“Once I had a halo, but then it caught on fire. Once I knew a good man, but he turned into a liar.” –Shinedown, Atmosphere

The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, enough to make me cough and my eyes to water and burn.

My skin prickled from the heat as I watched the orange flames flicker to the ceiling, demolishing everything in its path; taking down metal and paper and plastic. It smelled of smoke and burning wood and singed hair.

The box of matches in my hand felt like a heavy lead weight, and I could hear a siren in the distance.

Get out, Camila, my inner voice told me. Get out now.

Everything moved in rapid speed. I didn’t look back; I ignored the smell of smoke, the sirens of the fire engine, and the way the pavement was becoming crowded with civilians and horrified people.

It wouldn’t be days until I heard the full story. It would take approximately four and a half days for the wreckage to be cleared enough.

Four dead. A whole, historical landmark ruined, reduced to ash and rubble at the hand of a relentless fire. The police (or, what was left of it, at least) believed it to be suspicious.

No one ever knew.

And no one ever found out.

~          *          ~

I woke up with a jolt at exactly six the next morning to the incessant chirping of my alarm. I sighed and quickly turned it off, before lying back on the bed and trying to blink the nightmare from my mind.

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, trying to form a coherent thought that was currently shrouded in a haze of sleep.

I yawned and stood up; knowing lying there any longer would cause me to lull back into a long sleep. I stood up and dressed quickly, before making my way downstairs and towards the kitchen in search of breakfast.

My parents were already there when I arrived, my mother pouring herself a cup of coffee and my father reading the newspaper with a surprising amount of intensity.

“Morning,” I greeted, smoothing my hair as I searched through the fridge for some pineapple juice.

“Morning, honey,” my father said, without looking over the top of his paper.

I leaned against the bench as I filled my juice up. “Any interesting new things happening in Leighton Fields?” I asked. I expected the normal kind of news we received; news of cotillions and debutante balls and something else equally as shallow.

“Yes, actually,” my father said, taking a long drink of his tea. “The police are officially back on their feet after the station burned down, and they’ve just reopened the case. They’re going to find the person who lit the fire.”

The news was almost enough to make me do a spit-take. It had been four years ago that the police station had burned down. It had taken them four years to rebuild themselves and start over again.

And now they were on the hunt for the person that caused the problem in the first place.

“Isn’t that fantastic?” my father asked jovially, as if they had suddenly announced the world would never hit another recession, or that mullets were finally coming back into style.

I smiled and nodded, swallowing some of the juice. “Yeah, that’s really great, Dad.”

“Well, I hope they find the person who did it,” my mother quipped, examining her polished nails as she replaced the pot back on the stove. “The person deserves to pay for what they did. They killed four people. They’re a murderer.”

Yes, I thought grimly, turning away to hide the tears burning my eyes. I guess I am.

~          *          ~

I’m not going to try to keep it a secret.

Well, from the inhabitants of Leighton Fields, yes, I’ll do everything to make sure no one ever finds out about what I did four years ago.

But I’m not going to keep it secret from you, maybe one of the only people who deserves to know.

I’m not going to make it a mystery, either. I won’t hide it until the very end, and I know I might as well come clean, since I’ll never change history, and when I look back into the past, nothing’s ever going to be different.

Four years ago, I burned down the police station.

Four years ago, I killed four people.

I want you to know it wasn’t like that. I’m not a murderer. I didn’t light that fire with the express intention of killing those people. I'm not an arsonist, a pyromaniac, or any kind of psychopath.

It was for a favor, which seems to be the source of most—if not all—of my problems. I do a favor for someone, it backfires, and I have to save my skin time and time again.

But here’s what happened, with no lies, no embellishments; only the cold, hard truth:

There was a boy I knew, who since has graduated from Leighton Fields and moved to Michigan somewhere. Back when I was fourteen, he was sixteen, and let’s just say he had a large addiction to some very unsavory substances.

He got caught one day with a few ounces of cocaine on him, and he used his one phone call to call me.

He needed my help, and the job was simple.

Cause a distraction.

Not a big one, just one big enough for them to let him go and forget that they were ever on his trail.

It wasn’t meant to be a big deal. How hard could it be, right?

I was a smart kid. I knew that calling the police with some kind of fake call would be pointless; they’d keep him there while they dealt with it. And there weren’t very many options on what to do. How do you stage a jailbreak without, you know, actually breaking someone out of jail?

