2

"Atella," I state my surname into my work provided phone, taking several steps away from the body in front of me. The voice on the receiving end crackles into my ear and I listen for several moments, before replying, "we'll be right there."

"Who was that?" I glance up at the officer who'd spoken: Lee Castro.

I shove the phone into the back pocket of my jeans. "Cameron," I tell Lee, naming the man in charge of the branch of the Sydney Police Department that we waste our lives slaving away for. "Fire down near the Jordan River." I see Lee's eyebrows climb several centimetres upwards. "Wants you to go down there."

Lee hands the file he'd been mulling over to the forensics analyst still bent over the body. "And you?"

I lift one shoulder before letting it drop again. "May as well come with," I answer, digging my hands into the pockets of my thin leather jacket.

After all, Lee's my ride.

+++

It's almost too hard to believe that anyone at all inhabits the neighbourhood along the Jordan River. Three houses stand that still have a roof over the structure, and even then, they're next to unliveable.

Flames avariciously lick at the indistinguishable structure, thrashing towards the thickly set cloud of smoke blanketing the sky. Men in soot mantled yellow ensembles surround the blaze, hoses poised on the ground circling the place.

"House is so small, kind of looks like a huge bonfire," Lee comments, slamming his car door shut.

I hum in agreement, stepping out onto the desiccated soil. Grass has become scarce in the previous months since the rain deserted this part of the country, leaving sunburnt land aching for the clouds to burst. As Lee seeks an update on the fire, I allow my eyes to skirt my surrounds. The trees stand tall and with few leaves varnishing their branches. The vegetation

that remains are not the bottle green that you'd colour them if drawing a tree or a shrub on paper. Instead, they are the paper bag brown that you'd find littered amongst a rubbish tip. Arms folded, I lean back against the car bonnet, breathing the smoke laced through the air in shallowly.

"Not much to it," Lee reports as he doubles back around to where I stand. "Fire's been going for 'bout half an hour an' no one's been able to get any closer than that."

My eyes latch onto the shadowy figure of a person before I have a chance to answer Lee. I narrow my gaze as the figure remains still, as if transfixed on the blaze. I briefly nudge Lee, who follows my stare, his body tensing like a dog trained to attack.

"It's a kid," he murmurs, taking a single step forwards as to not scare the newcomer. "I think it's a girl." Lee moves again, more slowly this time.

"Looks like you're stalking her," I comment, the left corner of my lip turning upwards slightly.

That's until the kid begins to run. Not run, sprint. Lee's after her in a split second, but she's faster than anyone I've ever seen. Twice as fast as Lee. Luckily for him, one of the firefighters grabs the kid by the excess material of her hoodie before she can reach the house on her short-lived suicide mission. Regardless of his obvious strength, the girl twists, kicks, and punches at the man holding her down. Lee wraps his arm around the girl's waist, hoisting her up over his shoulder with ease and heading back in my direction.

"Get the hell away from me," I can just make out the desperate plea of the grey-faced kid. Lee sets her down in front of me, handcuffing her skinny wrists in several swift movements. "Please," her voice escapes as a mere croak. "My brother and sister..."

My eyebrows furrow as I stare down at the tear-streaked, small face framed by tangled dirty-blonde strands of hair. Wide eyes—dark brown, almost black—stare back at me, defeat welling in them.

"There were people in there?" I murmur, unfolding my arms.

The girl hangs her head, her waist-length hair falling over her shoulders. She's thin; too thin.

"You live here?" Lee questions, giving her a slight shove.

She turns her dark eyes on him, narrowed and threatening. "I did nothing," she growls, clenching her sharp jaw. "Leave me the fuck alone."

Lee, after recovering from his initial shock at the severity of her tone, matches her stare. "Answer the question."

The kid turns a blackened cheek towards me, spitting into the dirt. "Yeah."

"You been hit?" I speak again, indicating towards her left cheek.

It's clearer now, as she turns her gaze on me; the bruise stretching across her olive skin underneath the thick layer of ash painted across her face, and the blood on her lip—freshly split.

"Please," she whispers, several tears spilling down her cheeks. "I need them to be okay."

My gaze softens as I watch the way her bottom lip trembles, almost unnoticeably, and how her shoulders shake with every shudder that runs through her thin frame. "What's your name?" I gently ask, bending so that my eyes are level with hers.

