My mind scrambled to catch up. She looked normal. Clean, brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Properly fitting clothes, no tears or stains. This wasn't the broken woman I'd constructed in my mind from those desperate letters.
“Lauren?” The name felt strange in my mouth, like speaking to a ghost.
A smile unfurled across her face—not warm or pleased, but entertained, like I was a particularly amusing puzzle she'd solved.
“I was worried,” she said, examining her nails absently. “Thought maybe I'd hit you too hard. Would've been inconvenient if you'd died before we had our little chat.”
She walked back to the crate, picked up the gas can with casual ease, and unscrewed the cap. The chemical smell intensified, and my eyes watered.
“Lauren.” My voice cracked, the sound bouncing off the walls.
She tilted the can, and liquid sloshed onto the concrete floor between us. A puddle formed, spreading slowly toward my chair.
“Stop!” The word ripped out of me.
She paused, the can still tilted. “Why? You wanted the truth, didn't you? That's why you kept digging, why you read my journal, broke into my house, and got your hands on the police report.” She poured more gas around me. “Well, here we are. Truth time.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I thought…” I shook my head, making me dizzy. “The entries. You sounded like you were…”
She laughed, not unkindly, setting the can down with a hollow thunk. “Oh, that damn journal.” She took a step closer, her heels clicking against the floor. “I didn't even know I'd left it until it was too late to go back.”
The casualness of her tone made my skin crawl. “I don't understand…”
Lauren's smile turned wry. “I meant to burn that damn journal, actually. I was a different woman back when I wrote it.”
She crouched, and my heart thudded in my chest.
“So it wasn't a call for help?” I asked, my eyes locked on her hand.
“I mean, at the time, it was, I guess. I needed to get it out somehow. That was the only outlet I had. But I left it,” she repeated, her voice sharpening. She stood, wiping her hand on her pants. “And I prayed no one would ever be stupid enough to go looking.”
“I thought you were a victim.” The words were heavier than I expected.
She nodded like she'd been waiting for them.
“I was a victim. Iama victim, but not from the neat, simple version people like to hand out.” She folded her hands. “My life wasn't clean. It was messy. Dangerous. And sometimes, messy requires a messy answer. Hence this.” She gestured around us. “Can't leave loose ends this time.”
I searched her face for the woman from the journal—the mother who wanted to protect her child. Instead, I found a practiced storyteller. The bulb overhead buzzed then steadied.
“Your son…he died.”
“Yes.” Her voice didn't change. “He did.”
“You said you were trying to leave, to protect him.”
“I said a lot of things when I was scared.” She folded her fingers, glancing down at her hands as if tracing a memory. Then, she picked up the box of matches, shaking it.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “What are you doing?”
“You talk, I light. Pretty simple, actually.”
“What changed?” My voice wavered, attempting to stall as long as I could. “You loved him. You wanted to save him.”
“Everything.”
“Your husband. He found the photo.”
“Yes.” She pulled out a single match, holding it between her fingers like a cigarette.
