“Because I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.” Her eyesare glassy and vacant, and her voice is dull. She looks like a pretty zombie. It’s terrifying. “You knew, deep down. Didn’t you? It’s why you came back. Guilt.”
“Survivor guilt,” I whisper.
“What do you remember?”
“Being surrounded by smoke and flames. Trying to get to Emily. I did try.”
She squeezes my hand and sighs. “I know you did.”
“But I still left her behind. That was my choice.” I always wonder if I’m lying to myself about this part. People lie to themselves about this sort of thing. It’s human nature, self-preservation. I’ve read about it. I tell myself that I tried to reach Emily for a reasonable amount of time. But the smoke was thick, and the ground was scorching. Flames had made their way in through the open bedroom door. I heard Emily in the attic, crying for help. The trapdoor was closed, and the string that pulls it open was missing. Missing like someone had removed it, like maybe the firewasn’tan accident. I panicked, shouted up at her to jump on it. Throw all her weight against it. Try anything. But I knew there was no way to open it from the inside. And from below, there was nothing I could do to open the door either. There were no chairs in the room, and I didn’t have time to push Kennedy’s bed or a dresser all the way across the burning floor to the closet to try to reach up. I told myself that my best bet was to get out the window to safety and tell the rescuers that Emily was trapped in the attic.
I had to.
But I didn’t reallyhave to.
I chose to.
I chose to save myself.
I chose to leave Emily behind.
Maybe I never really tried to save her at all.
I look at Kennedy suddenly. “I know why I feel guilty. What about you? Why does Mila think all of this is your fault? And what does it have to do with the summer before last? The fire couldn’t have been an accident if it was a year coming.”
“I swear to you that to my knowledge, the firewasan accident.” Such a carefully worded sentence. What we don’t know can’t incriminate us.
“Kennedy. I knowsomethinghappened. I know about Chase’s phone call.”
She flinches and stills. “On the night of the murder?” My heart drops into my stomach.The night of the murder.She called it amurder. “You wanted the truth.”
Kennedy’s words reverberate throughout my body with my racing pulse.Truth is a poison. The night of the murder. Your friends are trying to protect you.
“I thought I did,” I whisper. Time slips backward, and I hear Ryan telling me again that I chose the wrong side.
“What if I told you that Mila set the whole thing in motion?” Kennedy says. “Or that I came up with the cover story? What if we really are guilty? Do you really want to know?”
And then, as if in response, the sound of doors slamming echoes through the house, one after another. Windows slam shut, quick and sharp as guillotines. I hear Mila scream somewhere nearby. I rush to the bedroom door and wrench it open.