Free Pyro by Monique Polak

Chapter One
    The broadcaster’s voice crackles through the radio. “Thanks for agreeing to speak with us today, Mayor Westcott. I know you’ve been extremely busy dealing with the recent spate of fires in your community. For those listeners who have not been following the story, there have been eight fires this summer in Montreal West. Each one bigger and more dangerous than the last. Tell us, Mayor, what exactly are you doing to apprehend the person or persons responsible for these fires?”
    My dad clears his throat. He does that when he’s nervous. “First, I want to assure everyone that my team and I are doing everything we can to deal with this situation. We’re working closely with the Montreal Fire Department. Our community has one of the best volunteer fire brigades in the country. But I also want to tell you”—Dad stops here to take a breath—“that this situation is serious. Whoever’s been lighting these fires is a heartless monster. I repeat—a heartless monster. A person without any feeling whatsoever for the well-being of others. And we will stop him—or her—or them.
    â€œI’d like to take this opportunity to urge your listeners to contact us immediately if they notice anything suspicious—anything at all. I also want to urge your listeners to inspect the periphery around their homes to ensure they have not left out any flammable substances, things like paint thinner or gasoline. It’s especially important to check sheds and garages. Any area that’s accessible to an intruder. So far, thank god, no lives have been lost. We want to keep it that way.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Mayor. Our thoughts are with you and the people of Montreal West. We wish you luck as you continue your investigation. Why don’t we give listeners the phone number to call if they have anything suspicious to report?”
    I turn off the radio as my dad rattles off the number at city hall.
    I adjust the pillow under my head and think how, if I didn’t know my dad, I’d think Mayor Westcott was pretty together. Only I know better.
    How can my dad catch a criminal when he doesn’t even know what’s going on under his own roof?
    I hear the front door open. The fumes wafting upstairs tell me it’s Mom. She never used to wear perfume or get her hair done so often. “Franklin?” she calls out. “You home, honey?”
    I hate how she calls me “honey.” That’s what she calls him too. The guy she’s been getting it on with. I’ve read the emails. It didn’t take a genius to figure out her password: cupcake. Mom collects stuff with cupcakes on it—cupcake plates, cupcake potholders. If it’s got a cupcake on it, Mom owns it.
    I’ve followed her a couple of times at night too. She says she wants exercise, but I know better. She’s been going for walks so she can phone him.
    â€œHey, honey,” I’d heard her say, her voice all sweet and drippy. It was like honey, now that I think about it. “I just wanted to tell you how fun that was yesterday.”
    If Dad were any kind of investigator, he’d be looking at her emails or checking the cell-phone bill.
    The thing with Dad is, he can’t see the signs. The emails. Mom’s sudden interest in after-dinner walks. Two weeks ago was their wedding anniversary. Dad gave her a mushy card from the drugstore. She didn’t give him anything. And Dad didn’t say a word about it.
    She’s coming upstairs now. When she knocks at my door, I don’t bother answering. I want her to think I’m asleep.
    â€œFranklin? You in there?” she says.
    If I don’t say something now, she’s gonna barge right in.
    â€œYeah. I’m resting,” I say.
    â€œMind if I come in, honey?”
    She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She just lets herself in and plunks herself down on the end of my bed. I roll over. I