So I snuck in and lit one of the offices on fire. It was only meant to be a fire big enough to need to let prisoners go, but small enough not to cause any lasting damage. I didn’t want some kind of lawsuit on my hands, and it seemed like the most viable option; so I took it.

But it spread so quickly—quicker than I could control it. It got out of control, and soon enough there were fire alarms and sirens and yelling and smoke and flames and heat and screams. They released all prisoners and evacuated the premises, and I thought it was over.

Until the news came out that four officers hadn’t gotten out in time.

I’d killed four people in that fire.

It’s not an easy thing to live with. It damn near destroyed me, actually. It rode my conscience at all times; I suffered anxiety, depression, and nightmares…. It haunted me. I couldn’t believe that I had so much blood on my hands at such a young age. One small favor had turned me into a murderer… or was I a serial killer now?

A small, fragile, fourteen-year-old ninth grader had started the fire that took away a husband, a loving father… Now there were children out there without a father, widowed women and men, all because of me.

I know I’m not a good person. I never was; and probably never will be.

I’m not going to ask for your understanding, and I won’t beg for forgiveness, because I don’t want it. It’s much easier to live with the guilt that slowly festers inside of you like a parasite, then to be told that it’s okay you killed those people, it was an accident, and you didn’t mean it.

I’m not going to ask for amnesty, because I don’t deserve it.

I lit the match, I set the place on fire, and it was my fault that those people died, and I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.

I know that the best thing to do would be to own up to what I did and take the punishment like an adult; no matter what the punishment may be.

But I also knew that I could never do that; for all of my strong facades, I was a coward at heart, and I could never bear the looks of pity and blame people would throw my way if they knew the truth about me.

If I couldn’t forgive myself for what happened, how could I expect others to forgive me for it?

I was already a hated girl in this town, because I knew too much, but this would just solidify what everybody always knew about me: I was a disgusting, horrible human being.

As I walked into school the next morning, it almost seemed like everyone in the whole school was raving about it. Two cheerleaders by the lockers were excitedly whispering to one another, and a few football guys were loudly discussing who could have burned down the station. None of them knew. How could they? If there was one thing I knew, it was how to stay under the radar and keep nasty secrets exactly that. Secret.

By the time I’d waded through the mêlée and found my locker, Perrie was already waiting there, a cup of coffee in her hand. “Did you hear the news?” she asked excitedly.

“You mean the news literally everyone here is talking about?” I replied, gesturing to the bumbling teenagers surrounding the confined halls. “Yeah, I heard.”

“I think it’s really great they’re reopening the case. I’m glad they’re getting the station back together after what happened. But, God, it’s so exciting! We have a real life arson on our hands. How scandalous!”

“Four people are dead, Per,” I reminded her tiredly, leaning against the locker. “That’s not really a matter to get excited about.”

She pouted, as if I’d told her I was getting her a puppy and then had ripped it away from her. “I thought this would be right up your alley. Murder, arson… It’s a modern-day Camila Stryker mystery!”

And it’s true. If I hadn’t been directly linked to the crime at the police station, I probably would have been jumping for joy even more than Perrie. But the fact of the matter was that now my hide was on the line, and I was currently struggling to see the upside of this predicament.

“All I’m saying is that this isn’t some work of fiction,” I told her, shrugging as if this affected me in no way. “Real people were killed.”

“I know,” she replied. “Jeremy’s uncle was one of them.”

            I felt my stomach take a tumultuous dip, threatening to make me throw up the strawberry smoothie I’d had earlier this morning. So I’d killed the mayor’s brother? Well, that was just freaking lovely.

“How do you know that?” I replied, frowning.

            She bit her lip and shrugged, her eyes flickering around nervously. Mine narrowed at her nervous sight. “We met up today to work on that project. I mentioned the fire, he mentioned his dad’s brother.”

“You two seem awful chummy…” I said begrudgingly.

She sighed and moved off the locker. “Don’t make a big deal out of this, Cam. We’re just friends.”

“I thought you were project partners. I didn’t realize friends was part of the equation.”

“I’m serious, Camila. Don’t make this into a big deal. It’s nothing.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll let it go. Just be careful. He’s a wreck. I don’t want to see your popularity plummet.”

“Not everything’s about popularity, Cam,” she reminded me, before sidling off towards her locker before classes started.

