Page 130 of Ransom

"Yeah. This one." She puts on a pretty good sad face, just for a second, then it slips off and she's back to blank.

"That's really fucked up. You practice that?"

"Yeah. In the mirror. Dad says it helps people feel more comfortable with me. Seems to work."

"You're a freak."

"You're not the first person to say that. I got called freak, weirdo, alien, and more when I was little."

There really is something wrong with her. She's… off, but I don't know how. "What's wrong with you? Jerry said you guys moved out here because you were struggling back in the city. So what happened?"

Her sigh is long and heavy. "Your memory is very bad. I told you, I already shared, so now it's your turn. You don't get to know anything more about me until you do."

"Forget it. I don't care."

She looks away, dropping to her knees, crawling over to the cabinets, and fishing underneath. Her ass is right there, staring at me, and a little trickle of something other than numbness passes through me.

Numb or angry are my defaults. This feeling isn't either of those. It's something else.

She makes a low sound, then sits back on her heels, holding the little box of matches I'd stolen out of the kitchen cupboard. I didn't have a great plan when I came down here. But I figured if I did a little damage, I might finally tip Robert over the edge, and I would finally get out of here.

Opening the box, she lights a match easily, letting the wood stick burn as she stares at it. "I like fire," she says dreamily.

"Are you some sort of pyro?"

"Like do I like lighting things on fire? Yes. A lot."

"Holy fuck. That's why your dad moved you out here to Bum-fuck-ville. You set your school on fire or some shit like that."

Yawning, she finally looks back at me. "Your turn, remember?"

Everyone knows what I did. It wasn't a secret. The papers talked about it. It was even on the news. So what does it matterif she finds out now? Who cares if she looks at me like I'm a murderer? It's exactly what I am.

"I set my house on fire."

"So you're the pyro. You're projecting your own shit on me."

"I didn't do it on fucking purpose. I was a stupid kid, and I left the stove on, and a rag too close to the burner." My mouth pools with saliva, forcing me to swallow it down. "I didn't mean to do it. But they're still dead."

Her face doesn't change, and I shift my weight to my other foot. "Aren't you supposed to put your sad face on?"

"I'm supposed to, yeah. But you've already seen it, so I don't think there's any point."

"So you don't care that I killed everyone?"

Her mouth twists. "I'm not a psychopath. I've been tested. So yeah, I do care. My face just doesn't always match what's going on in my head."

"What is going on in your head?"

The fire touches her fingers, but she doesn't flinch, just shakes out the match, placing it carefully on her knee, then lights another. "Mostly, I'm thinking that I'm really sorry you lost your family. And that it sounds like an incredibly tragic accident. But I totally get why you blame yourself."

"There's no one else to blame."

"I think when you get a little older, you might see things a little differently."

"When I get a little older? Like you? Is there some magic pile of fucking insight I'll get as soon as I turn sixteen? You sound like an asshole."

That gets a reaction. But not the kind I was expecting. She takes that match and brings it to the edge of her shirt, letting the flame lick the bottom of it. The material immediately melts, and the line of flame starts to spread. "Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" I drop to my knees and slap at her shirt andthe match, little licks of heat sizzling on my palm and fingers. "You're insane." I snatch the matches out of her hand and shove them into the back pocket of my jeans.