I slam the pages back on top of the others.
He’s fucked up.
Ben is a twisted, fucked-up writer. How dare he take something real . . . something that I suffered through . . . and turn it into fiction with a ridiculous plotline.
I’m pissed. How could he do this? But then again, he didn’t finish it, so am I even allowed to be angry?
But why would he do this? Doesn’t he know how personal that story is to me? I can’t believe he would try to capitalize on such an awful tragedy.
I’d almost like it better if he was telling the truth and he really did start the fire. At least then I wouldn’t feel like he was taking advantage of my story.
Why would he make up part of the fight when everything else surrounding the fight between him and Kyle actually happened? Did he even make up any of it at all?
I laugh at myself. It’s not true. He didn’t meet me until two years after the fire. There was no way he could have been there. Besides, what are the chances he would run into me on the anniversary of the fire, exactly two years later? He would have had to have been following me.
He wasn’t following me.
Was he?
I need water.
I get water.
I need to sit down again.
I sit down.
Spin, spin, spin. The web of possible lies is spinning, my mind is spinning, my stomach is spinning. It even feels like the blood in my veins is spinning. I stack the pages of the manuscript back into a neat and tidy pile, just as I found them.
Why would you write this, Ben?
I look at the cover and run my fingers over the title. November 9.
He needed a good plot. Is that what he’s done? He just fabricated his plotline?
There’s no way he could be responsible for the fire. It makes absolutely no sense. My father is to blame. He knows, the police know and I know it.
I find myself lifting the cover page off the stack. I stare down at the first page of the manuscript, and I do the only thing I can to find more answers.
I read.
