Mom stands, her face hovering over mine. I pinch my eyes closed and cry out as something scrapes the fried walls of my vaginal opening.
“Sweetheart, Jayce is dead. He died in the fire. I’m sorry.” Her voice carries through the noise, the screams, the shrills of fiery heartache that jolts through every ounce of my body and soul.
“What?” My head bobbles when I lift it, trying to look at her lips, wondering if the words that just spilled through them were my mind betraying me.
Delirium and a violent tremor envelop my body; the weight of what’s happened to me, what’s still happening to me, is too much—a loss like no other.
My bladder releases, soaking the mattress beneath me. The doctor’s last words float through the air before darkness pulls me into the abyss.
“Jesus Christ.”
Chapter Nine
Unanswered Questions
After spending a few days in the hospital, the doctors released me a day early to attend Jayce’s funeral service. The police, my parents, and even Jayce’s parents keep hounding me with questions I can’t answer—won’t answer. I kept telling them I wasn’t there. I don’t know how the fire started, and I don’t know how all these burns got on my body.
No matter how vehemently I deny knowing anything and insist that the last time I saw him was on my front porch, they don’t believe me for obvious reasons.
How could I tell them the truth? No one would believe me anyway, so I deny anything and everything.
Maureen and Jayce’s parents huddle together in the pew, their bloodshot and suspicious eyes drifting across the aisle to mine and back to the casket. They blame me. I know it. I’m linked to both of their children’s deaths.
My mom pulls me against her side. “Ignore them.”
She knows they blame me, too. Both my parents do. They came to our house separately, but for the same reason: they wanted answers.
Why am I still alive, and their child is dead? What am I not saying? She knows something. Why won’t she tell us what really happened? Let us talk to her; we’ll get her to speak.
It’s as though my guilt radiates from my body and sets off their parental intuition radar.
I close my eyes and wipe the tears from my cheeks. Jayce wasn’t a bad person, and he certainly didn’t deserve to die, no matter how shitty of a boyfriend he was.
Mastyx did this. He knew that Jayce would keep coming back. He’s always had a persistent and persuasive way about him. The official cause of the fire was a candle left unattended on a coffee table, but I know better. Mastyx probably used the flame of that candle to gain entry into Jayce’s home.
The officiant concludes his prayer and directs everyone’s attention to the closed casket. “If anyone would like to come up and say their goodbyes that aren’t going to the cemetery, please do so now.” He steps away and takes a seat in the front row.
No one moves. It’s like everyone was waiting for someone else to go up and say goodbye. It’s not like you can touch him for the last time or put any memorabilia in his casket. His body was burned beyond recognition, and they had to use dental records to identify him.
I peer over my shoulder and across the aisle. Everyone stares in my direction, wondering if I’ll make the first move. “Fuck this,” I murmur and stand, my leg shaking, still weak from the accident and Mastyx.
My mom grabs my wrist. “Tessa, maybe you shouldn’t.”
I curl my fingers around hers. “It’s what they want.” I scan the crowd. “They want to see how I react, if I cry, if I am even grieving for him. I’ll give them what they want if it will bring them closure.” I shimmy past my dad and limp toward the casket, my eyes having a hard time not focusing on the candles burning at the top of tall candlesticks placed at the head and foot of Jayce’s navy-blue casket. I kneel on a small, padded stool in front of it and run my fingers over the gold trim. “Hi,” I say just above a whisper.
The candle flame rises to my left, lighting up my face. I shift away from it, knowing it’s Mastyx reminding me that he can see and hear me through the flames. I swallow hard and clear my mind.
Choose your words wisely, Contessa, I think to myself.
The flame lowers to its original height, and I mutter the only thing I can think to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” A man’s staggering voice comes from behind me. I peer over my shoulder as Jayce’s dad rises from the pew and stalks closer. “What are you sorry for, Contessa Salavatori? Did you kill my son?”
I scan the room behind him. Everyone is staring at me.
Everyone.
He steps within a few feet, and my body trembles. In the background, my dad wedges himself between people, trying to make his way to the aisle.
