“Ivy,” she said, guarded.
Not honey. Not thank God you called. Not are you safe?
“Did Weston come to my apartment?” I asked.
Silence.
I closed my eyes. My stomach turned cold. “Mom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The investigator found his keychain in my apartment. The fox one I gave him. They said the fire was started deliberately near my bedroom window.”
Her breathing changed. That was all. A small catch, barely there, but I heard it.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Ivy, you’re upset.”
“My home is gone. Someone poured gasoline in my bedroom while I was asleep. So yes, I’m upset.”
Another silence. Longer this time. I imagined her standing in the kitchen of the house where I had grown up, one hand braced on the counter, looking toward the hallway as if Weston might appear there and rescue her from the truth.
“He didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said finally.
I stopped breathing.
Those six words entered me slowly, like a blade too sharp to feel at first.
“What did you say?”
“He was scared,” she whispered. “He was desperate, Ivy. He needed money, and he thought maybe you had some cash hidden away, or jewelry, or something he could pawn. He only went there to look.”
“He broke into my apartment?”
“He said the window latch was loose.”
“The window latch was loose because maintenance was scheduled to fix it.” My voice rose. “He climbed through my bedroom window?”
“He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“When did he tell you?”