Chapter 7 - The Lock Turns
Before I could grab my coat, Jessica stepped back into the hallway and pulled the heavy oak door shut.
CLICK.
The brass lock turned from the outside—a custom lock my mother had installed years ago to keep me contained during my teenage years.
“Jessica!” I shouted, lunging forward and rattling the brass handle. “Open this door right now!”
Her laughter sounded muffled through the thick wood. “Mom said you need time to calm down, Caitlyn. You’re having another episode.”
“Let me out!” I pounded my fists against the paneling.
Downstairs, I heard the faint sound of the front door closing and the electronic beep of the home security keypad.
Then came the smell.
It didn't start with smoke; it started with the acrid, chemical stench of lighter fluid drifting up from the floorboards directly beneath the closet.
A thick gray haze began curling out from under the baseboards, rising fast into the air.
My mother had set fire to the downstairs storage closet—the closet holding years of old family records, tax documents, and wooden furniture.
“Jessica! Mom!” I screamed, my voice cracking as smoke filled my lungs. “There’s a fire!”
From the hallway outside the door, my sister’s voice returned, cold and detached.
May you like
“Let her burn,” Jessica said softly.
And then my mother laughed.
