Page 62 of Plain Sight

I laugh out a stab wound in my throat.

“It was all fake. Except the photos. Those were real. And I didn’t tell any of you. I think I knew that. The last day in the house, I knew—I knew it was all fake. Maybe that’s why I wrecked it all. Mom’s china. It was all a lie. All that goodness. I’ve seen what happens when people get married and have kids and think they’re going to have a life together. Some asshole comes along and destroys it. The only smart thing to do is fuck it up before someone else can. At least when it’s fucked up, it’s honest.”

Glasses, now. All kinds of glass. The different shapes

“This is a lie, too. This nice little life. I’m a fucking lie. It feels good when you believe it, but it’s just like Mom and Dad. It’s waiting to go up in flames. It’s waiting for me to go off like a bomb and destroy it. So let me put you out of your misery. You won’t have to wait anymore. This is it. It’s so fucked up, but it feels good, doing this.” A sob catches me off-guard. “Because it hurts so fucking bad, you know? It hurts like a motherfucker. And you don’t need that. Robin doesn’t need that. My kid doesn’t need that. All of you should be far away from me. Out of range.”

“No, Jameson,” says Lily.

I can’t stop talking to listen to her.

“I’m a crime scene, angel. I’ve been a crime scene since the day our parents died. I think about those photos every single day. Every time I sleep, it’s a bloodbath. Those photos, in every dream. And I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.”

“Tell us about them,” Mason says.

“Of course I’ll tell you.” My throat is on fire. Lungs, too. Is that what it was like in the building while it burned? Is that what it would have been like in Beaufort fucking Hayes’s house? He’ll never know. He wasn’t there. He got driven away in a cop car, safe and sound. I smash three bowls, and I tell them. I tell them about the ashes and Dad’s ring and the blackened bones that were left behind. I tell them about the steel beam through the remains of our mother. I tell them everything. I don’t leave a single thing out.

The next time I turn around to get more dishes, Mason’s there.

To stop me, I think.

But he doesn’t stop me.

He holds out something else to throw, and he never leaves. He just hands me dish after bowl after serving platter, putting them directly into my hands. I don’t have to search for something else to destroy. I don’t have to think. It’s just there, ready to be sacrificed.

The pile builds up on the opposite wall. The sound I’m making is horrible. I wish I could stop making it, but I can’t. It’s not a scream—that would make Robin—but it’s inhuman. Is that really sobbing? Is it begging? I don’t know.

And then there’s a Phoenix Enterprises mug in my hand.

A Hot Wheels mug.

Two art museum souvenir mugs.

A Take the Cake croissant mug.

A My life is in ruins! mug.

A wedding-themed mug with Mickey and Minnie on it.

All of them go on the pile.

And then I turn around, a weird rushing sound in my ears and my eyes burning like they’re on fire, and Mason’s standing there with my big, red Mickey Mouse mug in his hands.

He holds it out to me.

I can’t move.

“This is it,” Mason says. “There’s nothing left.”

“That one’s mine,” I manage.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Do you like it?”

He looks down at the mug in his hand. Considers it. “I’ve always thought it belonged in my cupboard.”

“Would it be better if it was gone?”