One Small Mistake(114)

‘Don’t you—’ He darts for me again, sliding in the paraffin.

I swing around the island, out of reach. He talked about me being unhinged, deranged; I didn’t know the girl in his defence story. I do now. She is wild and reckless, driven mad by grief. She is ready for this to be over.

Jack’s expression pendulum-swings from rage to terror. Fuck you, I think, now you know how it feels. For the first time in our entire relationship, in these thorny, dark months, I have the power and I am drunk on it. It will cost me my life. But the thrill, the glory, it’s worth the price.

‘Don’t,’ he growls.

I smile back. Hold out the lighter. Gather all the memories of my family, my greatest hits, and wrap them around me like a silk blanket. They’ll burn with me.

Jack lunges across the island.

The lighter slips from my fingers. He seizes the front of my dress and jerks me to him. The paraffin-soaked cookbooks go up in flames. A line of fire zips across the floor and sets the cupboards ablaze, the ceiling.

Jack is sprawled out across the marble counter. I try to pull away but his hand closes around my throat and I can’t move. Can’t breathe. He is screaming at me. I see flames in his eyes, feel them at my back. Hot. Too hot to bear. Jack squeezes hard.

Desperate, I swing the knife.

I blink. And blink again.

I expected Jack’s body to put up a fight, for him to be made up of more than just skin and tissue. Yet the blade plunged into his neck with ease, buried to the hilt. He lets go of my throat and his hand closes around mine. Around the handle of the knife. We are suspended here. He is stunned, as disbelieving as me that this is happening.

That I did it.

His hand falls.

I let go of the knife.

He slides off the counter and staggers back, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. Out of view.

I breathe in fire and smoke.

I cannot believe …

I cannot believe what I have done.

I stumble around the island.

He is on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His gaze drifts to mine. I crash to my knees beside him. His mouth opens; he gurgles. Blood bubbles at the back of his throat and bursts on his lips.

The man who manipulated and abused and murdered slips away and is replaced by the little boy who came to me over and over, needing to be loved, who kissed me on the windowsill of his old room, who drew sketches of all the places we’d live when we grew up.

‘Jack,’ I gulp. ‘Jack.’

He lifts a hand to my hair. A featherlight touch. I lace my fingers through his. Jack’s skin is warm and familiar. His mouth opens but his words are lost.

‘Don’t leave me,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—’

His eyes roll back.

And then he is gone.

He is gone.

And I will never know if he heard me.

I sit with my grief and my love and my hate for only a second before carefully, reluctantly, lowering his hand to his chest.

Then I am coughing, choking on the smoke which fills the kitchen. I need to get out. Escape. I push to my feet and stagger down the hall. Dark grey clouds of smoke roll down the stairs and cling to the foyer ceiling. I look to the locked front door.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. I run to Ada and riffle through her pockets until I find the key she used to get in, then I race back to the door. My hands are slick with blood and fuel; it takes two tries before I manage to unlock it and throw it open.

Glancing back into the house, the kitchen glows, completely engulfed. My gaze darts to Ada. I can’t leave her. Can’t let her burn. Covering my mouth and nose with my hands, I run to her. She’s light but I am weak from exhaustion. I drag her. It takes longer than it should, and I battle to keep moving. Flames lick out of the kitchen and streak across the wooden floor towards us. I heave and heave until we are spat out into the night. Into the freezing January air.

On the cold ground, I sit and hold my sister. Everything is in vivid colour: Ada’s milk-white skin, the ruby bloom of her blood, the silver glow of the moon in the inky sky, the orange flames which dance in windows, the black smoke billowing out the open front door, the flash of red and blue lights cresting the hill.

I do not move. I sit and I watch.

I watch Wisteria Cottage burn.





After





Chapter Fifty-Three


760 Days After


Elodie Fray

Tippies is my favourite bookshop in Crosshaven. It’s floor-to-ceiling bookshelves which climb so high up there are two rolling ladders that always make me think of that scene in Beauty and the Beast. It has character, style. I love the hanging plants, the huge Persian rug and the gorgeous Georgian fireplace. Love even more the smell of coffee and paper and learning. I do not love the anxiety that puffs and swells at the bottom of me like rotting fruit. I’ve been signing books for nearly an hour, and while most people are overwhelmingly friendly, I do not forget the death threats, the hate mail and the backlash that followed after Wisteria. Not everyone was pleased I survived Jack Westwood. It took a lot of convincing for me to attend tonight. To make my first and last public appearance since Wisteria. It is a ticketed event. The press I’ve continued to avoid are outside, huddled against the shuttered windows. I try not to think about them because when I do, I feel like a rabbit being circled by wolves.

Despite the queue that loops around the shop, we haven’t sold many copies this evening; most people here tonight already have theirs. Well-loved copies with creased spines and dog-eared pages marking their favourite parts. The book has only been out for a month, but it’s already a best-seller. Marketing came up with the brilliant, morbid idea to publish it on August 16th to mark the two-year anniversary of my disappearance. The media went mad for it and sales skyrocketed overnight.