Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
She tagged the lighter fluid, flipped the cap, and submersed the blankets. Twisting, she snatched the lighter and squatted on the top stair.
“She’s up to something, Mr. Oxford.” The Craig removed the bar.
Roy slammed his body against the door, eyes wild. “What are you doing?”
Holding his gaze, her insides knotting with the horror of her plan, she sparked the lighter. “Would you survive my death?”
He threw his shoulder against the door, over and over. “No! No, don’t do this!” Hands in his hair, gun rubbing along his head, he screamed, “Get that fucking door open.”
The Craig shoved the bar through the crack, and she touched the flame to the blankets. The fire flashed in a brilliant yellow flame and curled into a roaring blaze, consuming the stairs and door.
“Noooooo, no, no, no.” Roy bellowed, and the bus rocked under the bang of something against the side. Presumably his body.
The smoldering air chased her into the lounge, burning down the back of her throat and scorching her lungs. She knelt on the couch and pressed a hand against the window. “Put that gun in your mouth,” she shouted.
He ran to the window, eyes up and blinking with helplessness. “There’s an extinguisher. Find it. Check the galley.” His hand clenched on the collar of his dress shirt.
“You did this.” She coughed, her voice rattling with phlegm. “You killed me.”
Squeezing the lighter fluid, she sprayed it over the aisle, couches and walls. Smoke blanketed the cabin, and Roy vanished behind the thick screen of smog.
Nose buried in her arm, she danced around the flames, scooped up the fire extinguisher, the gas mask and goggles. The heat scalded her skin, her clothes drenched in sweat.
Outside the bus, his wails roared over the whoosh of devoured air and the crackling and crashing of things falling down around her. She strained to hear that final gun shot, knowing it wouldn’t come. He would scour the charred remains for her body. If he couldn’t identify her, he would watch Jay, analyze his behavior. His thoroughness rivaled his persistence. He wouldn’t turn the gun on himself until he had the evidence, until he saw her death in Jay’s eyes.
Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen and dizziness swept over her. She wrestled with the head gear, wondering why she’d want to watch the inferno consume her. Hands trembling, heart racing, her earlier resolve seeped away with her strength. Panic flooded in. Too late for that.
The fire rushed toward her. She backed toward the bunks, awaiting her death, comforted by the howl of Roy’s sobs.
92
Jay lay in a bed, in a room, unsure of when or how he arrived, his mind still entombed within the smoldering skeleton of the bus. He was simply a cell in his body, breathing, existing, nothing more.
A shadow had stretched over him, blocking light to his thoughts, picking at old scars, and softening the steel beneath. Outside the shadow, hours passed. Days maybe. But time held still in the darkness.
He gathered a pillow to his chest, wishing it was one of Charlee’s shirts, her messenger bag, her sketchbook, something of hers to hold. He had nothing. Everything that signified her had burned. Gone. She was gone.
An aching void crawled from his gut, hollowed out his chest, and swelled in his throat. It wouldn’t relent. No matter how many tears or how deep the pain, it wouldn’t be satisfied until it swallowed him whole.
Every release of every breath, he battled the overwhelming pull to follow her into death. So he clung to the news of Roy’s incarceration and the consummation that could bring.
Apparently, Roy hadn’t had enough time to buy off every local cop. When they hauled him from the crime scene, he was in a sobbing state of hysteria. He was so panic-stricken, his own thugs hadn’t been able to pull him away before the cops showed up. Not that Jay had reacted differently when he arrived at the hangar. The stench of soot and the grit of ash on his skin replaced his old nightmares with new ones.
He buried his face in the pillow as the torment exploded in his skull and erected a stabbing pressure behind his eyes. He choked, gasping for air.
The door creaked open, flinging a stripe of light over the bed. He mustered the strength to clench his jaw and abandon his sniveling.
Footsteps approached. The mattress shifted. “You haven’t left this room in a week, Jay.” Laz leaned over and shook the empty water bottle on the side table. “At least you’re hydrating.”
A paper bag rustled, and the aroma of fried food invaded his nose and turned his stomach.
“Not hungry.” His voice grated from disuse.
“Not asking.” Laz reached for the lamp and light flooded the room, searing Jay’s eyes. “Nathan called. If you’re going to identify…” His voice croaked, cleared. “You have to identify the remains by the end of the day.”