I breathe out, old ghosts coming back to haunt me. And new ones it seems. I can feel Goldie watching me. Monitoring me. Wondering what the fuck I’m thinking.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” she asks, coming over and taking a seat on the other side of my desk. “I hate that look on you.”
I cup my chin, feeling the roughness as I mold into it with my fingertips.
“James?”
I give her a moment of my eyes, my mind whirling. And then I reach for the phone again, calling Spittle back. “Find out how the appeal into Jaz Hayley’s death is going.”
“Jaz? What do you want with Jaz?”
“You’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to answer them.”
“The appeal is being rejected,” he says quietly.
“And the daughter?”
“What about her? She doesn’t know yet.”
“Yet,” I murmur, reaching for my temple and rubbing away the tension. She’s not going to give up until she gets justice for her mother, and of all people, I know there is no justice in this world. My back tingles, as if to reinforce it. And images of my family, my whole fucking family, parade through my mind. I quickly push those thoughts away and refocus on the problem at hand. Beau Hayley.
For fuck’s sake. Does the woman want to die? I would say that was a stupid question if I didn’t know her medical history since her mum’s death. And I can relate. Been there. Done that. Wanted to die over and over again. Like I said, there is no justice in this world. So I learned to make justice my way. “Send me her number.”
“Whose number?” Spittle asks, confused.
“Beau Hayley’s.”
“Why?”
“Did you just ask another question?”
“No.” He sighs, sounding as defeated as a man could be. “Jesus, I’m tired.”
“Me too. Exhausted. Exhausted of fucking waiting.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“Get me Beau Hayley’s number.” I hang up and toss the phone back in the drawer, breathing out my frustration.
“What are you going to do?” Goldie asks. “Call her and ask her nicely to back off?”
I turn my eyes onto her, but I say nothing. I don’t need to. My face must say it all. Fuck off, you sarcastic bitch.
Goldie tilts her head. “It’s been two years. You got Jaz’s phone records. Nothing on them. I’ve checked all records on safety deposit boxes. Nothing. If she shared or hid information on you, your name, anything, you’d know by now.”
“I have a bad feeling.” I get up and head for the sauna. I need to sweat out some of this stress.
I need to burn.
Burn and know I won’t die.
I strip off, leaving my clothes in a pile at the door. The heat hits me like a brick, and I look at the thermometer on the back wall. One eighty.
I sit on the top bench and collect some water from the bucket, throwing it on the unit, and steam billows up and shrouds the space.
Not seen.
Leaning back against the wood, I close my eyes. I hear the screams instantly. Screams that can only be associated with death. The screams of my mum. Of my dad. Of my sister.
All burning alive.
I open my eyes to darkness and lean forward, putting my hand over the grill of the steam unit, the hot coals only an inch from my palm. I hold still. Absorb the pain. The heat. Because I won’t die. This fire won’t kill me.
Clenching my hand into a fist, I squeeze away the burn and lie down, reaching up and turning the sand timer. Fifteen minutes. I’ll turn it another four times before I’ll allow myself to leave this inferno.
It will never be enough.
2
Miami – Present Day
BEAU
A person’s ability to escape depends on their ability to imagine. I’ve lost my imagination. Lost everything. I’m trapped—trapped in a world that doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Trapped in a body I can’t even look at. Trapped with thoughts I want to physically rip from my head. Trapped with feelings that blur and blend into nothing. Happiness is a forgotten emotion. It’s safer to feel nothing, to ignore that I’m a fuck-up. To disregard the fact that I’m beyond help.
Accept I am alone.
Give up on hoping—hoping I can ever be normal again.
Because without hope, there can be no disappointment.
“Have you thought of ending your life, Beau?” Dr. Fletcher asks, and I blink, looking up from my lap, woken up from my daze.
All the time. “Never,” I say coolly, aware that the alternative answer will have me sent swiftly to a psychiatric hospital. Not again.
Her eyes fall to my wrists, and mine fall with them. I clear my throat and pull the sleeve of my shirt down, holding the cuff in my palm with my fingertips. “Tell me what you did today,” she goes on, and I smile to myself. “Is something amusing?”
I force myself to look at her. This woman, who is so together, so calm and serene, I could easily punch her in the face and not feel an ounce of guilt. “Nothing is amusing.” Not anymore. Not in my life.
“You smiled.” She crosses one leg over the other, her slender, perfect, untarnished limbs like a horrible torture. A reminder than I am anything but untarnished. Anything but perfect. She shouldn’t be a therapist. Dr. Fletcher is so flawless, it’s enough to send even the sanest person over the edge. “A person smiling suggests they are amused,” she adds.
“I’m amused that I’m here,” I say honestly. “I’m here, and I don’t want to be.” She knows I’m not talking about my sessions. Sessions with various therapists that have cost a small fortune and done nothing to chase away my hatred or my demons in the past two years. I’m talking about this world. This life. And yet each time I’ve convinced myself that there is a way out, that small, infuriating part of my brain surfaces and warns me away from the blade. From the rope. From the pills.
The voice of my mom.
The buzzer sounds, and I breathe in, rising from the chair. “It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Fletcher.” I smile, and she huffs a small, disbelieving puff of laughter. I’m sure it’s unprofessional, but I can’t blame her. She’s endured me for six months now. Six whole pointless months. And I’ll keep on coming. The alternative is a hospital. I’m not game. I bust my balls every day trying to make sure everyone around me thinks I’m okay. My act doesn’t wash with Dr. Fletcher. I’m ill, no question. Poisoned by hatred and bitterness. I’m used to it now. Comfortable with it. Accepting.
“I’ll see you next week, Beau.” Dr. Fletcher unravels her long legs and stands, placing her journal on the glossy wooden table between the couches. “It would be lovely to hear if you’d tried something new.”
“Like?” I ask as I swing my purse onto my shoulder.
“Dinner in a restaurant. Drinks in a bar. Maybe even seeing your aunt perform in one of her shows.”
“I thought you’d learned to manage your expectations.” I give her a wry smile, and she gives me a bright one. It’s dazzling. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so wide my face hurt. It makes me want to punch her more.