I want a refund. I didn't order this life.
This will change me. There's no way to avoid it. I've taken enough classes to know what happens to a person when their past is ripped away and replaced with one they don't want, filled with people they don't want to know. Although I didn't take SO YOUR REAL DAD IS REALLY A MURDERER 101, I know I'll fight an emotional battle I can't win. No matter what, blood is blood. My father was a twisted killer, and my brother is just as bad.
We step into a clearing, and the sight of the once grand solarium jerks me from my thoughts. It's cracked open like an egg with smoke billowing out the remains of the roof. Twisted metal hangs from the top of the dome, dangling pieces of broken glass still clinging desperately to the frame. Every few seconds the deathly silence breaks with sounds of fire crackling, glass breaking, metal clattering. In between those sounds is nothing but silence.
Sean doesn't stop at the twisted threshold. Instead, he ducks through the bent, blackened metal and walks inside.
"Mother! Where are you?" He calls out, but there's no answer.
My heart pounds in my ears as Sean releases my hand. He steps forward, crunching glass beneath his feet. He lifts burnt palm fronds and large pieces of shattered pots, digging a path to the other side of the room. The part of the solarium attached to the house still stands, glass roof intact. If he can get to it, he can see the spot where his mother habitually takes her breakfast each morning.
I keep thinking about what he said. She wasn't supposed to be here.
Images flash through my mind of a younger Constance raising three little boys. I wonder if Sean played out here as a child. I wonder if, as he steps down and hears glass break beneath his feet, a childhood memory shatters with each step.
I glance around the room and try not to choke. Ashes are floating through the air, making it difficult to see. I walk carefully, looking around as I do so, hoping for any sign of his mother. Sean continues to clear a path toward the bistro table on the other side of the room. I linger behind him, scanning the debris for signs of life.
"Constance? Are you in here?" I call out, hoping for an answer, but no one replies.
Sean bends over and lifts a beam that was once part of the rafter. The muscles in his neck are corded tight as he tries to move it. He looks over at me and pulls down his mask.
"I can't get through."
"Sean, she's not here." I don't want to say it, but there's no indication that Constance was out here, other than the noises on the phone. "Maybe she was inside?"
Maybe she was the one who did this. I think it, but I can't say it. Not yet.
"No, her voice," he says, shaking his head. "She was here. The glass and the way the sound came through the headset. She had to be in this room. There was too much glass."
He closes his eyes for a second, then tips his head back and looks up at the sky, before wiping the sweat off his face. His chest is glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. It's insanely hot in here. There are small fires burning all around us, mostly in little piles where I assume Constance's plants caught fire. Sean puts his hands on his trim hips and looks over at me. His stomach is ripped, tense, and ready to do whatever needed. I manage to make my way over to him and put a hand on his arm.
"Sean, she's not here."
"She has to be. She wouldn't have … " Sean shakes his head as his words die in his mouth. He works his jaw and looks like he's about to scream when we both hear a faint sound. We twist toward the noise and then look back at each other.
"Did you hear that?"
Sean nods and puts a finger to his lips. He waits, and we hear it again. It sounds like someone is crying, softly, weakly. Sean crouches and peers through the debris. I copy him and scan the room. That's when I see it--a broken teacup in the rubble. The handle is missing, but the base is intact. I stiffen when my eyes notice the other part.
"Sean." I grip his bare arm and crouch toward it. "That's? Is it?"
Sean is still. I don't know if he doesn't see it or can't believe what he's seeing. A few feet in front of us, hidden between shards of pottery and under a fallen pane of glass, is the handle of the cup, a single finger wrapped around it. The finger is thin and feminine, its nail polished blood red.
I gasp and stare, as my stomach twists, threatening to spew any contents on the floor. This isn't happening. It can't be. Trembling, I scan the room for the rest of the body. Sean still hasn't moved; his eyes lock on a spot to my left, not far from the first piece of the teacup. Under a massive metal beam, once belonging high in the rafters and now resting uselessly on the floor, is a pale arm. Blood covers the palm, pooling in the center like a liquid gemstone.
"Mom." He says the word like he's conjuring a ghost and rushes toward her. Sean touches his mother's arm, telling her she'll be all right, as I watch in horror.
