𝗣 𝗬 𝗥 𝗢 𝗠 𝗔 𝗡 𝗜 𝗔 | BOOK THREE

T W E N T Y - S I X

[graham eaton]

Glass crumbles beneath my boots as I step inside the studio through a broken front window. Paint is thrown across the floor, large splatters covering the ground, mixing with the shards of glass. Pencils are scattered everywhere, causing me to be mindful of where I step. I step over an Olive green pencil, spotting a canvas with a large hole ripped through it. The painting that once sat on the canvas is beautiful, two birds, sitting on a branch, in a muted, neutral, water-color-esque fashion. I approach the back room, searching for them. In the back room is a large glass carafe tucked under the spout of the filter. The carafe is empty, hasn't been used since before Jolene moved into my apartment and stopped going to her studio. The backroom consists of just her coffee pot, mini-fridge with a few drinks, a few cupboards with snacks and dishes, and a large shelf with extra supplies--extra paint, brushes, more canvases, a large pile of watercolor paper, sponges, rags, jars, water cups, etc. A muffled scream down the hallway grabs my attention. I slowly walk down the hallway, my hand on my concealed weapon. Another scream beckons me to move faster. A door at the end of the hallway is cracked open. I grab the doorknob and pull it open. A staircase leading into a concrete cellar. I take the first step slowly, trying to keep quiet. I exhale as the step groans quietly. I take another step, this step staying firm and sturdy, and quiet. I continue down the stairs, trying to stay as quiet as possible. That feeling you get in your chest when you're trying to stay so quiet that you stop breathing, but then your breathing is so loud, it's all you can hear as you huff and puff to try and catch up to what you lost.

"There's no sense in trying to sneak in, we already know you're here. Just save yourself some time and come down now." A voice says, echoing up the stairwell.

I walk down the stairs, spotting Jolene tied to a support column in the basement. Her face is bloody, a cut above her eyebrow dripping blood down her face all the way to her neck.

"Welcome, Graham." The man says, nodding to take a seat. "Have a seat. Let's chat."

I shake my head, swallow down my pride, and remember what I'm here for—Jolene.

"No, we're not going to chat. You know what I'm here for." I say. "Don't be so naïve."

He nods and exhales sharply.

"Fine, let's finish things." He retrieves a miniature box of matches from his pocket, grabs one, and lights it. "I'm going to drop this match, and when I do it will light this line of lighter fluid and meet up in the giant puddle just behind you. Jolene's body will catch on fire and there will be nothing you can do to save her. You will watch her fight and listen to her scream as you try to think of some way to save her. By the time you finally come up with something, she will be long gone. The guilt will eat away at you every day for the rest of your life, and all you can do is listen over and over and over to the screams in the back of your head as you remember that you couldn't save her."

I walk forward slowly, swallow, and shake my head, my hands down my my legs, trying to put him at ease.

"No, please." I beg, pathetically. "Let's not do anything too quickly now."

He looks over at a table and points to the chair.

"Then have a seat and we can talk about why I shouldn't kill you both here and now." He says.

I nod. I approach the table, taking my seat in a foldable metal chair at a plastic foldable table. He sits across from me and crosses his hands. He reaches into his pocket and grabs his matchbox.

"Just in case you say something I don't like," He says, setting the matchbox beside him. "I have my options."

I swallow sharply and look back at Jolene. She wears a tank top and sleep shorts, her body glistening with what I hope is sweat, but can only presume as lighter fluid based upon the overwhelming scent of butane coming from that side of the room. 

"How did you know so much about me?" I ask. "It's like you peered into every detail of not just my life but my mother, father, brother, and sister."

He grabs a thick file from a bag beside him on the ground and slides it across the table towards me. I pull it open and see news articles, police reports, medical records. The medical record from  when I tore my ACL Junior year in a basketball game. The booklet of medical records from all of my parents's previous injuries. All of Livia and Atticus's injuries and vaccination records from their whole existence, excluding Atticus's current situation. I lift my head and stare at him, my throat pinched shut. I can't breathe. He knows me, inside and out. I turn my head and look at Jolene as she leans against the pole. I have to be calculated about how I'm going to get him to let down his guard. Jolene makes a choked, strangled noise. She's weak, gasping for air through the cloth in her mouth.

"Can we at least take the gag out of her mouth? She can't breathe and those fumes are only gonna make her tipsy and sick." I say.

He stands from his seat and approaches her. While his back is turned, I quickly grab the box of matches and tuck them away in my pocket. He leans down, removing the gag from her mouth. She gasps for air, groaning out weakly. He smacks her cheeks twice, chuckling at her. She kicks the puddle beneath her, the lighter fluid splashing up onto his face and shirt. He slaps her, receiving a quiet yelp from her in reply. He stands and spins around, an eyebrow raised. I light a match, an eyebrow raised at him. 

"I've got you pinned now, don't I?" I ask.

He shakes his head, smiling at me. 

"No, you don't. Say you throw that match--the flames reach Jolene fast and she still dies. You can't win, not all the way at least." He says. "The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth."

The flame eats away at the match until it burns my fingers and goes out, the smoke pouring upon towards the ceiling before dissipating. James dives at me, stretching his hands out to choke me. I shove him off, kicking him back. I reach to my waistband and grab my gun, aiming at him. I fire once, the bullet colliding with his sternum. He falls to the ground, clutching his chest weakly. He laughs as he looks up at me, the blood spilling out of his lips. 

"I wasn't going for you, you know. I was going for this," He says, retrieving a matchbox from his pocket. "I'm burning this place to the ground and you can't stop me."

He light a match and drops it, the lighter fluid dousing his body quickly catching flame. He screams, arching his back as the flames boil him alive. He rolls around, his creams echoing around through the concrete room. I run to Jolene, untying the rope quickly, trying to move in time for her to get away from the flames. I lift her up by her legs and and back, running up the stairs through the hall. The flames take off behind us, catching the pool of fluid on fire quickly. His screams echo loudly. I run through to the exit where we sit at my bike. The studio building catches fire quickly and burns to the ground minutes after the fire department arrives. The small shop was just small enough that it only took a few minutes for it to collapse and burn up into a pile of bricks and ash.