"Tilley," she stammers out, swallowing hard.

"Tilley," I repeat, straightening once again and placing both hands on her bony shoulders. "I can't guarantee that your brother and sister are going to be okay." I can almost see her hopes crumple to the ground as she's told what she already knows but doesn't want to accept. "They're doing the best they can, I can promise that." Tilley sinks into my chest, burying her face into my shirt. I gently wrap my arms around her tiny frame. "I'm sorry."

+++

"Atella," my partner, detective Spencer Ricci, greets me, assuming a place by my side. "Fill me in?"

"Fire down on Jordan River Road," I reply, my eyes skirting over the file in my hands. "Cause unknown. Witness saw who he assumes was house owner Lennox Kieran leaving the scene."

I hand Ricci the file, and he nods slowly, eyes skimming over everything I'd just relayed. "And who's the girl in your seat that you keep looking at?" his tone was the same as it had been since the beginning of our conversation. "She's a little young, don't you think?"

I roll my eyes, glancing back over at my desk chair. Tilley has her hoodie and some sort of book laid on the desk in front of her, arms folded over her head as if to shield herself from the dull lights illuminating the grey clad precinct.

"Ariella Tilley Kieran," I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away from her trembling figure. "Seventeen, slight criminal record, just lost two of her siblings."

Ricci raises one eyebrow. "Slight criminal record?" He pinpoints part of the file with his index finger. "Says here she's done time for arson, assault and theft. Oh, and been arrested for underage drinking. Twice." He shuts the file, slapping it into my chest. "Why isn't she in holding?"

I shake my head once, tucking the file under my arm. "She didn't start the fire. Question her if you must, but she isn't guilty."

Ricci blinks dramatically, spreading his hands out in front of him as a gesture towards the interview room. "After you, then. I'll get the girl."

I don't move, keeping my eyes trained on Ricci as he nudges Tilley awake, causing her to sit up erratically, dark eyes wide. She casts a dubious stare in my direction before bringing herself to her feet and following Ricci into the corner room. I follow also, unwilling to leave the kid alone with my partner for any length of time.

Tilley sits in the seat across from Ricci, her back rigid and her expression blank. Unlike the outer precinct, the room housing a table and three metal chairs is well lit. Three walls mask the cornered room from the rest of the world. Steely and unpainted, they loom above seated occupants, tacitly compelling them to release inbound secrets.

"So, Ariella," Ricci begins to drawl in his tone reserved for such interrogations. Tilley flinches at the name. "Where were you last night, around eleven pm?"

Tilley places her bony hands on the table in front of her, fingering one of the two bracelets that wrap around her left wrist.

Through squinted eyes I can barely make out what looks like numbers engraved into the metal band in her fingers.

"I was running," she finally speaks, her voice still hoarse as it was when we'd found her. "And it's Tilley."

"Running," Ricci repeats, almost vexingly. "From what?"

Tilley holds his gaze. "I run every night. I like to stay fit."

Ricci's eyebrows climb several centimetres up his wrinkled forehead. "I see. Why at night?"

Tilley swallows. "Because I know dad won't disturb Ty and Lyss once he locks the door, so I can do my own thing for a while."

I frown, assuming the seat beside Ricci. "What door?"

Tilley sighs almost inaudibly. "His shed that he built. He locks it most nights after eleven when he's-" she stops abruptly, her eyes flickering away from us for a split second.

"Drunk?" Ricci attempts to fill in for her, and her head tilts slightly to one side.

"Yes," she affirms quickly. Too quickly.

Ricci glances at me momentarily, and I know that he also suspects that that wasn't what she was trying to say.

I lean forwards slowly, my eyes connecting with Tilley's. "Did he do that to your face, Tilley?"

Tilley flinches so marginally that I almost miss it. "No," she tells me after a moment, her voice even. "He didn't."

Ricci lets out a short sigh, pressing his lips into a thin line, eyes once again skimming over the information already collected on the incident. "Your neighbour made a statement claiming that he saw you run past around the same time we believe that the fire began. Why then?"

Tilley leans forwards on the table just as I had moments ago. "If I were going to set fire to that damn house, I'd have made sure Tyler and Alyssa were a long way away, and dad was locked in his fucking shed."

Ricci sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, releasing it as he falls back in his seat.

"She has a point," I murmur, my eyes on the kid in front of me.

