Lost. Beyond his reach.
Colin stopped reaching. Stopped laughing. He wore guilt like a second skin, convinced he’d lit the fuse, that he hadn’t done enough, that her death and Hannibal’s lived on his shoulders, that the destruction of their home washisfault.
And now this house—theirhouse—stood empty. Waiting.
Not for furniture. Not for paint. Not for boards and bricks and tiles.
Forhim.
Joshua pressed his forehead to the beam, the ache in his chest as raw as the day they carried Sarah’s body away.
They had all come—everyone of them. David, with his quiet strength, showed up with blueprints and bottles of brandy, pretending not to notice when Joshua cried over samples of tile. Nate, gentle and perceptive, organizing meals and hovering in the background, always knowing when to speak and when not to. Trent and Jeff arrived in work clothes, offering hands and hammers. Trent made dozens of trips in his van, carrying undamaged items to their storage unit. Even Lenny had come by unexpectedly, a quiet presence who sat with Joshua in the half-gutted living room, one hand on his shoulder—saying nothing while tears slid down his cheeks.
And, of course, their mothers came—Bracha, brisk and efficient, quick to set boundaries and quietly wipe tears, and Brianna, gentle and steady, always ready with a soft word or a touch. They sorted through boxes of smoke-damaged memories, wiped down kitchen utensils, and divided the salvageable from the ruined. It was Bracha who insisted on making an insurance list: “because you’ll forget things you lost, and the bastards will underpay you, trust me.” Brianna and Bracha set up a small ‘comfort zone’ in the basement that had become Colin and Joshua’s home, hanging beloved photos that had survived and lining up their favorite mugs, determined to create a bit of solace and safety in this borrowed space.
Abel came too, joining Joshua in the yard, raking up blackened leaves and shattered pieces of Joshua’s flower pots, pausing now and then to salvage a rock or a twisted, half-burned garden gnome. Abel offered no platitudes, just took the rake from Joshua when his hands shook too hard to hold it, and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders, murmuring words only a brother could speak.
They asked after Colin, of course. Each one, in their way. But no one pushed. No one judged. They knew.
In the end, the only one who could reach him was his mother.
Brianna led her son to David’s backyard and the old picnic table, the evening light pooling quietly around them as they sat together. She didn’t speak—not at first. She simply covered Colin’s hand where it lay clenched on the scarred wood. Joshua watched from the kitchen window. He saw Brianna lean in, murmuring softly to her son, her fingers gently brushing through Colin’s hair.
He saw Colin’s head drop to his arms, shoulders shaking as he surrendered to his pain. Brianna’s hand never left her son’s hair as the tears came—his grief and anguish finally allowed to flow–safe beneath his mother’s touch.
Joshua lowered his head, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, overwhelmed by a blend of gratitude and dark despair.
Colin had tried to be there—more than once. He had driven down West River Road and parked a block away, hands frozen on the wheel. Joshua saw the tracks in the gravel. Felt the air shift, like a held breath. But Colin couldn’t come in.
The house was weighed down with memories, filled with fire and the ghost of a scream.
Now,Joshua stood in the doorway of the half-finished kitchen, watching Nate unpack floor tiles beside David. Laughter flickered at the edges of the room, soft and strained.
He didn’t move.
Nate noticed. He always did. He came over quietly, brushing plaster dust from his hands.
“You good?” he asked.
Joshua gave a slight shrug, eyes still fixed on the doorway. “You all keep showing up,” he murmured. “Coming back. Staying. You don’t give up.”
Nate was quiet for a moment. Then: “Neither does he, Josh.”
Josh’s breath caught, a sob rising too fast to swallow.
“But walking through that door? It’s too much for him right now. Too close. Too raw.”
Joshua turned, stepping into the living room, and Nate followed, his hand steady on Joshua’s shoulder.
“He hasn’t given up, Josh. He’s out there—wounded, bleeding—but still fierce in his love for you. He needs this house, but he’s too filled with pain to let it touch him, to letanythingtouch him. You know him, Josh. He won’t stop loving, eventhough he’s struggling, even though he’s battered and broken inside. He won’t stop loving you.”
And I won’t stop loving him,” Joshua whispered. “Not now. Not ever.” He placed a hand on the new fireplace and leaned against it, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Come home, love. Just… please, come home to me.”
Across townat the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office, Colin sat hunched over a case file, staring at words, times, dates, places, names—but none of it registered. He searched himself for the passion he once had for this work, for the pursuit of justice. But all he found was a bitter, hollow shell.
There is no justice,he thought.It’s all a lie. A farce. Just a play we act out, and no one even cares about the script.
The longing for what he’d lost burned like a raw, open wound. But worse—far worse—was what had crept in to fill that empty space. The anger. Fierce. Constant. Terrible. It had become his solace, his armor, his refuge.
