I stare into nothingness. There’s nothing left of me. Nothing but pain and suffering.
My heart is empty, my mind full. I feel as though I’m drifting out of this world, like my body doesn’t belong to me. As if I’m not really here.
Nothing prepares a person for the day their last parent dies. There are no words to explain the anguish of losing both of them too soon.
An unbridled howl escapes my mouth, but it pales in comparison to the noise inside my head.
My body wants, no begs me, to cry … but I can’t. I’m shaking violently, unable to set aside the broiling rage igniting the flames inside my heart.
No matter how hard I try, the tears to quench the heat refuse to roll down my cheeks.
My papa always said never to cry for the dead.
He said a lot of things.
Now I’ll never hear him say them again.
I didn’t think I’d ever miss him scolding me, but now I do.
Fuck, how badly I wanted him to be here when I came into the shop, so he could berate me for disappearing on him, for hurting Derek, for ruining my grades, for hanging out with Dixie.
For … anything.
I’d trade the world to hear him speak one last time.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
Someone took that opportunity away from me.
I slowly get back up on my feet and take in the carnage in front of me. The hole in his body looks like the size of a shotgun. Nothing about this is natural.
He was shot in cold blood. Murdered in his own home.
I ball my fists. How dare they? How dare they come into my house and kill my only fucking family as if he means nothing?
A part of me wants to scream and let the world know I will kill the son of a bitch responsible. That’s when I notice something shiny lying on the counter next to the cash register.
A silver Zippo lighter. Just like mine.
My throat clamps up.
I can’t breathe.
I feel violently ill.
I immediately run into the bathroom at the far end of the shop and throw up in the toilet. After flushing, I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and march back into the shop. There’s a small note on the counter next to the Zippo. With trembling hands, I pick it up and read the text.
You deserved this.
Ben & Danny
The note crumples in my fist.
I’m tempted to light it on fire along with them, but that wouldn’t be a smart move. No, I’ll keep this safely tucked in my back pocket.
Still, I can’t believe they did this. They killed my fucking papa.
All because of that goddamn fire at the farmhouse. The fire I started … the fire the Burrells had to douse … and then blamed my papa for.
Taking one look at his body makes my mouth dry and my eyes watery, but I refuse to shed the tears.
He deserved better than that.
He deserved a nicer death.
He deserved a better me.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
That he was murdered.
It’s all my fault.
From the corner of my eye, I spot something glisten underneath his fingers that he kept tightly pressed together.
I reach out and open his hand. He’s holding the pendant he gave me.
The one I threw back at him as if it meant nothing to me.
I wish I had never said those ugly things to him.
But wishes can’t take back what’s been done. Wishes don’t bring back the dead.
Nothing will.
But there is one thing I can do.
One dark thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do again.
But promises mean nothing when I’ve lost the one person who kept me grounded. Who kept me from going off the rails.
I pick up the Zippo and glare at it. It’s stained with dark soil and soot.
They’ll pay for this.
With blood.
Chapter Thirty
Brandon
Past
November 9th
The first thing I did was call my uncle Josiah.
He’s the only one I trust.
The only family I have left.
When I told him Papa was dead, he didn’t believe me at first. I had to yell through the phone multiple times for him to finally come to his senses. He sounded just as dazed as I was when I found him there lying in a puddle of his own blood.
Uncle Josiah said he’d come right away, but I told him I was going back to the motel. I didn’t explain but told him where the motel was and what room he could find me in. Then I hung up.
Afterward, I called 911 using Papa’s cell phone and told them I found a dead body. I didn’t say my name because I didn’t want them to ask questions. I knew they were already looking for me to bring me in for questioning, considering what I did to Derek.
After I’m finish the call, I leave the premises. I don’t stick around near the shop. It’s hard to leave my papa there all alone, but I don’t want to get caught near his dead body either. It’s too much of a risk.
With a pang in my stomach, I hop into my truck and drive off.
I can’t get the image of my papa out of my mind.
How he laid there with his eyes wide open, pupils dilated, the agony marred onto his face.
The bloody wounds on his arms and the bruises all over his body.
That gaping hole in his stomach.
It’s too much to take. Too many vivid images in my head spiraling out of control.
I’m never going back there again. Ever.
That’s a promise I’m making to myself right now.
I don’t need a reminder of the horrible misery that happened there. And I don’t need a reminder of how much it’s my fault.
Because it is … completely … my fault.
My papa died because of me.
Because I dropped my lighter at that goddamn farmhouse at the Burrell’s. Because I set fire to their precious plants, and they decided to get revenge by murdering the only person who mattered to me.
My papa is gone because I made the foolish mistake of actually going to see Dixie instead of running off like I was supposed to.
Fucking stupid mistakes are all I ever make.
I bang my hands against the steering wheel, yelling, “FUCK!” multiple times.
It doesn’t lessen the pain.
The only one thing that does is the pendant hanging around my neck. It’s the only tangible memory I have left of him and my ma.