I sighed and watched her figure disappear as she darted through the crowd and towards wherever it was she was heading—maybe her own locker, maybe to class, maybe to see Jeremy. I cringed to think what was even going on there. I didn’t think I really wanted to know.

I turned and opened my locker. I reached out for my Home Ec. book, but stopped suddenly when I noticed something folded neatly on top of the books. I frowned and pulled it off, feeling the sepia paper crinkle beneath my fingertips. I read the headline, and felt my stomach lurch.

Leighton Fields Police Department Back On The Prowl For Arson

But that wasn’t what gave me pause. It wasn’t the title, or the article, or the fact it was today’s paper—the one everyone was gossiping about. What gave me pause was the fact that, on top of the black words, in large, red marker, were five words that had the power to make my heart race and my palms sweat and hot and cold chills to float up and down my spine.

For there, over the article’s words were:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

I looked around quickly, checking to see if anyone had noticed me, or if anyone was acting suspiciously or looking in my direction. But everyone was in their own worlds, consumed by the news and their own lives. No one turned to look at me, and no one seemed any the wiser.

I let out a choked sob and shoved the crumpled paper back into the locker, before slamming it shut behind me without claiming my textbook. I turned around and faced the frigid hallway air, allowing myself to utter the two words I knew with startling clarity.

Somebody knows.

~          *          ~

By lunchtime, I’d calmed down quite a bit since my earlier freak-out.

Whoever this person was that was leaving me notes in my locker with empty threats and cocky taunts, I’d find them. Until then, they hadn’t left any kind of ransom, so I was hoping that meant that they were planning on keeping my secret under lock and key until further notice.

Even so, it could have been a simple prank. Maybe every student in Leighton Fields High had received the same photocopied note. But I highly doubted it, since no one was talking about it, and anyone who was innocent would have no qualms bringing it up.

I made my way across the campus towards the cafeteria, and was stopped suddenly by a hand cinching around my wrist and pulling me backward.

“Camila!”

The voice was breathless, and I turned with upraised eyebrows to see Jeremy Quagmire standing there, his band t-shirt hanging limply off of his lank figure, so thin and small that he looked like he could blow away. Granted, that wasn’t completely true, considering he was still taller than me, with broad shoulders and an angular face, but he gave the impression of a thin boy withering slowly away. His brown hair fell into his muddy eyes, and his mouth twisted as he pulled back his hand, like I was riddled with poison.

“Jeremy,” I said, surprised. Jeremy and I were the kind of people who avoided each other at all costs, unless forced together. Even then, I normally blackmailed my way out of it. I had no interest in spending time with him at all.

“I need to speak with you.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s nice. But I’m busy doing nothing. Maybe you should reschedule for… I don’t know, never, maybe?”

“Very funny,” he said, in the tone of voice that told me I was not funny at all.
“But I’m serious.”

“Oh, so am I,” I told him quickly, forcing a condescending smile. “Like I said, busy doing nothing. So… shoo fly.” I waved him off dismissively and turned to leave, but he only grabbed onto my hand and pulled me back. I turned around angrily. “If you dislocate my shoulder, I’m totally suing you. Or maybe I’ll just sue Daddy Dearest. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind paying. He certainly doesn’t mind paying for all of the floozies he parades around town—”

“This has nothing to do with him, and don’t speak about him like that,” Jeremy warned in a low tone.

“Why not?” I asked, batting my eyelashes innocently. “Have I hit a sore spot? Come on, Jer, it’s not like you didn’t know your daddy was busy having special relations with a few of the girls on his presidential campaign.”

“I’m serious, Camila,” he warned me, his tone holding a scary amount of violence in it.

It ticked something over in my head. I’m hated by many, but there are only a few people at this school who truly despise me.

Jeremy Quagmire was one of them.

“Hey, Jeremy, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a few notes left in my locker, would you?” I asked, in a tone of voice that implied I knew exactly what he was doing.

He rolled his eyes. “Do I look like I care about some stupid love letters you’re getting through the vent of your lockers? I just want to talk.”

I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. “What about?”

He sighed and sifted a hand through his hair, which was scruffily overgrown. “Can you tell Perrie something? I can’t find her, and I have to go now.”

“Are you serious?” I replied. “You pull me over on my way to lunch, stand between me and food, and you only had to ask me that? Chances are she doesn’t want to see you, dude. Get over her.”