She stares back unfalteringly, the white light of the interview room making her eyes appear even darker than before. "I've spent most of my life protecting Tyler and Alyssa."

"And maybe you were tired of that responsibility?"

Tilley's eyes narrow at Ricci. "Am I being detained here?"

"No, but–"

"Then fuck it," she mutters, bringing herself to her feet. "I'm out."

She moves swiftly and calmly, disappearing through the doors.

"You didn't lock it?" Ricci demands, his chair scraping across the metal floor as he stands also.

I don't answer, jumping up and heading after Tilley. My sweeping gaze catches her passing the unmanned front desk, and I jog slightly to catch up with her.

"Why do you go by Tilley?" I ask, falling into stride beside her as she exits the building.

Tilley halts, turning to face me. "Why?" she demands weakly.

I purse my lips, shrugging. "Icebreaker."

Tilley releases a small sigh, moving to the brick wall beside the automatic sliding doors. "Do you really care or are you

just trying to get some other shit out of me?"

I drop my affable expression, glancing down at the pavement. "You're right," I tell her, nodding twice as I bring my eyes back to meet hers. "I do have another question. But I am genuinely curious about your name."

Those deep brown eyes search mine. They lack the defiance they held whilst being questioned by Ricci. Instead, they carry a weariness that could only have been brought on by years of sorrow. Through them, it's as if her soul stares back, empty and broken. "My mum called me by my real name. My brother and my dad too, sometimes. No one else."

I nod slowly. "Your mum," I begin gently, my forehead creasing slightly. "Where is she?"

Tilley leans back against the bricks, propping a worn black canvas shoe up on the wall. "Dead."

I press my lips into a thin line, briefly looking the kid up and down. I can see her more clearly now in the floodlights bordering the roof. Dirty blonde, ash-stricken hair falls in tangles over her shoulders and ash-stained, once white singlet. Dark grey track pants, ripped in several places, baggily hide her legs from view. Her hollowed in cheeks are still grey from the ash, but I now have a clear view of the bruises across her left cheekbone, and the smaller discoloured patches across her sharp little jaw. Her busted lip trickles fresh blood over her mouth and above the dried blood down her chin. I dig my hand into my pocket, slipping out a cigarette and my lighter.

Tilley's eyes follow my every move. "Can I have one?"

I let out a short laugh, bringing the cigarette to my lips. I inhale, blinking slowly. I remove my hand from my mouth, exhaling once again. "You smoke?"

"Not really," Tilley admits, letting her shoulders rise slowly and then fall again.

I shake my head, chuckling quietly as I slide out another cigarette from my pocket. "Here." I hand her the tobacco filled tube. "Hold it to your mouth."

She gives me a look. "I know how to hold a fucking drag."

I hold my hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright." I chuck the lighter at her and she simply plucks it out of the air.

"Light her up then."

Tilley's thumb flicks and the flame sparks to life, shielded by her skeletal hands. She lights the cigarette, throwing the lighter back at me whilst breathing in the smoke.

I watch as she lets it escape after a moment as if she were a 'pack a day' smoker. "You sure you don't smoke?"

She drops the hand that holds the cigarette, her eyes glued to the embers. "I guess," she murmurs, rubbing her other hand over her eyes. Through a yawn she tells me, "smoke weed every now and again."

"You know I'm a cop?"

She glances sleepily through long, dark eyelashes at me. "Had a little baggie back home," she smirks, bringing the cigarette back to her lips. "Shame about the fire."

I laugh, shaking my head once again at her. "Where you headed?"

Tilley's face falls at the question and she doesn't bother to hide it this time as she once again allows smoke to filter through her trachea. "Dunno. Figured I'd head down the road, try find someone to stay with," her tone is bleak; hopeless, even.

"I've got a spare room back at my place," I force myself to say before I change my mind. Tilley looks up, eyes wide. "You can crash there if you'd like."

Tilley's eyebrows furrow as she tilts her head to one side. "Is that even legal?"

"Don't give a shit," I scoff, rolling the cigarette between my fingers. "Besides, it's not like anyone has to find out."

Tilley's eyes are calculating as she stares at me, her bottom lip trapped beneath her teeth. Finally, she pushes herself off the wall, butting out the cigarette on the brick. She gives a slight nod in accession. "What's your name?"

I'm almost surprised she cares at all. "Mateo."

Then again, I am taking her home.