Chapter 8 - The Second FirePreston broke every rule after that.
That mattered.
The old Preston would have demanded answers.
The man who once believed his intentions should excuse his actions might have stormed into the hospital.
Instead, he gave Detective Shaw a letter.
No flowers.
No gifts.
No request for forgiveness.
Just a sealed envelope with my name on it.
I left it unopened for two days.
On the third night, I read it.
Tara,
I have written this six times because every version sounded like I was explaining myself, and I no longer have the right to do that.
I betrayed you before the fire.
I kissed Vanessa and hid it.
I let her become part of our relationship by discussing our private life with her.
When you noticed, I made you doubt yourself.
Then, when the fire started, I made the worst decision of my life.
You were the person in greatest danger.
I knew that.
I still chose Vanessa first.
I can tell myself I thought I had time, but that does not change what I did.
I heard you begging me not to leave.
And I left.
You do not owe me forgiveness.
You do not owe me a conversation.
You do not owe me our marriage.
I only need you to know that if you never speak to me again, I will understand why.
I hope you heal.
Preston.
I read it twice.
Then folded it.
I didn’t cry.
That surprised me.
Maybe I had already spent all my tears on the version of him I thought existed.
The following morning, I told Detective Shaw I would see him.
“One condition.”
“Name it.”
“I choose when it ends.”
“Of course.”
“And security stays outside.”
“Yes.”
Preston arrived at two.
I sat near the hospital window in a wheelchair.
My left shoulder was still bandaged.
My hair had been cut shorter because portions were damaged by heat.
The scars on my arm were pink and raw.
I almost covered them.
Then I didn’t.
He needed to see what his sixty-second decision looked like.
The door opened.
Preston stepped inside.
He stopped.
His entire face changed.
“Tara.”
I looked at him.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then his mouth trembled.
“You’re alive.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He laughed once through tears.
It was a broken sound.
He took one step closer.
I raised my hand.
He stopped immediately.
“Sorry.”
He sat in the chair across from me.
His eyes moved over my injuries.
I watched guilt hit him piece by piece.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Silence.
He looked at my left hand.
No wedding ring.
His remained on his finger.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
Slowly, he removed it.
He placed it on the table between us.
“I wasn’t sure what to do with it.”
“You could start by not wearing it.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
I expected him to defend himself.
He didn’t.
That made the conversation harder.
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“You kissed her.”
“Yes.”
“You talked to her about me.”
“Yes.”
“You lied to my face.”
“Yes.”
“You made me apologize for being suspicious.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
My voice sharpened.
“Stop agreeing with me like that makes you noble.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then fight back.”
“I don’t have anything to fight back with.”
I stared at him.
“I hate that you’re making this easy.”
His face broke.
“This is easy?”
“For you. You get to be sorry. You get to hate yourself. You get to tell everyone you made a mistake. I’m the one who wakes up hearing your footsteps going away.”
He covered his mouth.
I continued.
“You looked at me.”
“I know.”
“Through the glass.”
“I know.”
“You saw me.”
“Yes.”
“And you carried her.”
Tears rolled down his face.
“Yes.”
I hated him then.
For exactly three seconds, I hated him.
And underneath that hatred was the worst truth of all.
I still loved him.
Not enough to trust him.
Not enough to stay married.
But enough to hurt.
He whispered, “I thought I could get her to the stairs and come straight back.”
“You were trained better.”
“Yes.”
“So why?”
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, there was no excuse left.
“Because some part of me felt responsible for Vanessa.”
“Why?”
“Because of the kiss. Because I had created the situation. Because she had been emotionally dependent on me and I hadn’t shut it down soon enough.”
I leaned back.
“So you chose guilt toward her over responsibility toward me.”
His face went pale.
“Yes.”
That was the answer I needed.
Not love.
Not passion.
Weakness.
Preston had not chosen Vanessa because she mattered more.
He chose her because he was trying to manage consequences he had created.
And in doing so, he nearly killed me.
“I want a divorce.”
He flinched.
Then nodded.
“I’ll sign whatever you want.”
“No arguments?”
“No.”
“No begging?”
His voice cracked.
“I want to beg.”
I looked away.
“But if I love you at all,” he continued, “I have to stop making what I want your problem.”
That one hurt.
Because it sounded like the man I had once believed he could be.
A knock interrupted us.
Detective Shaw entered.
“We have a development.”
Preston stood.
“What?”
“They found Gavin.”
Alive.
His pickup truck had been a diversion.
He had been hiding inside an abandoned caretaker’s house near Hawthorne Estate.
When police entered, he was gone.
But they found supplies.
Weapons.
Fake identification.
And a wall covered in photographs.
Most were of Preston.
Some of me.
One of Vanessa.
The newest image had been taken that morning.
Outside my rehabilitation center.
Every drop of blood left my face.
“He knows where I am.”
Detective Shaw nodded.
“We’re moving you.”
Preston immediately stepped toward the door.
“I’ll help.”
“No,” Shaw said.
He stopped.
“You are going home.”
“He’s after Tara.”
“He may also be after you.”
“Then use me.”
Shaw studied him.
“What?”
“Gavin hates me. He always has.”
I knew where this was going.
“No.”
Preston turned toward me.
“If he thinks I know where you are—”
“No.”
“Tara.”
“Do not try to become a hero now.”
His expression changed.
“I’m not.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to fix—”
“You can’t fix this by dying dramatically.”
Silence.
I wheeled closer.
“You want to help me?”
“Yes.”
“Then for once in your life, do what you’re told.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Okay.”
Detective Shaw’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her face tightened.
“What?”
A pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
Then she looked at me.
“Vanessa just turned herself in.”
Preston and I both stared.
“She says Gavin is planning another fire.”
“Where?”
Shaw’s voice dropped.
“Your house.”
My heart stopped.
Because Jessie was there.
May you like
Packing my things.
And she wasn’t answering her phone.
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