The fury churned inside my chest like a living thing.
But my father-in-law's screams from the night before kept echoing in my ears, pushing that rage back down every time it tried to rise.
Eight years. Terry had been good to me for eight years.
Back in the countryside, dying in a fire was considered an unnatural death. He'd been lying in there all night. If we didn't arrange his funeral soon, I was afraid his spirit wouldn't find peace.
So I stepped forward and grabbed John's sleeve.
"John, your father is in there! Come inside with me and look!"
I was terrified he'd cut me off again, so I forced every word out as fast as I could.
John froze for a second.
Then he shoved me away.
He used real force. I crumpled onto the blackened wreckage, palms scraping against charred debris.
John pointed down at me, jaw clenched, voice like a blade.
"Stella, you've lost your goddamn mind! My father treated you like his own daughter, and now you're standing here cursing him dead?! What kind of daughter-in-law are you?! What kind of person are you?!"
"John—"
"Shut up! On the way here, Denise showed me a text my dad sent her this morning wishing her happy birthday! So what, he's dead and sending messages from beyond the grave now?!"
My head snapped up. My gaze shot past John to Denise standing behind him.
The instant our eyes met, she looked away. She stepped forward and tugged gently at John's hand.
"Johnny, I'm a little tired. Let's head back to the city. It's so dark out here... it's creepy."
John glared at me one last time.
The second he turned to Denise, his entire tone shifted.
"Okay. Don't be scared. We're leaving right now."
He took her hand and started to walk away.
But the moment he turned, an old man in plain clothes came rushing up from behind, waving his arms at me as he ran.
"Miss! The old fellow who was trapped in the house last night—did they get him out?"
In the urgency of that voice, John went rigid where he stood.
"Miss." Old Mr. Harmon reached me and clasped my hand in both of his. "Yesterday, I heard you calling him Dad the whole time. How is he? He was a good man, a real good man. That wine was from me, you know..." He trailed off with a heavy sigh.
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
John cut the old man off, lunging forward and seizing him by the collar.
"Are you saying there was actually someone inside that house when it burned?!"
Old Mr. Harmon blinked, bewildered.
"Of course there was. He was screaming for help the whole time, screaming like his lungs would burst. I don't know if he—"
"Stop!"
John's voice cracked. He gripped the old man's collar tighter, his words scraping out raw and hoarse.
"Answer me. The person inside last night—how old was he? What was he wearing? What did he look like?!"
Old Mr. Harmon stared at him, confused.
"Who are you, exactly...?"
"Just answer me!!"
The old man paused for two long seconds, then spoke slowly.
"Older than me. An old fellow..."
The color drained from John's face.
I, on the other hand, finally let out a breath.
I'd already started searching for cemeteries on my phone, ready to make arrangements for Terry's burial.
Old Mr. Harmon was still going, his words coming in halting fragments.
"Thin build. Full head of black hair—"
"What?!"
John's roar tore through the air, cutting the old man off mid-sentence.
"You said black hair?!"
"That's right..."
I had just added the cemetery manager's contact on my phone when I heard John exhale.
I looked up slowly. Our eyes met.
The tension in his face had dissolved. Something unspeakable had settled in its place—relief. He pointed at me and let a few quiet words fall from his lips.
