Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Ellie
The smell of smoke yanks me out of sleep.
I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The couch digs into the back of my
legs; the room swims before my eyes.
And then I hear it—a low, crackling hiss from the kitchen.
The burners.
I stumble to my feet, dizzy, the heavy scent of gas stinging my nose and throat. I gag, coughing, and stagger toward the source.
The stovetop is ablaze—one of the burners has caught fire, a greasy orange flame licking up toward the cabinets.
Panic claws at me.
I don’t remember turning on the stove. I don’t even remember lying down on the couch.
“Ellie!”
Jack’s voice cuts through the haze. He bursts into the kitchen, barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, eyes wild. Without
hesitation, he grabs the fire extinguisher from under the sink, rips the pin out, and blasts the fire with a shuddering spray
of white foam.
It only takes a few seconds, but it feels like hours.
The flames die, leaving behind a scorched burner and a sickly chemical smell. The kitchen is a mess of soot and smoke. Jack
tosses the extinguisher aside and grabs me by the shoulders.
“Jesus Christ, Ellie,” he says. “What the hell happened?”
I can’t answer.
Tears stream down my face without permission. My whole body shakes as if I’m standing outside in a blizzard.
“I—I don’t know,” I gasp. “I don’t remember—”
He pulls me into his arms, clutching me tight against his chest. His T-shirt smells like laundry detergent and the faint,
lingering scent of smoke. His heart pounds against my ear, fast and furious.
I sob into his shoulder, humiliated, terrified.
“I didn’t—Jack, I swear—I didn’t mean to—”
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. His hands are strong, anchoring. I want to believe this comfort
is real, but something inside me coils tight, mistrusting.
“I don’t remember turning anything on,” I whisper, the words cracking apart in my throat. “I don’t even remember getting off
the couch—”
He leans back just enough to cup my face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. His expression is soft. Too soft.
Like I’m a bomb about to detonate.
“You could have burned down the entire building, Ellie,” he says, his voice low but sharp. “You could have killed yourself.
Or someone else.”
The words hit harder than any slap. I shrink under his gaze, the weight of guilt suffocating me.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry—”
Jack pulls me close again, kissing the top of my head. “It’s not your fault, baby. It’s the sickness. It’s getting worse.”
Sickness. The word rings in my ears like a death knell.
“I think . . .” He hesitates, rubbing slow circles into my back. “I think maybe it’s time for something more serious. An in-treatment
program.”
I stiffen against him. He feels it.
“You’re not safe like this,” he says, gentle but firm. “The therapy’s not enough. You need real help. 24/7 care. Just for
a little while.”
A mental institution.
Like my mother.
I suck in a ragged breath, pulling back to look at him. His face is open, concerned, loving—and absolutely calculated.
I know it now. I know it in the marrow of my bones. This is what he’s been working toward all along. Convincing me—and everyone
else—that I’m dangerous. That I’m unstable. That I need to be locked away where no one will hear me scream.
“No,” I whisper, but it’s too weak, too automatic.
Jack smooths my hair back from my damp forehead. “Just for a little while. You’ll get better. And when you come home, we’ll
be stronger than ever.”
Home.
Stronger.
Better.
The lies are so sweet they almost lull me into nodding along. Almost.
But I remember the surveillance videos. The files.
I know what he really means.
If I disappear into an inpatient program, I’ll never come back. Not as myself. Maybe not at all.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from shaking. I force myself to nod, just a little. Just enough.
“Maybe you’re right,” I whisper. “Maybe I need more help.”
Relief crosses his face. He kisses my forehead again, lingering too long.
“I’ll call Dr. Kessler in the morning,” he murmurs. “She’ll know what to do.”
I nod again, mechanical. Hollow.
He thinks he’s won. But what he doesn’t know—what he can’t even begin to imagine—is that I’ve already set the next trap.
And this time, he’s the one who’s never coming back.