Page 133 of Fire Fight

Because he never cared.

Not for any of us.

Not beyond our role as an extension of his favourite story. The tale of Arnold Fletcher. A tale that ends in apparent tragedy.

To the outside world, he threw himself over the side of a cliff as the noose tightened around his neck. The last act of a depraved individual, trying to take his family along for the ride.

“With my suspended sentence finished at the end of the year, we’re also going to move. The seaside house is far too large and ostentatious and I’m sick of Emily scowling at me every time she has to climb the staircase.”

A grudge she also held against Arnold, but one I hadn’t expected to inherit along with the rest of his estate.

“And since we’re all completely unprepared for real life and have no intention of letting go of her services, we’re moving to the central city apartment instead.”

According to the criminal defence lawyer Elaine Ngata connected us with, the suspended sentence was lenient. An assessment that might be truthful but doesn’t feel that way.

Not when I had to escape to save the lives of the people I love.

But, as the man points out every time I grumble, mitigating circumstances don’t rewrite the laws around being in custody, and I should be glad the worst I’m suffering is monitoring and a tough curfew.

A car pulls into the lot, parking near the fence, and I wave, then splay my hand to let her know I’ll be five minutes.

“Remember Cadence? The girl at school I didn’t have the courage to ask on a date?”

I stretch out my legs, thinking back to those days where I’d stare at her in the classes we were lucky enough to share. Stare in the corridors at school. Stare at herin my dreams, but never dared to get close enough to say anything.

“Turns out, she was quite amenable to going out, after all. I should’ve taken your advice and just risked it. Then none of this might have happened.”

Although it’s hard to imagine that scenario. Not just younger-me finding the courage, but taking Cadence on a date back then, experiencing all the awkwardness of first love.

And with those ‘good’ times hard to picture, it’s impossible to think how I would have reacted to Harriet’s news under those circumstances.

It devastated me when I thought my crush was unrequited. Would I have let myself believe in Cadence’s involvement? Would I have talked to her? Asked for clarification?

I’ll never know and it’s a moot point.

The universe got pushy and jammed us together, so all the might-have-beens are nothing more than thought exercises, and I’m sick of exercising that particular muscle. For the future, I intend to spend a lot more time exercising my heart muscle instead.

My heart, and a few other essential pieces of equipment I’m finally putting to good use.

“One day soon, I’ll get her to come over and introduce herself properly. You’ll love the woman she’s become.”

A scenario that would have unfolded already if I hadn’t been so protective of this adjustment period.

The acceptance of my mother’s murder came with the same emotional work accepting her suicide would have, but the certainty of knowing exactly who to blame has been a tonic to my racing thoughts.

Nothing could make it easy, but the change in narrative made it possible to grieve.

The same vulnerability required to fully connect with Cadence came in handy when I had to expose the raw nerve endings of my sorrow, pushing through the pain and uncertainty.

Now my head blossoms with hope for the future.

When my thoughts race at night, it’s through thinking of new methods of seduction, more ways to adjust my outlook and expand my capacity for joy.

Two more minutes.

I stand, stretching out my joints and brushing dry blades of grass from my jeans. My gaze travels to the car where Cadence stands, hands resting on the door behind her as she waits patiently for me to be done.

And I repeat the sentiment. “You’ll love her, Mum. I promise.”

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