Not only had Catherine lied, but she’d tried to harm both Claire and Tony. She’d sentenced them both to a life alone—a life without the love of the one person who completed their world. She’d sentenced them to her reality.

“Yes! Yes, we’ve been together. Our daughter is a Rawlings—we’re a family. Something we would’ve, at one time, shared with you! Instead, you gave it all up, for some sick, old vendetta!”

Catherine laughed and turned away. The smoke continued to thicken. “Share with me! Oh, so that I could clean up after you and soothe your hurt feelings when Anton upset you—so that I could be ordered out of a room—by you!” As her volume increased, Nichol began to cry.

Claire tried to soothe her daughter as Catherine’s tirade continued, “You don’t belong here. I sent you away! You—a Nichols—don’t get to have what I couldn’t. I won’t allow Nathaniel’s home to be run by a Nichols! If my daughter didn’t get to live within these walls, then neither will yours.”

“How can you be so sick? She’s an innocent child!” Claire’s yelling spurred Nichol’s cries to become louder.

“Innocent! No one is innocent. Your grandfather’s actions killed the only man who ever loved—”

The door burst open and more smoke flooded the room. Tony’s eyes met Claire’s as his booming voice stopped Catherine’s words. Claire heard and saw his terror, “My God, Claire! Why are you here? Get out, the house is on fire!”

Instead of fear, Claire felt relief. “Oh, you’re safe—I was so afraid.”

The commotion outside the office became louder with voices and footsteps. Nichol’s cries resumed as cold water came raining down from the ceiling. When Claire turned back toward Catherine, she saw the gun. It wasn’t big; nevertheless, it was pointed directly at her and Nichol. Tony saw it too.

They say time slows down during life threatening events. Supposedly, your entire life flashes before your eyes. Claire wasn’t seeing her entire life, only the part that mattered, only the part that included Tony and Nichol. Voices spoke and chaos erupted on all sides, but Claire didn’t notice. Her attention was monopolized by the threat in Catherine’s hand, as well as the growing fire crackling and smoldering around them—consuming their home.

Tony’s voice rang above the chaos, penetrating the smoke and sprinkler induced rain. “Get out, get Nichol out!”

As Claire moved to obey, she saw Catherine’s expression change before her eyes. Emerging from the woman who’d consoled her over the years was the sadistic smile from her nightmare, yet this time, it was real, and she was repeating their daughter’s name, “Nichol?” Turning the gun toward Tony, she asked incredulously, “Nichol? You named a Rawls—Nichol?”

He didn’t answer; instead, he hit the gun free of her hand. In the commotion, it fell near Claire’s feet. She heard his command, “Claire, get the gun!”

Her wet hands searched for the weapon, and water blurred her vision. Bending down, she didn’t see Catherine rush forward until she was right there. Claire expected a fight for the gun; instead, Catherine grabbed Nichol from her arms. The next few seconds melted together in a space and time haze. Tony fought for their daughter as Claire secured the gun in her grip.

Phil’s voice yelled above the fray of Tony’s loud accusations. Nichol cried and Catherine...

Claire didn’t intend to pull the trigger. She was trying to hold the gun steady, but when Phil seized her shoulders, her finger depressed the small lever. The deafening bang drowned out the commotion, removing all other sounds. Through the smoke and water, Claire watched in horror as the three people before her fell to the ground.

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not a twin.

—Barbara Kingsolver

The autumn sun warmed the days, and the darkness cooled the nights. Claire’s knuckles blanched as the death-grip on her pen refused to subside. She knew Meredith would arrive soon with her evening meal, and they had plans to go out onto the grounds. Courtney was visiting again; nevertheless, Claire’s present confidants and their support couldn’t take away her past—no longer could the consequences of Claire’s truth be denied.

Dr. Brown had told Claire to write—just write. No other directives had been given, nor restrictions. Once Claire was confident that her writings were safe from the eyes of others, the good and bad memories of her past came to life on each page. Painstakingly, she filled notebook after notebook. With her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Claire’s hand seemed to take on a life of its own. This reflective therapy had been effective. She now knew why her mind had shut down. She understood why she had lost touch with reality. After enduring so much—so many highs—so many lows—she couldn’t take anymore.