The Fabric of our Souls

The view from the hospital window is depressing, barren trees and sad, long stretches of empty field. Lanston sets a cup of coffee down next to me and frowns as he leans back in the chair.

We’ve been here all day and we still know nothing. We don’t know the body count. We don’t know if they’ve caught Crosby.

My stomach sinks.

“You should try some… it’s not so bad.” Lanston urges me to take a sip of the coffee. I shake my head and lower my chin.

He’s quiet for a few minutes before he scoots in closer and sets his hand on mine. I dredge up the will to look at him and he feigns a weak smile.

“It will help. We’ll hear something soon.” His hand trembles and he pulls it back, gripping it himself to stop the shaking.

I swallow the lump in my throat and look at Lanston in defeat. “Why did we get away? Why didn’t we burn with them?”

The guilt tears at my soul unlike anything I’ve ever endured. Why do we, the two who desperately wished to die, get to live?

Lanston’s lower lip quivers as he mutters, “I don’t know, Wynn. But I wish it was me… So Yelina could live… So anyone else who perished could live.” His head dips and the sobbing shakes his entire body.

I have no tears left; my eyes won’t bear them. So I crawl into his lap and we hold each other.

“I’m so happy it wasn’t you,” I say selfishly, burying my face into his shirt.

A few hours pass and we get discharged, sent away with sleeping pills and the detective’s phone number. When we call, he asks us to stop by the investigation site.

We drive to Harlow.

Smoke still billows from the ashes. The stones I once cherished are blackened with death.

We sit quietly in the car. It takes thirty minutes before Lanston opens his door. He patiently waits another ten minutes for me to follow.

He holds out his hand and I thread my fingers through his.

The gravel sounds so much louder than it ever did before. We walk around the perimeter of the building, taking in just how much damage was unleashed here. The detective asks us questions and we tell him everything we know. The basement, the greenhouse, and how Crosby seemed to have easy access to both. The detective mentions that all the windows had been nailed down, and though the investigation is early, they suspect that carbon monoxide was used prior to the fire, since most of the bodies were found in their beds.

The greenhouse comes into view, untouched by the flames.

Lanston looks at it and shakes his head.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I say as I make my way slowly to the glass enclosure. Lanston and the detective continue up the slope. It’s not that I believe Liam will be in there. I just want to have something… a last memory of this place other than the fire.

I make my way quickly through the greenhouse, stopping briefly at the door in the back before opening it.

I don’t find anything. It’s the same horrible, bloodstained room it was my first time here. Memorizing the small space takes but a minute, and then I slowly shut the door and walk back outside.

The detective gives us a grave look before we get back to Lanston’s car. He hands us a report and dips his head.

Only two survived the tragic fire at Harlow Sanctum, Roman Bear and Sydney Lawsen. Over fifty-six bodies, including staff and patients, were recovered.

Police are still looking for the arsonist.

We stay silent. No tears. No screaming.

Nothing.

I’ve never wanted to die more than I do at this moment.

Liam. I’m so sorry.

Roman Bear, the night guard, and Sydney Lawsen, one of the patients. That’s it.

We leave as the sun starts to set, silent and tired. We’re both reluctant to return to that rental so we stop at the café to grab coffee and maybe dinner if we can stomach it.

Crosby showed up a day early. And that one day took everything from us.

“It was always supposed to be the three of us,” I say.

Lanston parks the car and stares at me with darkened eyes. “I know.” That is the only thing he says before turning the engine off. “I know.”