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From the house I dragged the rest of his knives. From the attic, I pulled a box of odds and ends I’d cleaned from his desk when he died and tossed it into the firepit. One of his shirts hung in my closet, in the back. I seized it and threw it on top of the pile.
Then I doused it in gasoline from the garage and tossed a match.
The flames roared and I stumbled back. Shocked by the intensity of them.
Overhead, the sky was clear. Stars dappled the darkness overhead and the dewy ground soaked through my shoes. My fingers were steady as I lit a cigarette and stood there, smoking and watching the flame burn out.
I wasn’t fixed, but I felt better.
I’d learned that from years of therapy, from living with the damage of PTSD. Healing didn’t always feel positive. Sometimes it felt raw, like I’d ripped off a bandage and taken all the infected flesh along with it.
Upstairs in my room, I cleared all the weapons from the closet and put them in my office. Then I moved the contents of Clara’s dressers and closet into the spaces that had previously held Edwin’s things.
Then I cleaned.
I was fully aware of what I was doing, of what was happening, but I needed it right now. So I let myself do it.
Instead of washing the sheets and towels, I bagged them and threw them in the trash. All the surfaces in the room were scrubbed with disinfectant. The curtains were ripped down and replaced with fresh ones.
The floor was steamed and mopped, scrubbed until it gleamed.
Everything I didn’t need, everything I no longer wanted, everything that reminded me of the past, was bagged and thrown into the dumpster in the garage. The things I couldn’t replace were put into the washer twice with hot water and soap.
It was almost midnight when I stepped into the shower, breathing hard.
I was purified.
Once I was clean, I put on a pair of boxer briefs and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. The whiskey had worn off, leaving my head buzzing and my lids heavy.
The front door opened. Her heels moved down the hall and I felt a twitch at the sound.
She appeared in the kitchen door in a tiny, glittering black velvet dress. The sides were ruched so it clung to her body. The hem sat barely more than an inch or two below her ass. Her cleavage swelled over the neckline, dusky with body glitter.
“Merrick…what is happening?” she said, her nose wrinkling. “It smells like bleach and smoke.”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
My voice was so hoarse, but not from the cigarettes or the fire.
A crease appeared between her brows. “Okay…I’m going to go shower.”
Shaking her head, she turned and strode down the hall. I set aside my glass, blood thumping and pooling in my groin, and pursued her up the stairs.
She was almost to the bedroom, ass swaying. Lean legs pumping in her high heels.
“Clara,” I said, my voice echoing down the hall.
She stopping, whirling.
My darkness was coming through the cracks. Our eyes met and I knew she saw it because a little shiver moved up her spine.
She backed up against our bedroom door as I closed the space between us. Sweat had made her body glitter clump in the delta between her breasts.
“Get down on your knees, cariad,” I whispered.
“Merrick, are you sure you’re okay?”
I cradled her head, stroking her cheek with my thumb. We stood there in silence, our breaths coming fast in the space between us. Then I stepped back and unfastened the front of my pants. Baring my erection.
