Page 111 of When Hearts Unravel

Tears eke out of her eyes and I see the tendons flexing in her neck.

“You didn’t give me closure! Do you know our parents miss you every day? That I can never replace you? How can a shadow replace the sun? They don’t even know my favorite food,” she sobs. “I know I shouldn’t blame you, that it was a mental illness. You were miserable and sick and you didn’t want this either, but I’m so angry. I wish I could hate you, but I miss you too damn much!”

She shakes like a leaf and my heart shreds into pieces, grieving for her, for me, for every lonely soul who’s left behind after the death of a loved one.

A corrosive burn, one I’ve quashed down repeatedly when I wake up at night, bathed in sweat after reliving the past, makes its way up my esophagus, my throat, then before I know it, I’m yelling at the flames.

“I’m sorry, Mom! I heard you arguing that day. I knew you were upset, but I ran away because I was scared shitless about loud noises. If I’d gone to you, if I hadn’t left my marbles all over the place, you wouldn’t have died. I heard him, you know. I should’ve known you were in danger. He said, ‘They’ll never believe you, Joanna. You won’t be here to tell them anything.’”

My confession spills out of me.

I hear Olivia’s sharp gasp, and I know I’ve surprised her. But I can’t help it. This poison has been bottled up inside me for too long.

I shove my hand into my pocket and clench the marble, a reminder of what I did to my family.

This is why I couldn’t forgive myself as a kid or as an adult. When Iwas younger, I didn’t understand what I’d heard. I thought my memory was playing tricks on me, because the voice was muffled and I didn’t recognize it. I couldn’t parse the statement—it made no sense. Mom had no enemies. But I knew Mom had slipped on my marbles, fallen down the stairs, and broken her neck.

Even as a six-year-old, I knew it was my fault. If I’d cleaned up after myself, Mom would still be here.

But when we caught the culprit a few years ago,everythingmade sense.

Those words I heard—they weren’t from a scared kid with endless imagination.

They were threats from her murderer moments before she died. Mom must have figured out the culprit behind the mysterious deaths of the Anderson wives of first sons. She must have confronted the murderer.

And instead of going to her, I ran away.

That’s why I couldn’t forgive myself when Maxwell unearthed the killer, when he told me it wasn’t my fault.

None of them knew.

It was my fault.

I had opportunities to stop it from happening. Instead, I caved to my fears and ran away.

Useless. A scaredy cat.

I robbed my mom of her life and my family of happiness.

No matter how many jokes I crack, how many smiles I put on their faces, how much of a daredevil I am now, I’ll never be able to heal those wounds.

“I’m sorry!” I yell into the fire. “I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for being a fuckup now. I’m so fucking sorry!”

My words echo as the flames crackle and my vision blurs.

Ragged gasps etch out of my lips—ugly, horrible sobs—the poison inside me finally overflowing, leaking out of my pores in streaks of black.

Then, I feel it.

Her hand on my arm. She slowly steps into my vision and I see her.

My angel. My siren. My salvation.

Tears stream down her face, no doubt matching mine.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers urgently, her fingers shaking as she brings them up to my cheek. “Just like how it isn’t my fault.”

Her words are a balm to my soul, an antidote to the poison.