Free Set Me Free by London Setterby Page B

eyebrows lifting, but he didn’t press it. He gestured for us to give the first responders more room. We joined the small crowd that had gathered on the beach below us: Rusty, Andy, Kaye, Violet, and Alice. They stared at us, but no one spoke.
    Slowly, the flames ebbed under the jets from the fire trucks. We could see the left side of the Lodge again: a mass of charred boards and shingles, sloping downwards to the destroyed front porch.
    “Oh, God,” I breathed. “I’ve just remembered.”
    Everyone looked at me.
    “What is it?” Kaye asked, her eyes huge in her pale face.
    I pointed to the pile of black rubble that had once been the octagonal gallery. “Suzanna White’s paintings were in that room.”
    Owen’s beautiful portrait and that magnificent seascape were both gone forever.
    I knew it was silly, because at least Matthew was alive, but losing Suzanna’s paintings made my heart ache. Poor Suzanna White! Dead at twenty-two, and the fragments of her memory gone so soon, so senselessly.
    “You did it.”
    Violet was glaring at Owen, all traces of her wolfish smile gone.
    “You should just admit it,” Violet said. “We might actually respect you if you did.”
    Owen crossed his burly, soot-covered arms over his chest and scowled at her. “Fuck you, Violet.”
    “You shouldn’t speak to her like that.”
    We all turned at the sound of Scott’s voice. He stood to the south of us on the beach, his hair mussed and his expression fierce.
    He strode up to the rest of the group and stood protectively next to Violet. She gave him an annoyed look.
    “We all know it was you, Larsen,” Scott hissed. “It’s always you. Admit you burned up Suze’s paintings and we can move on with our lives—”
    Shockingly fast, Owen seized Scott by his shirt collar and dragged him across the sand, twisting the fabric tighter and tighter. “Do not call her that, you piece of shit. You do not get to call her that.”
    Scott pulled at Owen’s fingers, trying to loosen their grip. Dashing between them, Andy grabbed Owen’s shoulder. “Take it easy, both of you. This isn’t helping—”
    “Shut up , Andy!” Violet threw her hands in the air. “God, who do you think you are, the United fucking Nations?”
    Owen, though, let go of Scott and stepped away from the group, breathing hard and rough with his back to us, his shoulders heaving.
    Scott sneered. “You know you did it, Larsen! You won’t be able to get away with it—”
    “How could he have set the fire?” I almost choked on the words. “How could Owen have set the fire? He was talking to me. When we saw it go up, we ran over here, and Owen went in and got Matthew. He saved his life. Remember, Kaye? I called you while Owen was inside the house. And Rusty,” I added, turning to Rusty, who looked nervous and exhausted, “before I came over, he was talking to you, right?”
    Rusty nodded.
    “For a while, right?” I prompted him.
    “Half an hour, an hour,” Rusty said.
    I turned back to the others. “So how could Owen have set the fire? Seriously, guys, why are you doing this? I’m sure it was an accident—an electrical problem, or something.”
    Owen glanced over his shoulder at me, his face oddly lit by the police spotlights staged around the perimeter of the wrecked house.
    “He could have planted an explosive or something.” Violet pursed her lips. “You know, with a timer.”
    Owen ran his hands through his hair, and without a word he walked away: a lonely figure blending into the darkness on the beach.

Chapter 10
    K aye rubbed her eyes . “Want another coffee?”
    “Yes, please.” I glanced at the clock, again, for the hundredth time. 3:30, thank God. My shift at the Widow’s Walk ended at four. We’d gone to bed last night at around six in the morning, after talking briefly to the police and having—as Andy had called it—a dawn-cap. My Sunday brunch shift, which was normally quite pleasant, had never been so wretched.
    “Hey, Miranda,