Chapter 4

I returned to my house to find chaos. A moving truck was parked in the driveway, its back ramp lowered. Inside, my belongings were being packed into boxes by strangers. And directing them, with a smug look of ownership, was Brodie.

She was holding my favorite ceramic vase, inspecting it before gesturing for a mover to pack it. When she saw me, her face split into a triumphant grin.

"Calista. Perfect timing," she chirped. "I was just deciding what to keep and what to toss. Gregory said I could have anything I want."

The vase in her hands. It was a gift from my father. The last thing he ever gave me.

Something inside me snapped. I closed the distance between us in three long strides and slapped the vase out of her hands. It shattered on the floor, the sound echoing in the half-empty room.

Brodie gasped, jumping back.

"Get your hands off my things," I snarled, my voice low and menacing.

"This isn' t your house anymore," she shot back, fear mixing with defiance in her eyes.

"My name is still on the deed," I said, stepping closer until I was right in her face. "Until a judge says otherwise, this is my house. And you are trespassing."

Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Gregory stormed in, his face dark with anger.

Brodie immediately dissolved into tears. "Gregory! She attacked me! She broke that vase... she' s crazy!"

Gregory' s eyes, cold and furious, locked onto mine. "What the hell is your problem, Calista?"

I didn' t answer him with words. I swung my hand and slapped him hard across the face. The sound was sharp, satisfying.

He stared at me, stunned, one hand coming up to touch his cheek.

"My problem," I said, my voice dripping with venom, "is that I ever wasted a single second of my life on you. I regret the day I met you."

His shock morphed into pure rage. He grabbed his phone and his wallet from his pocket. "You want to play this game? Fine." He jabbed at his phone screen. "Your credit cards? Canceled. Your bank account? Frozen. You want to be on your own? You got it. You have nothing."

He sneered at me. "Let' s see how long you last without my money. You' ll come crawling back within a week."

He grabbed Brodie' s hand. "Let' s go. She can have this empty shell of a house."

They walked out, leaving me in the echoing silence, surrounded by the ghosts of my life packed away in cardboard boxes. The house, once filled with love and creative energy, now felt like a tomb. Barren. Cold.

It was perfect.

I waited until nightfall. The movers were long gone. The house was silent. I walked through the empty rooms, touching the walls, saying a silent goodbye not to the memories, but to the woman who had lived them.

Then I went to work. I had spent the afternoon buying what I needed: gasoline canisters and a simple timer. I doused the curtains, the rugs, the few pieces of furniture left behind. I set the timer, placed it in the center of the living room, and walked out the back door without looking back.

I hid in the woods at the edge of the property, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A few minutes later, a small flicker of orange appeared in the living room window. Then another. The fire caught fast, greedily consuming the dry wood and fabric. Flames erupted, shattering the windows, roaring into the night sky like a hungry beast.

It wasn't long before the sirens started, wailing in the distance, growing closer. I watched as fire trucks and police cars swarmed the street. I saw Gregory' s car screech to a halt. He jumped out, his face a mask of horror as he stared at the inferno that had once been our home.

I slipped away into the darkness, a ghost leaving her own funeral.

The next morning, from a cheap motel room a hundred miles away, I saw the news report. A grainy photo of me smiled from the screen.

"Calista Galloway, troubled game developer, presumed dead in a tragic house fire. Authorities suspect it may have been a suicide."

Calista Galloway was dead. And I was finally free.