I reach the car and don’t even bother looking around me to see if anyone is outside. I know they aren’t. It’s after eleven at night by now. No one is probably even awake on this street, and even if they were, I wouldn’t care.

I pick up the rag and inspect it, hoping there’s something special about it. There isn’t, but I decide to use it to open the car door. Don’t want to leave fingerprints behind if I accidentally scratch up his car.

The inside of the car is even nicer than the outside. Pristine condition. Cherry-red leather seats. Wood grain trim. There’s a pack of cigarettes and some matches on the console, and it disappoints me that my mother would love a smoker.

I look back at the house and then I look back down at the matches. Who uses matches anymore? I swear I keep finding more and more reasons to hate him.

Go back to your car, Ben. There’s been enough excitement for one day.

Adrenaline beats down my conscience yet again. I glance back at the gas can.

I wonder . . .

Would Donovan be more upset over his precious little classic car going up in flames than he was over my mother’s death?

I guess we’ll soon find out, because my adrenaline is picking up the gas can and pouring the liquid over the tire and up the side of the car. At least my conscience is still alert enough to know to set the can back right where he kicked it. I strike one and only one of the matches, and then I flick it out of my fingers—just like they do in the movies—as I walk back to my car.

The air makes a quick whoosh sound behind me. The night lights up like someone just turned on Christmas lights.

When I reach my car, I’m smiling. It’s the first time I’ve smiled today.

I crank my car and patiently drive away, feeling somewhat justified for what she did to herself. For what she did to me.

And finally, for the first time since finding her body this morning, a tear falls out of my eye.

And then another.

And another.

I begin to cry so hard that it’s too hard to see the road in front of me. I pull over on a hill. I lean across the steering wheel and my cries turn to sobs, because I miss her. It hasn’t even been a day and I miss her so fucking much and I have no idea why she would do this to me. It feels so personal, and I hate that I’m selfish enough to believe that it had anything to do with me, but didn’t it? I lived with her. I was the only one left still in that house. She knew I would be the one to find her. She knew what this would do to me and she still did it and I’ve never loved someone I hate so much, and I’ve never hated someone I love so much.

I cry for so long that the muscles in my stomach begin to ache. My jaw hurts from the tension. My ears hurt from the blare of the sirens as they pass.

I glance in my rearview mirror and watch as the fire truck makes its way down the hill.

I see the orange glow against the dark sky behind me and it’s much brighter than I expect it to be.

The flames are way higher than they should be.

My pulse is pounding way harder than I want it to be.

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.