“Thanks for your judgment,” he replied cynically. “But I wasn’t asking for it. Can you please just tell her to meet me at the usual spot at six tonight?”

“What’s going on with you and her?” I replied, my eyes narrowing to slits. “And don’t lie and tell me it’s some kind of project. I’m not an idiot.”

“We’re just friends, Camila,” Jeremy replied. “And we don’t need your consent. We’re just hanging out.”

He turned to walk away, obviously feeling that our conversation was finished, but I was far from done. Lunch could wait. This needed to be said now. “You know, Jeremy, she doesn’t even like you,” I informed him, stepping towards him. Silhouetted against the sunlight, he looked slightly vulnerable. “Whatever reason you’re with her, she’s using you for it. It’s not real for her. To her, you’re just a washed-up loser with mountains of daddy issues. I don’t know what you’ve got, but that’s all she sees. Don’t waste your time.”

“You don’t know me, Cam,” Jeremy snapped.

“No, but I know Perrie. I’m her best friend. I know her well enough to know that the only thing she likes about you is your mayor daddy and whatever thing you’ve got that she wants. Don’t waste your time. She’ll break your heart and walk all over it in her big combat boots.”

“Whatever,” he snapped, turning away from me and stalking off towards the big brick buildings.

“You say that now,” I called out after him. “But don’t come crying to me when she breaks your heart and leaves you for dead.”

He said nothing as he walked away, just kept walking with a gait that told me that, despite his frigid front, he had taken to heart my words. Even if Perrie was using him (which I wasn’t one hundred percent sure she was, unfortunately) he was still self-conscious enough to worry that maybe, just maybe, I was right.

Good. Perrie was too good for Jeremy. She needed better than some drug-addicted stoner with an infidel father.

I moved off towards my locker, feeling significantly better about everything, and stopped in front of my locker, quickly dialing in the three-digit combination to pop open my locker.

Next thing I knew my vision was going green and I was being saturated in a thick, sticky substance that clung to every available surface.

Behind me, I heard a few girls squeal and some people let out sounds of mild surprise, as, one second, I was just Camila Stryker opening her locker to retrieve her purse for lunch money, and the next a bucket of green goo was being emptied onto her.

I let out sounds of surprise, causing some of the glop to enter my mouth, and I quickly spit it out as I reached up with hands that trembled with rage, and parted my wet hair from where it fell in a glutinous mess on my face.

There are a few things that might go through a person’s head once they have a bucket of gunk emptied onto their heads. Some might think obscenities and swear to avenge themselves, others may be mortified to the point of terror, and others may just be caught up in the fact that their new shirt was ruined (it was probably that, considering it was Leighton Fields I lived in and all). But surprisingly, none of these thoughts were the first ones to take up residence in my glop-covered head.

No. The first thing I though was:

This is going to be a bitch to wash out of my hair.

After that little pointless thought had ricocheted through my mind, my next thought was rage. Rage so dark my gaze flashed red for a few minutes, and I felt like an ogre as I wiped some of the green, unidentifiable liquid from my face and allowed it to fall to the tiled floor with a satisfying slap.

I turned around and scanned the faces of the other kids in the hallway. The hallway was completely silent, not a single soul talking, as they watched me warily, like I were an animal prone to attack at any moment.

I scanned their faces and took in their features, trying to see if anyone looks less innocently surprised than the others, but everyone was staring with that same dull, open-mouthed stare.

Either the culprit had skipped out before he got to see his work, or they were just a freaking good actor.

Either way, scanning their faces would achieve nothing. This person was clinging to their cover of anonymity until the end.

I planted my hands on my hips and raised an eyebrow, working up the courage to be that same intimidating Camila Stryker that walked the halls everyday.

“Well?” I snapped, cocking an eyebrow. “What are you all staring at? Don’t you have better things to do?”

The moment broke, and everyone quickly scrambled off to lunch or their next period in a loud hubbub of conversation.

I turned around and scanned my locker, knowing that this attack wouldn’t come unaccompanied. There had to be a note hiding unsuspectingly somewhere.

I was right. After I’d reached in and daintily picked up the note that had been left atop my books, I scanned it and crumpled it up in my hands with a dangerous growl. For this person was good. Very good.

And it was really beginning to piss me off.

I threw the note in the trashcan with an easy precision, but even then the words were still burned into my mind like a cattle brand.

NOW GO CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU MADE.