Page 79 of Ruin

I turned my attention back to the SUV and quickly grabbed the metal can of lighter fluid and book of matches. “Leave, Sam,” I demanded.

As I walked toward the vines, I heard the car door open, close, and the low rumble of the SUV as it pulled slowly down the dirt road. The sounds disappeared into the night as Sam began the mile long journey back to the hotel.

Moonlight lit my path as I circled the vines, dousing the base with the gas to ensure the lattice stack was turned to ash by the time the fire was out. I slowly backed away, covering the blood and bodily fluids that had seeped out onto the dirt when I threw his body onto the top.

I held the flame between my fingers, watching it dance in the wind. In an instant, I flicked the match onto the line of gasoline that led to the makeshift pyre—watching as the ground around the fluid lit up and flames traveled toward the body. Moments later, it was engulfed in hot flames that quickly worked their way up to the top.

Smoke and embers danced in the wind as the silence that once filled the air was now filled with the sounds of the crackling and breaking of the vines and wood. I stood silently as the heat of the flames caressed my skin. A deep satisfaction was growing inside of me, tinged with anger and despair as I thought of Claire’s anger. The flames reminded me of her; unpredictable yet completely inescapable.

Once the heap collapsed, I turned toward the hotel and began my walk. I thought of Claire again, my mind racing as I thought of every way I could potentially repair our relationship. With each step I took, I felt more of her anger and disappointment. She was seething.

And still, I walked toward her, knowing I had already lost.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Claire

Iwoke up to the scent of smoke clinging to the air that drifted in through the open window. This was my second nap of the day. The combination of trauma, the aches across my body, and the pain relievers Sam gave me kept me in a disorienting haze.

My eyes processed the room. Light streamed in through the gap in the curtains, casting a long sliver of light that crept across the tile floor. Room service carts scattered across the room as silver domes covered the white plates. Room service had been sent to my room every few hours, most of which I didn’t touch. Nausea clenched my stomach, reminding me of the night before and my current predicament.

It wasn’t just physical. The sickness curled in my ribs like guilt. I couldn’t tell if it was from what I’d seen or the knowledge that I was still here while someone else wasn’t. Jennifer’s laugh still echoed, faint and sharp like a wine glass breaking in my ears.

My laptop sat closed at the foot of my bed. I recalled messaging my mother and sister, letting them know I was okay. Despite providing the number for the hotel, I asked the front desk to hold my calls. I was in no position to explain what had happened or answer any questions.

I wanted to be alone.

Silence was a kind of mercy. Words felt dangerous. Too solid, too real. I didn’t want to be reminded of what I should say, what I should feel. Grief hadn’t formed into anything yet—it was still gathering shape.

Moments later, I heard the door unlock. Sam’s head emerged from the open doorway, letting in a gust of wind that carried with it the scent of roses and smoke.

“Here you are again,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a rasp.

“Like clockwork,” he said with a sigh as he closed the door behind him.

“What’s next on the menu?” I quipped, though the words felt foreign—like my mouth had borrowed someone else’s script.

Sam set his medical bag on the table next to the bed and pulled up a chair. “The usual. Wound check.”

He didn’t ask permission. He never did. And I never stopped him. That was our rhythm—quiet, clinical, efficient. It reminded me of hospitals, and I hated that it also felt like safety.

He glanced at the untouched room service carts. “Not hungry?”

“Too nauseous,” I replied, dragging myself to the edge of the bed.

My limbs moved like they belonged to someone else. Everything hurt. Pain radiated in the back of my head and across my torso, shocking my ribs and skull in pulses. My muscles were sore, and bruises covered my arms and the side of my neck.

Like reminders. Like warnings.

“I will give you something to help with that. You need to eat. It is good for your healing,” he said soothingly as he removed the bandages from my knees.

Healing. As if that was all this was. A process. A sequence of steps. A checklist.

He began unwrapping the bandages around my knees. I hissed as cool air touched broken skin. The scrapes and gashes had crusted over in places. Others were raw and red. Angry.

I watched his hands. Steady, efficient. Nothing like mine. My hands shook when I picked up the coffee mug earlier. I had spilled it. I still had not cried yet, but I’d spilled coffee. That meant something, didn’t it?

Maybe that was grief, or trauma, or just a body stretched too far. Maybe it was the sound of Antonio’s voice still echoing in my skull. Maybe it was the silence that followed—Arik’s silence—that gutted me the most.