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So is the bloody handprint.
But the images in my head are too fresh to erase.
Air gets caught in my lungs when I walk into the pitch-black house. The smell of bleach burns my nostrils as I venture into the hall and flick the light on. I focus ahead of me, making a beeline for the kitchen.
I’m scared to see something of Lexie’s.
Scared I’ll crumble under my grief.
Her bed that’s full of her favorite toys catches my eye when I turn the corner.
I can still see her, ogling me with her big, brown eyes and tongue sticking out. I see her swinging tail as she runs to me and licks my face, overwhelmed with joy. My eyes immediately fog with tears, and I charge toward the bathroom to avoid Finn walking in on me mid-breakdown.
I must stay in there, crying into my hands, for over five minutes. Until I hear the front door close.
Finn found the courage to get out of the car. That’s a start. But I know the hard part is what comes next—seeing her things, feeling her absence, cohabiting with her ghost.
I start wiping the mascara and makeup staining my cheeks but stop at the sound of rapid footsteps tearing through the first floor. What’s got him in such a hurry?
There’s clatter.
Furniture moving around.
As much as I want to go out there, I’d prefer not to be a snotty, weeping mess in front of him again.
I need to be strong.
One of us has to.
I manage to get a grip on my feelings a few minutes later, padding out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He’s not here. Glancing around the room, I venture into the kitchen.
“Finn?”
No response.
My jaw nearly hits the floor when I look out the window and find him standing still in the backyard, a pile of unidentified things at his feet. I notice he’s holding something.
A red can.
My heart stops.
Is that… gasoline?
On high alert, I slide the patio door open and speed over to him, not the tiniest bit surprised by the lack of emotion on his face. His hazel eyes are vacant, cold, haunting as he stares ahead of him and ponders his next move.
“Finn, what are you doing?” A mix of panic and shock steals my voice. He doesn’t acknowledge me one bit, as though he’s in some sort of trance, and begins pouring gasoline all over the pile of things before him.
That’s when I realize…
They’re Lexie’s things.
Her dog bed, her favorite toys, her blankets.
Everything they ever bought for her.
“Finn.” I tug at his shirt. “Finn, don’t do this.”
Nothing seems to be enough to earn me his attention.