Constance's body is under that beam. The only parts sticking out are her forearm and wrist. Sean tries to push the beam off of her, but it doesn't move. He tries again and again to get it to budge, but there's no way it will budge without a crane.
He tells her again, "I'll get you out. You'll be all right." Sean pushes his shoulder to the metal and tries to lift it again. He grits his teeth and veins pop up all over his neck and chest as he does it. The beam begins to shift. Snapping out of my shock, I drop to my knees and take her limp hand.
"Constance! I'll pull you out! Hold on!"
Sean's face is dripping with sweat. His body is strained and shaking as he tries to lift the beam higher, but he does it. Every muscle in his body quivers as he manages to lift it off the ground.
I don't hesitate. I take hold of Constance's wrist and pull. The opening is small, but it provides enough to get her out.
Sean screams in pain as he tries to hold the beam up for another second. I pull on her arm expecting her to shift, but she doesn't. The beam must be on her shoulder or something because it takes a lot more force to get her to move. Tears prick my eyes, and I try to blink them away, but it just clouds my vision.
Sean's yell makes me try harder. I dig in my heels and lean back, giving it everything. Broken shoulder or not, there's no way she should be this stuck. When the beam lifts that final bit, her arm breaks free. I fall back expecting to see a rumpled Constance Ferro on the floor in front of me, her face bloodied, her gown torn. I expect broken bones and a face that will need stitches.
But it's not what I expected to see at all.
Sean drops the rafter and falls to the ground, shaking with anger and tears flooding from his eyes, and screams. The sound rips my soul in two.
On the floor, in the debris, is a severed arm with a gold ring still on one of her fingers. The pattern is unmistakable--it's the Ferro family crest.
It's his mother's ring. The one she wears every day and never takes off.
Constance Ferro is dead.
CHAPTER 3
My throat tightens as I hear Sean cry out. I know he didn't get along with his mother, hell she hated him--she hated everyone--so the extent of his reaction surprises me a little bit. I had no idea how much he cared for her despite her evilness.
I don't know what to think about this, about any of it. I stare at the severed arm and wish to God this never happened. The position of her arm makes it look as if she were asleep. Swallowing hard, I try not to choke. I'm so close to totally losing it, but I can't because of Sean.
If I saw my mother blown apart, I'd lose it. I'd scream until my lungs burned, and my throat was raw. Terror would creep up my spine like an icy finger and make me sick. I'd see the world around me freeze. The flurry of meaningless daily tasks would blast from my mind. Every worry, every thought would be blown away--except for thoughts of her.
Regret for all the things I didn't get to say or do would consume me. I'd wonder if she was in pain when she died. The thoughts have no words at first. They fall slowly, becoming clearer as they land, little pieces of ash drifting through the air.
Sean is living in that nightmare, the worst thought playing across his face--he failed to save her. He came close, but his failure means Constance's death.
Throat tight and burning, I pad over the glass-covered floor and kneel next to Sean. I raise my hand to place it on his shoulder, my palm hovering over him, unsure of what to do. I want to pull him out of that thought. He couldn't have saved her. He couldn't have saved Amanda. I wrestle with the same thought of saving my parents. I feel the guilt of it around my neck squeezing the life out of me.
Sometimes there is no fault, no blame. Even if there is a finger to point at someone, it's not Sean. The man lives a double life. There's a hardened exterior that's cruel and frightening, but beneath the surface is a broken man with too much empathy to live with loss. The explosion adds one more life to the pile, one more person to mourn, and one more person to twist his tortured soul until he falls apart.
"Sean."
He doesn't move. His chest expands as he breathes and chokes back an angry sob. Those dark eyes focus on his mother's ring; his lower lids twitch upward as if he can't control them any longer. His jaw locks and he shakes his head.
Shock is a strange thing. At first it felt like I could pull us both to safety. I thought we'd save his mother and run out of here, but the queasy feeling in my stomach won't let up. The only thing I can think about is his mother sitting out here, pressing the phone to her ear, scolding Sean right before the room exploded. Did she know she was going to die? She had to know, she screamed horrifically over the phone. It's not a sound easily forgotten.