Dipping my chin, I squeezed my eyes shut. It was a bad idea because I could see that night clearly. To the day I died, I’d be able to see that night, to waking up with my brand-new room, with its pink walls and my name spelled out in block letters attached to the wall, filled with smoke. I’d never forget that the first big breath I dragged in had scorched the very inside of my throat and chest. Panic poured into me as I’d stumbled off the bed and saw the pink paint peeling from the walls, the terror when I opened the bathroom door and the entire world exploded. Smoke had turned yellow and brown—I remembered that—a moment before it all happened. Glass shards had been flung through the air, slicing into my skin. Flames were everywhere, seeming to crawl across the floor and lick over the ceilings and walls. It was like a giant flash. And there had been screams. Horrific screams that no horror movie could even really replicate and some of them had been mine. Some of them had been Kevin’s.

“It was so hot. The paint was blistering. There was no air and . . .” I drew in a shaky breath and I didn’t realize that I’d spoken out loud until his lips pressed against my temple again.

“I know you were lucky to survive,” he said, smoothing his thumbs along the sides of my waist. “Your dad got to you first and he brought you outside. And then he and your Mom tried to get back inside, upstairs again, but it was fully engulfed. They couldn’t get back up the stairs . . . it was too late for your brothers.”

I twisted again, but Jax held on. The ice in my chest was spreading, becoming a real, tangible pain. “Tommy never woke up.” I remembered hearing Mom say that once. That after an autopsy was performed, it showed that he’d died from smoke inhalation. A blessing in disguise, because by the time the fire was put out, his room was nothing but charred cinder and wood. “Kevin . . . he was awake.”

Again, with the quiet voice, “I know.”

I opened my eyes slowly and my lashes felt damp. “Their coffins,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes tight once more and seeing them. “They were so small. You know, smaller than you think they made coffins. And yet, I know they make them even smaller, but God . . . they were so small.”

His lips brushed under the corner of my right eye, and I knew—oh God, my chest hurt—I knew he’d caught a tear, and the iciness in my chest, invading my stomach and my soul, eased off a little bit.

“They never had a chance,” I said, dragging in another deep breath. “The fire started right outside their rooms, in the ceiling and walls. It spread so quickly.”

Jax remained quiet, and a few moments passed before I spoke again. “Our family was awarded a large sum of money once it was discovered that the fire . . . it was due to the faulty wiring. Dad put some in a college fund for me. That’s . . . that’s the money Mom had drained. And she had a lot of money—hundreds of thousands that she had to have blown through.” My fingers eased off the blanket. “Dad left not even a year later. He couldn’t deal.”