Page 59 of The Guilty One

She’s screaming, but I can hardly hear it. Like I’m underwater. My entire body trembles as I watch the scene unfold.

I stagger backward, watching in horror as the boys rush forward. We have no water, no way to put it out. Matteo takes off his letterman jacket and whips it over her, trying to suffocate the fire while the others shout instructions, telling her to roll, to run, to stop moving, to hold still. Matteo’s jacket ignites with flames quickly, and in a panic, he drops it on top of her.

Her screams are animal-like, even as dulled and muted as they are to my own ears. No one is looking at me. No one sees the horror on my face. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It wasn’t supposed to…

I was supposed to play god tonight. The fire took her before she had the chance to beg for her life. Before she had the chance to say she was sorry for her mistake. That she wanted me so badly she couldn’t help herself, perhaps. Before the boys gave me the apology I’m owed. I was supposed to be in charge tonight, and I lost that chance.

My body is strangely numb, like I’m not really here. Like this is all a dream. A nightmare. My worst nightmare.

It takes far too long, but it is over far too quickly. Her body is still burning, but her screams have stopped. The air is filled with the scent of charred flesh, like an unintentional barbecue.

When they look at me, I fix my face. I can’t show them this wasn’t intentional. I can still salvage this if I make it look like this was my plan all along. If I let it, this can be my most valuable lesson ever.

I step forward, owning my power, shutting out the pain I feel, the blood that’s dripping down my legs, and breathing in the scent of her searing flesh as if it’s my favorite smell in the world. I point down at her, my body numb at the waist, my muscles shaking like I’ve had a long workout. I can’t let them know it, can’t let them see it. They can’t see my weakness.

“Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.” Each word is its own sentence, each syllable spoken through gritted teeth. “Have I made myself crystal clear?”

The boys stare at me in outright horror, most of their bodies black with soot and ash from trying and failing to save her. Matteo’s hands and arms have fresh blisters across them.

“Good. Now, then, let’s get the fire put out and find somewhere to bury her.” I turn my back to them, kicking her hideous bag out of my way. A book goes flying out of it and into the dirt: The Catcher in the Rye.

Stupid little bookworm.

I need to sit down, or my legs are going to give out. My vision has started to blur, and I’m afraid I’m going to lose consciousness. I move back to my bag to find something to wipe myself off with and assess the damage she did. I drop to the ground and squeeze my eyes shut, one hand on my head as a sound rings in my ears. I can’t breathe. My chest is tight.

I reach into my bag, looking for something, anything. By the time I realize the ringing in my ears is the sound of him screaming, it’s too late.

I turn back just in time to see Matteo charging at me, the empty vodka bottle held in his hand. I spin toward him a second too late, a second too slow thanks to my sluggishness, and the bottle connects with my head. I feel it shatter, feel my head hit the ground.

Then it all goes dark.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CELINE

I listen in horror as Aaron paints a picture for me of the night everything went wrong. It’s a picture straight out of a Stephen King novel—burning flesh and a dying girl, a boys’ club of men too scared to stop their monstrous leader.

Except in this case, their monstrous leader is the man I love. The things he’s telling me about what happened that night, about what Tate did, it doesn’t sound possible. There is no way I’ve spent the last nearly twelve years looking into the eyes of a man who was capable of this.

“And so, he killed him. Hit him with the bottle, and when it broke, he used that to slash his neck. He didn’t plan to do it, it was just…it was pure instinct. I saw it on his face. And I think we were all glad it was done, even if it killed us just the same. I guess in a way, it took everything that happened for us to realize Tatum was never going to stop, no matter how much we wanted him to.”

I jerk my head back, this part of the story not making sense. “Wait, Matteo killed Tate?”

His eyes drill into mine, dancing back and forth, like I should be catching onto something I’m clearly not. “No. Matteo killed Tatum.”

“I don’t understand.”

His smile is small and sad. “Celine, the man you married is not Tatum Thompson.”

My body goes cold as the wave of information washes through me. “What are you talking about? Of course he is.”

“Tatum hated nicknames. He made us all go by our full names, said nicknames were for lazy people and little girls. I think most of us called his mom Mrs. T just to mess with him.”

“So, what? That doesn’t mean anything. He changed his mind. Grew up. That night…it changed him. He’s told me so himself.”

“No. You’re not hearing me. Tatum Thompson died that night in the clearing off campus. I watched it happen. I…” He stares down at his own hands as if they’re covered in blood. “I buried his body.”

“I don’t understand.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut. “If I didn’t marry Tatum Thomspon, if Tatum Thompson is dead, what exactly are you telling me?” I refuse to believe it. I can’t. It’s impossible. I’m not convinced this man isn’t delusional at this point. That this isn’t all some cruel prank.

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