Dr. Mitchell’s prognosis was death. I simply decided I was going to change the recipients.
As I put the truck in gear, my phone chimed with a breaking news alert. Local businessman Liam Sterling to host charity gala tonight. They were throwing a party.
The drive to the Sterling estate took exactly twenty-two minutes. It was nearing 4:00 P.M. now; the sky above the wealthy suburbs was a bruised, heavy purple, bloated with incoming storm clouds.
I drove in absolute silence. There was no radio playing. There was no internal hesitation. My mind had become a cold, sterile courtroom. I was the judge, the jury, and the executioner, and the final verdict had already been delivered.
I remembered the day of their wedding. Eleanor Sterling had looked at my dress—a perfectly nice, respectable department store dress that I had saved up for—and sneered, asking a waiter if I was “part of the catering staff.” I remembered Liam making casual, cruel jokes about Chloe’s “peasant roots” during his toast.
They had always treated Chloe like an exotic rescue dog—something pretty to show off, to be trained, cleaned up, and brutally kicked the second it barked out of turn.
They threw her away, I thought, my knuckles turning stark white on the steering wheel. Like literal trash. At a bus stop. With her baby.
I clicked off my headlights a mile before I reached the main property line. I knew the old service road well; I used to deliver landscaping stones to this very neighborhood years ago, long before Chloe ever met Liam. I maneuvered the heavy truck expertly through the wet, high grass, parking it behind a dense line of ancient oak trees that completely obscured the vehicle from the main house.
I stepped out. The smell of wet earth and sharp pine needles was thick in the air. I reached into the passenger seat and grabbed the heavy gas can. The fuel sloshed inside, a dense, liquid promise of absolute destruction.
I walked up the manicured hill. The mansion loomed ahead, a massive white monstrosity glowing with soft, expensive amber light from within. It looked peaceful. It looked like a luxury magazine cover.
I crept silently onto the expansive back patio. Through the floor-to-ceiling French doors, I had a clear, unobstructed view into the grand living room.
Liam was there. He was sitting comfortably on the massive leather sofa, holding a heavy crystal tumbler of amber scotch. He was watching a sports game on a screen the size of a wall. He looked slightly annoyed, shifting his weight, adjusting a silk throw pillow behind his back.
He wasn’t grieving. He wasn’t pacing in a panic. He was profoundly relaxed.
I felt a dark, jagged laugh bubble up in the back of my throat. He had beaten his pregnant wife into a coma twelve hours ago, and now he was annoyed at a referee’s call on television.
I unscrewed the tight plastic cap of the gas can. The harsh fumes hit me instantly, sharp and violently chemical, stinging my eyes and burning my nostrils.
“Burn,” I whispered to the wind.
I started at the back door. I splashed the heavy gasoline over the expensive teak deck furniture. I moved methodically along the perimeter of the house, dousing the pristine white siding, the expensive silk curtains visible through a slightly open window, and the dry decorative bushes that hugged the foundation.
I moved like a phantom of vengeance. I circled the entire massive house, leaving a wet, glistening, highly flammable trail of accelerant. I saved the last full gallon for the grand front porch—the towering entrance with the Corinthian columns that Eleanor Sterling was so immensely proud of.
I poured it over the custom-monogrammed welcome mat. I poured it over the heavy, solid oak double doors.
I backed up slowly onto the manicured lawn, the empty red canister clattering to the wet grass. The rain had completely stopped, leaving the evening air still, thick, and heavy. Perfect conditions for a firestorm.
I reached into the pocket of my damp jeans and pulled out the box of windproof matches. I slid one out. I struck it against the abrasive side of the box.
The flame flared to life instantly, a brilliant, hungry orange against the gathering twilight.
I looked at the living room window one last time. I saw Eleanor walk into the room, holding a tablet. She said something to Liam. Liam threw his head back and laughed.
They are monsters, I thought, a terrifying calm settling over my heart. And you have to kill monsters with fire.
I raised my arm. All I had to do was flick my wrist. The fumes would catch instantly. The old, treated wood of the historic house would go up like a Roman candle. The primary exits were already blocked by the accelerant. They would wake up to the suffocating heat and the blinding pain, exactly as Chloe had woken up to her own agony.
“An eye for an eye,” I hissed through my teeth.
My muscles tensed, fully prepared to throw the match and end their world.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The violent vibration against my thigh was so sudden, so jarring in the dead silence of the yard, that I physically jumped. I nearly dropped the burning match onto my own gasoline-soaked boot.
I gasped, clutching my chest as adrenaline spiked my heart rate. The flame in my hand wavered in the slight breeze, burning dangerously close to my fingertips.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I stared down at my pocket. Who was calling? The police? Had they found my truck? Had they tracked my phone?
I looked back at the house. The gasoline was already beginning to evaporate into the heavy air. If I didn’t throw the match right now, the concentration of fumes would dissipate. I would lose my perfect chance.
Buzz. Buzz.
It wouldn’t stop. It was relentless, demanding, refusing to be ignored.
With a harsh curse, I shook out the match, the flame dying with a faint sizzle, and dropped the smoking stick into the wet grass. I ripped the phone from my pocket, fully prepared to scream at whoever was interrupting my justice.
The bright screen lit up my face in the dark. DR. MITCHELL.
I froze. My blood ran completely cold. Why would the lead ICU doctor call me directly? To tell me her heart had finally stopped? To tell me it was officially over? To tell me my grandchild was dead?
If Chloe was gone, then there was absolutely no reason to hesitate. I would answer the phone, hear the devastating news, drop the phone on the grass, light another match, and burn them all to hell.
I slid my thumb across the wet screen and brought it to my ear. “Is she gone?” I choked out, my voice breaking.
“Sarah?” Dr. Mitchell’s voice sounded entirely frantic, breathless, like he had been running down a hallway. “Sarah, where are you right now?”
“It doesn’t matter where I am,” I said coldly, eyeing the gasoline-soaked porch. “Just tell me. Is my daughter dead?”
“No!” Dr. Mitchell shouted into the receiver. “No, Sarah, listen to me very carefully. She’s awake.”
I stood paralyzed on the sprawling lawn. The world tilted on its axis. “What did you just say?”
“It’s… I’ve been practicing medicine for thirty years, Sarah, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” the doctor stammered, his professional composure entirely shattered. “Her intracranial pressure suddenly dropped. Her vitals stabilized twenty minutes ago. She opened her eyes. She squeezed the trauma nurse’s hand. Sarah… she’s asking for you. She’s trying to speak through the tube.”
I dropped to my knees in the wet, muddy grass. The gasoline can tipped over beside me. “She’s… she’s asking for me?”
“She’s terrified, Sarah. Her heart rate is erratic. She keeps mouthing the word ‘Mom.’ And the baby… the fetal heartbeat has strengthened. It’s a miracle, but it’s fragile. You need to get back to this hospital immediately. We need you here to keep her calm. If her blood pressure spikes from panic, she could hemorrhage again. You need to be here now.”
I looked up at the massive house. Inside, the dark silhouettes of Liam and his mother were still moving comfortably in the warm light. They were alive. They were entirely free.
But Chloe was awake. And the baby was fighting.
