Page 124 of Dead Love
Nyla was dead. My father and Andrew were dead.
But Vincent was alive. So was my mother. And I was okay too.
By the time I was tucked into sweatpants and an oversized shirt I found in Vincent’s bedroom, the firepit was roaring in the backyard. It was finally night. The outline of a few limbs flickered in the flames, but it was hard to tell what was what. Vincent tossed in another arm, then a thigh, one by one, watching the fire flicker in shades of red and black, until finally, they were all gone. I thought for sure that we would get in trouble for lighting a fire after the amount of smoke Punica had endured that day, but no one came. Everyone, including the police, was too tired to care about a controlled fire.
I laughed to myself. I was worried about fire laws when what we were doing was so much worse. I turned to Vincent.
“What if they find out?” I asked.
“This is their evidence,” he said, gesturing at the pit. “The bones, we’ll pulverize in the home. Spread them somewhere.” The fire crackled, the scent of roasting meat enveloping us. He gestured at the flames. “If it comes down to it, I’ll take full responsibility.”
“That’s stupid. I was there. I killed my father. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I’ve done enough for a lifetime in jail. You were only defending me.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, or whether he was telling the truth, but I knew he was never going to let me say otherwise. And if it came down to it, I would never let him take the blame like that. It was our decision. Our mess. Not mine. Not his. Butours.
As we watched the bodies burn, Sarah came and sat beside us. Vincent tossed a stick into the flames.
“My brother wanted to kill himself,” he said. “But I didn’t let him.” He threw another twig forward. “I killed him myself.”
We looked at each other, the flames dancing on our skin. Without him speaking the words, I knew I was the first person he had ever admitted that to. Because he knew what I was feeling right then, the tremendous weight of the what-ifs trickling through me. The rage. The guilt. The self-loathing. The righteousness.
“Nothing can change it,” he said, grabbing my hand. “You did what you thought was right. Better than me.” He gave a melancholy chuckle. “I did it out of anger.”
My fingers twitched. That wasn’t completely true. I had been angry at my father too. For the life he robbed from Nyla. From all of those people, young adults like me.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, and Vincent’s body tensed, then relaxed under my weight.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Wait for a few hours, then grind up the bones.”
“No.” I sat up, facing him. “Us?We? What dowedo now?”
His eyes searched mine, and an eerie sense of coolness drifted over him.
“It isn’t up to me to decide. It’s your life.”
“I know that,” I said. “But what about you?”
“This isn’t about me, Kora. It’s aboutyou,” his voice was stern. He held my chin, cupped in his palm. “It’s always been about you, Kora.”
My heart tightened, pulling my nerves back to my chest.
“But what do you want for your life?” I asked.
“I want to make you happy.” His eyes never left mine. “I want to do whatever that means to you.”
I pressed forward, our lips meeting, and he grimaced at the touch, his lips swollen and bruised, but after a moment, his tongue dug into my mouth. Violently, he broke apart.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said.
“This world is never good enough for any of us,” I said. A small smile flickered across his lips. “But I don’t care. I love you, Vincent.”
He clutched my face. “I love you, flower.”
Then he kissed me hard, like he would never get enough.
