there, still holding the used match, and watched the edge of the fabric curl inwards, blackening, then opening with a hiss of release. The smoke thickened fast—it always did. Greedy. Hungry.
I didn’t run.
I waited until the heat reached the hallway, caught the old linoleum, the newspaper bundles, and the cracked, piss-yellow chair, until the air turned hostile, burning my throat.
Then, I walked out of the front door.
It was early. The street was quiet but not peaceful.Rows of tired brick apartments lined the block, tagged with graffiti and sagging with disrepair. Trash rustled in the gutters, and a broken streetlamp still flickered behind me, casting everything in a sick, pale glow. A busted bike frame leaned beside the stop sign as if evenithad given up.
Shitty neighborhood. The kind no one cared about. The kind no one came looking in unless they wanted something worse than answers.
But quiet.
Not like the house.
The house was screaming now.
Wood groaning. Glass cracking. That beautiful, chaotic roar meant nothing could be saved.
I sat on the curb across the street staring at the fire. No shoes. Smoke on my clothes. My uncle was still inside. Passed out on the couch, maybe. Maybe, he woke up trapped and terrified. Didn’t fucking matter. I knew he hadn’t gotten out. That was the point.
By the time the sirens came, I was calm but didn’t know what to do with the silence. No belt snapping through the air, no fists, and no lock sliding into place behind me.
I was free.
When the fire crew arrived, I clutched my laptopclose and didn’t move. One firefighter tried to grab me, shouting something I didn’t catch. His gloves smeared soot across my bare arms. He looked scared. Or maybe confused.
They always are.
The ambulance came next. Someone wrapped a blanket around me. I let them. A woman crouched beside me, her voice gentle, as though I was fragile.
“What happened?” she asked.
I looked past her to the smoke billowing into the sky. “It burned,” I said.
She blinked. “How did it start?”
I shrugged. “Match, I guess.”
Her expression changed. Not fear, exactly. Just the beginning of understanding. The moment when people realize I’m not the victim they thought I was.
“What’s your name?”
“Jamie Maddox.”
Then, the cops came with their questions, and when they searched my name and the other fire was flagged, the inevitable happened.
There’s a body, trapped, couldn’t get out, burned.
“…you’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and homicide.”
