Chapter Four: The Boy in Holding
The fluorescent lights buzzed above Elijah's head as he stepped into the holding area of the Briar Ridge Sheriff's Office.
It looked exactly how he remembered—cold tile, rusted file cabinets, that faint smell of burnt coffee and metal.
Sheriff Tom leaned on the doorway. “You sure you want to talk to him?”
“I just want to see.”
“He’s not talking to anybody.”
“I’m not anybody.”
Tom sighed and gestured down the hall. “Last cell on the right. He’s been pacing for hours.”
Elijah moved past him, heart steady, steps slow.
The hallway was quiet—except for the soft creak of one worn-out bunk shifting under weight.
He stopped at the barred door.
Inside, a boy sat curled against the far wall. Knees up. Hoodie stained with soot. Hair matted. Shoes missing. Hands trembling.
Elijah spoke first.
“You’re Matthew Cole?”
The boy flinched at the sound, then slowly looked up.
His eyes were rimmed with red. Not just from smoke. From fear.
“I’m not a cop,” Elijah said. “I’m a lawyer.”
“I don’t want a lawyer,” the boy mumbled.
“Why not?”
“They said if I talk, I’ll make it worse.”
“Who said that?”
He didn’t answer.
Elijah knelt down so their eyes were level.
“You lit the fire?”
Matthew shook his head violently. “It wasn’t like that. It was just supposed to scare them. Not... not burn down everything.”
Elijah’s brow furrowed. “Scare who?”
Silence.
“Matthew, someone died in that fire.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“I didn’t know she was inside.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
Matthew’s eyes darted to the corners of the room, like he was scanning for someone invisible. Then his voice dropped to a whisper.
“They gave me a gas can. Said splash it by the back door, make it look like a warning. They even told me what to write on the walls.”
“Who did?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“They said they'd come for my sister if I talked.”
Elijah leaned closer. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Sarah. She's nine.”
“Where is she now?”
“With our neighbor, Miss Paulette.”
“And your mom?”
Matthew’s jaw clenched. “She’s... gone now.”
The weight of that truth settled between them like a stone dropped in still water.
Elijah didn’t speak right away.
“Matthew, I need to help you. But I can’t do that unless you let me in.”
The boy rubbed his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie.
“They said it was just a warning.”
Elijah sat back on his heels. “And what about Landon Cresthaven?”
Matthew looked confused. “The rich kid?”
“He was stabbed that same night. Did you know him?”
Matthew shook his head. “No. I mean... I knew of him. Everyone does.”
“You didn’t see him that night?”
“No. I was at the trailer park. I didn’t go nowhere near the creek.”
Elijah studied him. “You sure?”
“I swear.”
“Then who was with you when you lit the fire?”
His lips trembled. “I—I was alone.”
Elijah narrowed his eyes. “You just said they gave you instructions. But now you’re saying you were alone?”
Matthew’s chest rose with a shaky breath. “They don’t come with you. They just... tell you where to go. What to do.”
“Who’s they?”
Silence again.
The door creaked behind Elijah. Tom stepped in.
“You done?” he asked. “I need to check the cameras.”
Elijah stood. “One more minute.”
He turned back to Matthew.
“I’m not here to put you in more trouble,” Elijah said. “I’m here to get you out of it. But you have to be honest with me, no matter how scary the truth is.”
Matthew stared at the floor.
“If I tell you,” he said finally, “you won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
The boy looked up.
“They wear masks.”
Elijah blinked. “What?”
“They wear masks. Black ones. Not like ski masks—real ones. Like old gas masks. I don’t know who they are. They just show up when it’s dark and talk to you like they already know everything about you.”
“And you did what they asked?”
“They knew stuff. Stuff I didn’t tell anyone. About my mom. About my drawings. About what happened with my uncle.”
Elijah’s voice dropped. “What happened with your uncle?”
Matthew went quiet.
“I thought he was dead,” the boy whispered.
A chill swept down Elijah’s spine.
Tom cleared his throat behind him. “That’s enough for tonight.”
“No,” Elijah snapped. “It’s not.”
“Elijah—”
“He’s scared out of his mind. And someone is feeding him orders. You think this is just arson?”
Tom's jaw twitched. “We don’t have the manpower for urban legends.”
“These aren’t legends. This is a kid confessing to something bigger than a fire.”
Tom gave him a hard look. “We’ve had one murder, one fire, and twenty-seven reporters on our lawn in twelve hours. Don’t come in here preaching.”
“I’m not preaching,” Elijah said. “I’m staying.”
Tom’s voice dropped. “You said you were just here for Eden.”
“I still am. But if you think I can sit by and let another boy burn for this, then you’ve forgotten who I am.”
They stared at each other.
Then Tom turned and walked away.
Outside
Eden sat on the hood of the car, sketchbook on her lap.
She didn’t look up when Elijah approached.
“You saw him?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Is he a monster?”
“No.”
“Then why do people treat him like one?”
“Because it’s easier than facing what’s real.”
Eden flipped her pencil over, started shading a corner.
“Was he crying?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Then he didn’t do it.”
Elijah looked at her.
“You trust people fast,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I trust their eyes.”
Inside the Sheriff’s Office
Matthew curled up on the bunk, shivering despite the heat.
He reached under the pillow.
Pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
A drawing.
Two masked figures, towering, faceless, standing in the flames.
And in the corner—a boy on his knees, holding a match.
Beneath it, he had scrawled in shaky letters:
“It was only supposed to be smoke.”