Chapter 2 - The Fire Inside the Box
The heat didn't rise; it dropped like a heavy, suffocating wool blanket from the ceiling. Dark, toxic smoke from the burning synthetic rug in the hallway began to seep under the gap beneath my bedroom door, curling into the room like black fingers.
"Jessica! Mom! Open the door!" I slammed my palms against the painted wood. The sting of the heat on the other side was already sharp.
Through the thick wood, my mother’s voice carried over the crackle of the wood. "You always wanted attention, Caitlyn. You always had to be the dramatic one. Let’s see how you handle a real performance."
"It’s an accident, remember?" Jessica’s voice followed, light, airy, and entirely devoid of human empathy. "The old wiring in this house was always dangerous. Everyone knows how unstable you’ve been. Such a tragedy."
The sound of their footsteps retreating down the stairs echoed through the floorboards. They were leaving the house. They were going to stand on the manicured front lawn, wait for the flames to become visible to the neighbors on Bennett Street, and then play the roles of grieving, horrified survivors. Deborah Monroe would wear her pearl earrings to my funeral.
Panic threatened to swallow my mind, but the cold, hard anger I had cultivated over years of survival kicked in. The boot.
I dropped to my knees, choking as the smoke thickened. Crawling blindly toward the closet, I dragged my hand along the floor until I felt the stiff leather of the old riding boots I had left behind years ago. I thrust my hand inside the left boot, tearing away the cheap foam insole. My fingers brushed against the small, rectangular plastic of the prepaid Walmart burner phone.
I pulled it out. The battery was low—only fifteen percent—but it had a signal.
Instead of calling 911 first, I dialed a number I knew by heart. Maya. We hadn't spoken properly in years, but she was a paralegal now in Columbus, and we had a pact.
"Caitlyn?" her voice cracked through the small speaker.
"Maya, they locked me in. The house is on fire. Bennett Street," I gasped, coughing violently as the black smoke began to obscure my vision. "The digital drive is in the hidden compartment of my old desk. If I don't make it out, download the cloud backup. The password is UnstitchedMouths2014."
"Oh my god, Caitlyn! I'm calling the fire department right now! Get out of there!"
I dropped the phone. The room was getting hotter, the air turning into a furnace. I couldn't breathe through my nose anymore. I pulled my shirt up over my mouth and nose, looking around the room. The window was painted shut—my mother's old rule to keep me from "slipping out"—but I didn't need to open it gently.
I grabbed the heavy oak chair from my old vanity—the one piece of furniture Jessica hadn't stolen because it had a scratched leg. With all the strength left in my lungs, I swung it against the glass.
The window shattered, exploding outward into the cool Ohio evening air. A rush of fresh oxygen poured into the room, momentarily clearing the smoke but also feeding the fire creeping under the door. The hallway door groaned as the wood warped from the intense heat outside.
I crawled to the window sill, glass tearing into my bare knees and palms. Looking down, the drop to the hydrangeas below was at least fifteen feet, and the roof of the porch was too far to the left.
Down on the driveway, I saw them.
My mother and Jessica were standing near the Lexus. My mother was holding her cell phone, her face twisted into a mask of perfect, rehearsed horror, ready to dial 911 the moment the flames broke through the front windows. Jessica was leaning against the car, casually adjusting her Lululemon jacket.
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Then, my mother looked up and saw me standing in the shattered frame of the second-story window.
The look of pure, unadulterated fury that crossed Deborah Monroe’s face when she realized I was still alive was the most honest expression she had ever worn.
