Chapter 2: The Funeral for the Living
Preston was suspended.
Unpaid.
Department investigation.
“Failure to follow chain of command. Failure to prioritize civilian life. Conduct unbecoming.”
Khloe made bail.
Her father paid.
He’s a councilman.
He called me.
“Ms. Bennett,” he said, “my daughter is troubled. She made a mistake. Can we settle this? Quietly?”
“No,” I said.
“She could go to prison.”
“She could have let me burn,” I said.
He hung up.
The department fired Preston.
Not for Khloe.
For the radio logs.
“Get Khloe out first. She has asthma.”
“Captain, the bride is still inside.”
“I said Khloe first. That’s an order.”
You don’t get to order who lives.
Not when you wear the badge.
He gave a press conference.
No lawyers.
Just him.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “I panicked. Khloe is like a sister to me. I thought Tara was… I thought the other team had her. I was wrong. I’ll regret it every day. I love Tara. I always will.”
He cried.
Good.
I was at home.
Discharged.
Scars. Grafts. Pressure garments.
Lily was with me.
Not my daughter.
My sister’s daughter.
My sister died two years ago. Car accident.
Lily was 6.
I took her.
Preston never liked it.
“She’s not ours,” he said.
“She’s mine,” I said.
She was in the room.
When the fire happened.
She was the flower girl.
She was downstairs.
With the planner.
Safe.
When she heard, she ran.
A firefighter stopped her.
She told me later.
“I told him ‘My mom’s upstairs’,” she said. “He said ‘Which one?’ I said ‘The one in the white dress’. He said ‘We got her’.”
They didn’t.
Wyatt did.
Lily came to the hospital.
Every day.
She drew pictures.
Taped them to the glass.
One: me, as a dragon. Breathing fire.
“Because you didn’t die,” she said. “You fought.”
I kept it.
Preston tried to see Lily.
School called.
“He’s not on the list,” I told them. “He’s not her father. He’s not my husband. He’s not anything.”
He went to court.
Tried to get visitation.
Cited ‘parental role’.
Judge Molina. Again.
She read the file.
She looked at him.
“Mr. Hale,” she said, “you chose a woman with a cough over a woman on fire. You don’t get to choose a child now.”
Denied.
He left.
Lily asked.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes,” I said. “From us.”
“Good,” she said. “He was loud. I like quiet.”
We were quiet.
For months.
Physical therapy.
Skin grafts.
Nightmares.
I smelled smoke in the grocery store.
Candle aisle.
Left.
Didn’t go back.
Six months later.
Khloe took a plea.
Arson. Reckless.
Battery.
Theft.
Obstruction.
Five years.
No parole.
Her father didn’t speak to her at sentencing.
He looked at me.
I looked at the wall.
She cried.
I didn’t.
Preston was there.
He didn’t look at me.
He looked at the floor.
After, he waited.
Outside.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “About the chair. About the door. I swear.”
“You knew she was there,” I said. “You knew I was there. You chose. That’s enough.”
“She said you’d be fine. You knew first aid.”
“I did,” I said. “First aid doesn’t work on locked doors.”
He had no answer.
“Did you love her?” I asked.
He flinched. “No. Yes. I don’t know. She needed me. You didn’t. You were always… fine.”
“I wasn’t fine,” I said. “I was drowning. You just liked that I didn’t splash.”
He walked away.
One year.
I took Lily to the estate.
Where it burned.
They rebuilt it.
New owners.
No candles.
We stood outside.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just a building. You’re not in it.”
She was right.
We left.
We got ice cream.
She got vanilla.
I got burned.
She laughed. “Mom, that’s dark.”
May you like
“It’s a flavor,” I said. “And a fact.”
We were good.
