Page 150 of Ransom

Becca's face goes stark white. "What about the smoke alarms?"

I’m going to puke. Right here, in front of everyone. "No batteries. Dad took them out weeks before at supper—they kept going off when Mom cooked. She burned things, a lot. He was gonna replace them, but..." I swallow hard. "He was working double shifts that week. He forgot."

Jonas rocks back and forth in that way he does when he's processing something difficult. Micah's jaw clenches and unclenches, while Holly tucks herself further under Micah's arm.

"I killed them," I whisper. "If I hadn't snuck out?—"

"Stop." John's voice cuts through the air like a knife. His scar stands out stark against his pale skin. "You were eleven fucking years old."

But I'm back there again, smelling the smoke, seeing those body bags. The weight of twenty-eight years of guilt presses down on my chest until I can barely breathe.

"I was old enough to be more careful," I say, my voice raw. "Old enough to know better than to leave a towel near the stove. But I made a stupid fucking mistake, and I lost everyone that mattered to me."

Every muscle in my body feels like it’s turned to stone, like I’ll just shatter if I try to move. "I've tried to make up for it since then. Building this family. Helping people. I don't think of myself as a murderer anymore, but the truth is the truth. I'm responsible."

Nick shakes his head, leaning forward. "If those smoke alarms had batteries, they would have woken up. Would have gotten out. Your dad took them down—how's that all on you?"

"I get what you're saying." Blair’s said something similar to me. She said it enough that I started to believe it. But it stilldoesn’t excuse what I did. "But I'm the one who turned on that stove that night. I'm the one who left that towel. I've accepted that I made a horrible, horrible mistake." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "One I have to live with. And for the most part, I have."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. These people—my chosen family—they see me. Really see me. And I’m so grateful they’re still here.

Janey leans against Jonas, her eyes soft with concern. "What happened next?"

My throat tightens. The memories of that year rush back—different houses, different faces, all blending together in a haze of anger and pain.

"I got bounced around the system for a while. Six homes in twelve months." I rub my jaw, the memory of those places sharp and hazy at the same time. "I was... difficult. Angry. Started fights. Broke things. Nobody wanted to deal with the kid who killed his family."

John's jaw clenches, but he stays quiet. Nick shifts on the floor, and I can feel their collective tension.

"Most of the homes, I don't even remember anymore. Just a blur of faces and places I didn't belong." I draw in a deep breath. "Then one day, about a year after the fire, my caseworker called me into his office."

Holly's hand finds Micah's, squeezing tight. The weight of their attention presses against me, waiting for what comes next.They’ve already heard the worst, and they’re still here. They’re not going to run if they hear the rest of it.

"I figured it was just another home, another family that would give up on me in a few weeks." I close my eyes, remembering that small office, the stack of files on the desk. "I had no idea that meeting would change everything."

I slump in the hard plastic chair, my eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. Jerry's office feels smaller than ever, the walls closing in on me. I've been here so many times I could draw every detail with my eyes closed—the faded motivational posters, the dusty fake plant in the corner, the stack of folders threatening to topple off his desk. There's always a stack. The colors are different, the number of files change, but it's always there.

My file is one of the biggest, but it's not on that pile. It's on his desk right in the middle.

Jerry looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, his shirt wrinkled like he slept in it. Part of me wants to ask if he's okay, but I squash that feeling quick. It's none of my fucking business. I don't care.

He drops his elbows on the desk, rubbing his temples. "What do you want, Ranny? I'm running out of options here. Every time I think you're going to settle in, you pull another fucking stunt and end up right back here."

I shrug, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. What do I want? To disappear. To stop existing. But I don't have the guts to make that happen. Not yet, anyway.

Jerry sighs, flipping open my file. "Let's go through this again, shall we?" He starts rattling off names—all the foster families I've been through. With each one, memories flash through my mind.

The Johnsons. I smashed their TV when Mr. Johnson tried to hug me.

The Garcias. I stole Mrs. Garcia's pills and flushed them down the toilet.

The Patels. I punched their son when he asked about my family.

Each time, the same thing. Someone tries to get close, and I lash out. Push them away before they can see how fucked up I really am. Before they can see the blood on my hands.

Before I can start to care. The counselors have me all figured out, I guess. They say I need to let people in.

Fuck that. Never again. I will never let myself love anyone again. No one's going to replace my family.

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