What did I do?
What have I done?
My hands are shaking so hard, I can’t get the ignition to switch back into drive. I can’t catch my breath. My foot slips on the brake.
What did I do?
I drive. I keep driving. I try to suck in air, but my lungs feel like they’re filled with thick, black smoke. I grab my phone. I want to tell Kyle that I might be having a panic attack, but I can’t calm my hand long enough to dial his number. The phone slips from my hands and lands in the floorboard.
I only have two miles left. I can make it.
I count to seventeen exactly seventeen times and then I’m pulling into my driveway.
I stumble into the house, thankful Kyle is still awake and in the kitchen. I don’t have to try to make it upstairs to his room.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and ushers me to a chair. I expect him to start panicking with me when he sees the wide-eyed, tear-filled look on my face, but instead, he gets me water. He speaks calmly to me, but I have no idea what he’s saying. He keeps telling me to focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes.
“Focus on my eyes,” he says. It’s the first sound I process.
“Breathe, Ben.”
His voice becomes louder.
“Breathe.”
My pulse gradually begins to find a rhythm again.
“Breathe.”
My lungs begin to bring in air and dispel it like they’re supposed to do.
I breathe in and out and in and out and take another sip of water and then as soon as I can speak, I want nothing more than to get this secret out of me before I explode.
“I fucked up, Kyle.” I stand up and begin pacing. I can feel the tears on my cheeks and I hear the tremor in my voice. I squeeze my head with my hands. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear, I don’t know why I did it.”
Kyle cuts me off mid-pace. He grips my shoulders and dips his head, looking me hard in the eyes. “What did you do, Ben?”
I suck in another huge breath and I release it as I pull away from him. And then I tell him everything. I tell him about how her bloodstain looked like Gary Busey’s head and how I read all the letters Donovan wrote to her and how I just wanted to see why she cared about that man more than us and how he didn’t get angry enough when he found out she died and how I didn’t mean to catch his house on fire, I didn’t even mean to catch his car on fire, that’s not why I went there.
We’re sitting now. At the kitchen table. Kyle hasn’t said very many things, but the next thing he says terrifies me more than anything has ever terrified me in my life.
“Was anyone hurt, Ben?”
I want to shake my head no, but it won’t move. My answer won’t come, because I don’t know. Of course no one was hurt. Donovan was awake, he would have gotten out in time.
Right?
I gasp for another breath when I see worry in Kyle’s eyes. He quickly pushes away from the table and stalks toward the living room. I hear the TV click on and, for a second, I have the thought that this is probably the last time that TV will ever click on to the Bravo channel now that my mother won’t be watching it anymore.
And then I hear the stations change and change again. But then I hear the words “fire” and “Hyacinth Court,” and “one injured.”
Injured. He probably tripped running out of the house and cut his finger or something. That’s not so bad. I’m sure he had house insurance.
“Ben.”
I stand up to join Kyle in the living room. I’m sure he’s summoning me to tell me it’s okay, that everything is okay and I should go to bed.
When I reach the entryway to the living room, my feet stop moving forward. There’s a picture on the TV in the top right-hand corner. A girl. She looks familiar, and I can’t place her right away, but I don’t have to because the reporter does it for me.
“Latest reports indicate that Fallon O’Neil, sixteen-year-old lead actress in the hit TV show Gumshoe, has been airlifted from the scene. No word as to her condition, but we’ll keep you updated as reports come in.”
Kyle doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
We stand in front of the TV, soaking up news reports that break in between infomercials. At a little after one in the morning, we learn that the girl was taken to a burn center in South Bay. Ten minutes later, we learn she’s in critical condition. At one thirty in the morning, we learn she has suffered fourth-degree burns over thirty percent of her body. At one forty-five, we learn that she is expected to survive, but will undergo extensive reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation. At one fifty, reporters state that the owner of the home admitted to spilling fuel near a car parked outside his garage. Investigators state they have no reason to believe the fire was caused intentionally, but a complete investigation will follow up to corroborate the homeowner’s claims.
One reporter insinuates that the victim’s career may be put on hold indefinitely. Another says producers will have a huge decision to make when it comes to either recasting the role or putting production on hold while the victim recovers. The news reports transition from updates on the victim to how many Emmy Awards Donovan O’Neil was nominated for during the height of his career.
Kyle turns off the television at approximately 2 a.m. He sets the remote down carefully—quietly—on the arm of the couch.
“Did anyone witness what happened?” His eyes lock with mine, and I immediately shake my head.
“Did you leave behind anything? Any possible evidence?”
“No,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “He’s right. He kicked over his gas can and then went inside the house. No one saw what I did after that.”