Riley's POV
The bed sits stripped and empty, nothing but bare mattress and the sharp bite of bleach burning my nostrils. This sterile smell makes everything wrong. This isn't the same bed where I used to crawl under covers when nightmares came calling, or where we built blanket castles on rainy afternoons, or where she held me tight while I sobbed out my fears.
This is where she died. I spin toward the closet. She died right here, next to this stupid closet full of clothes she'll never wear again.
Rage floods through me as I tip the gas can, letting the liquid splash across every dress and blouse hanging inside. The fumes make my head spin, but I don't care. I move to the bed next, soaking the mattress until the gas pools and drips onto the hardwood floor. Step by step, I work my way toward the door, leaving a wet trail behind me as I pour gas down the hallway.
