“Don’t touch it,” Mom says, and it’s not anger in her voice but fear.

“You flew back?” I ask Christian when we have a moment alone. “You just left three days ago.”

“I flew back as soon as I heard,” he says. I can see the concern on his face. “I can’t believe she shot you.”

“She didn’t,” I say. “It was an accident.”

“You can’t be serious,” he says. “You’re really going to keep covering for her?”

“I’m not covering for her,” I say, and it’s the truth. “It was an accident.” None of them believe me, but that’s what happened. She didn’t aim the gun at me—we both had hands on it when it went off.

And when the Atlanta police arrive for a statement, that’s exactly what I tell them despite the glares from my family. It takes all my effort to hold back, to not ask about Elise. I don’t tell them about the memories I’ve recovered, but it’s not because I’m still protecting Elise. I haven’t decided what I’ll do, if I can even recant my previous statement.

In quiet moments, I wonder where she is, how she’s doing. I can’t shake our last moments together—the struggle over the gun, the sound of her voice begging me not to leave.

But at the same time, I feel a strange distance. I worry about her but I don’t feel responsible for her in the same way I used to—I don’t feel guilt gnawing at my heart. It’s not just the fight, what was said at the end. I can’t explain it, but it’s like the bullet severed more than soft tissue and bone. Like it destroyed every last shred of who I was so completely that I became brand-new.

Within hours I’m running a fever, but it doesn’t feel like any fever I’ve ever had.

Instead, as I burn up, tossing and turning on the hospital bed, it feels like a cleansing fire. Like destruction but also rebirth.

A phoenix rising from its ashes.

It’s a comforting thought, but then I catch myself. This is the kind of lie Elise would believe—this is the kind of pain she thought would make her stronger.

I am not a phoenix rising from its ashes. Fire does not cleanse, only burn. Death isn’t rebirth.

Jack is never coming back.

67.

In the afternoon, Vera comes by. “I thought we agreed to stop meeting like this,” she jokes with a gentle smile.

“Sorry,” I say, returning the smile.

She tells me she’s spoken with Detective Ward, who wants to talk to me again. “This specific incident didn’t happen in her jurisdiction, but she wants to know if there’s anything you’d like to revise in your statement.”

I start crying, alarming Mom, Dad, and Christian. Vera asks them to give us a few minutes. I tell her everything. I tell her about the pranks, about our trip to Chattanooga and the ensuing argument between Elise and Jack, and finally, what really happened Sunday night.