Struck by Lightning

25. What Else Do I Have To Say?

Amanda slept on the sofa the night of the fire, the drugs having knocked her out and into a dreamless sleep. When she did wake, her first thought was to check her phone. There had been no word from the hospital overnight and another call to Freddie's mobile resulted in the same endless ringing.

She stretched each painful limb before shuffling around the empty house, her head spinning as she tried to get her head around what had happened.

Duty calls. A brief note on the kitchen table in Ivo's near illegible handwriting, giving no indication of when he'd return.

She pointlessly called the hospital once more but couldn't get any information from them. She didn't know if it was the language barrier or deliberate unhelpfulness on their part, but she decided to go see for herself and booked a taxi to take her.

While she waited for her ride, she ascended the stairs up to the roof, gripping the bannister as she did so. At the top, she braced herself before looking out at the devastated building. Most of the top half had gone, leaving a black, gaping hole, and although too far away to see the extent of the damage inside, she could imagine it. Those beautiful bookshelves would be nothing but ash.

The tears came again as she imagined Freddie trapped inside. She'd slept so long, morning had turned to afternoon and it scared her there was still nothing from him. Whatever awaited her at the hospital, she had to know; she had to face it.

The doorbell rang, signalling her taxi had arrived, so she dashed down the two flights of stairs, and swung open the door to find instead two police officers, stopping her in her tracks.

"Ms Wright, would you please accompany us to the police station?" the woman said in Dutch.

Amanda narrowed her eyes. "Can we speak in English, please? I don't understand."

"You need to come to the police station," the man interjected. "We have some questions about the fire last night."

Amanda's stomach knotted. "We can't do it here? I'm not feeling well." She glanced back into the safety of her home.

"No."

His short, sharp tone left no room for argument so Amanda followed the pair to their car. Her legs became rigid, and she had to use all her willpower to force herself to move. Once huddled in the backseat, dizziness crept in, her mind too preoccupied with keeping herself conscious to wonder what was happening. Passers-by had stopped to look, but she ignored their inquisitive stares.

At the station, she was ushered into a small room where she waited to discover what was going on. Across from her sat the two officers who had collected her: a petite blonde woman with black-framed glasses, and a skinny older man with tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose. Amanda gripped hold of the metal table for support, but the legs weren't straight and the table wobbled, making her even more unsteady.

Finally, the policeman broke the silence. "I take it you're aware there was a fire at the old bookstore last night?" He paused briefly but not long enough for her to comment. "Well, it was arson."

Amanda's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. "What?

"Arson. Someone started it deliberately," the woman cut in.

"Oh my god. But why? Who?" The room spun as Amanda gripped the table tighter.

"We're hoping you can tell us," the small woman said gently, pushing her glasses up her nose.

Amanda sat up straighter. "I... um... what? What do you mean?"

"Did you start the fire, Ms Wright?"